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Being open to seeing

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes”  — Marcel Proust

The other morning I was walking through a field near my home. The air was warm and still and scented with earth and wet leaves, comforting and promising. An ordinary field in November, almost colourless at first glance, it slowly unveiled it’s subtle beauty. The textures of grass, seed pods, Queen Anne’s lace, spikey sticks and rounded shrubs, flat gray rocks and splashes of lichen and moss, subtle hues of slate, sepia, sap green and graphite, all held me captive. This is what makes me  paint, to translate this, interpret it as art. The quietest moments are worthy.

Years ago, walking the same path, I was startled when a young deer lifted her head from the grass and stared at me. It was a spring evening and she was  back lit with a setting sun, the soft hair on her ears glowing, we locked eyes. In an instant she was off , graceful arcs disappearing into twilight. This simple thrilling moment is fixed like a photograph in my brain waiting to be recalled.

Being in nature, open to the present moment and memory feeds my soul and my art practice.