I have a cold. My nose has become a trumpet and my head feels stuffed with balloons. I can’t sleep. So I go out with the other painters to Cummins Creek.
It’s a beautiful spot. There’s a bridge arcing over a creek and the windwept trees are backlit. Painters are nestled in and among the rocks, where gusts of wind are not quite blowing over their easels. The wind makes the balloons in my head expand. So I climb in my van and drive to another overlook where I can paint from within my steel and glass cocoon.
A happy, toasty two hours inside my cocoon has me contemplating the colors of the rocks (purple), the recession of greens (dramatic), the various ways to make the ocean look as though it’s flat. Thinking of color keeps me from thinking about my cold until suddenly my canvas is covered. No more decisions to make. I decide to go home and take a nap.
It’s a beautiful spot. There’s a bridge arcing over a creek and the windwept trees are backlit. Painters are nestled in and among the rocks, where gusts of wind are not quite blowing over their easels. The wind makes the balloons in my head expand. So I climb in my van and drive to another overlook where I can paint from within my steel and glass cocoon.
A happy, toasty two hours inside my cocoon has me contemplating the colors of the rocks (purple), the recession of greens (dramatic), the various ways to make the ocean look as though it’s flat. Thinking of color keeps me from thinking about my cold until suddenly my canvas is covered. No more decisions to make. I decide to go home and take a nap.
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