CASA GRANDE SIDESHOW

We have come to see the ruins of a Hohokam dwelling. Here in the middle of the desert, people once farmed, digging irrigation ditches by hand and planting, of all things, cotton. I had no idea that cotton existed in the New World prior to the Virginia plantations, but here it was in prehistoric Arizona, before even the time of the Pueblo cliff dwellers or the Sinagua. Pima cotton, some of the softest cotton in the world, is reportedly a mix of this native cotton and Egyptian.
The Casa Grande is the largest structure of these ruins, several stories high, built of fragile adobe, sheltered from the weather by a tall, Asian-looking roof. The rest of the village, for it was quite a sizeable village, has been worn down to low walls and entries, impossible to tell how tall they once were. Because the light on the casa grande is all light or all shadow from the remada that is keeping the sun off me, I have chosen to paint some of the side buildings, with their curiously curved, weathered walls. Note the saguaro in the background. This is the first time I've ever seen saguaro.

PATH BY THE RIVER

Down to warmer climes where the trees are in leaf. I spend a lovely two hours painting by the salmon river. The water is hypnotic and a familiar painting subject, and I have a wonderful time painting it. But all these leaves! I keep remembering what I tell students: simplify the masses. I am having trouble doing just that. Maybe I need to spend more time painting greenery.

Rick drives out from home to join me for a hike in the woods along the river, a perfect cap to the day. Blooms hidden among the greenery, and even at eye level. Yellow violets, spring beauty, oxalis, bleeding hearts, corydalis with spikes in various stages of development.

When I get the painting home, it has changed dramatically. The big trees on the right are needlessly massive and heavy and the greens have all shifted into muck. I think I’ll put this one down to enjoying the painting experience. A friend of mine says put up the bad ones too. I’ll give it a try this once.

SUNRISE MISTS

4:30 AM. The sky is barely lightening. This is the right time to get up to paint the sunrise. On the mountain, the sky is more light. Already, a glow has lit the haze below me. Most enchanting are the mists in the valleys. It is too dark outside to see my paint. Inside the van, the interior light is just enough. I am ready for summer and warmer weather for painting. But for now, I stay inside.

The light on the horizon makes a straightened rainbow in the haze: red, orange, yellow, green, blue. I wish I had put out cad green light, but mix my green instead. As the sun approaches the horizon, more color dapples the mist. I finish my painting, and continue to watch as colors shift and brighten across the landscape. A faint rosey glow lights the snowfield atop Mt. Hood. Jefferson to the south is as distinctly pink as it was when I painted it at sunset, although in reverse profile. Once again, I am deeply thankful for this pageant.

SUMMIT

After getting up at 5 AM, and despite a nap, I am tired. I decide to make my sunset painting early, before the actual sunset. It will be interesting to watch the shadow patterns on the mountain change as the light falls. I have two small canvases left. Zooming in on the summit, I look for changes in color in the shadow and light on the snowfields. Fatigue sets in. I find myself painting automatically, unable to think the process through. I paint anyway.

The ski area that was so busy during the day is closing down for the night. My parking area is almost empty. The sunlight on the mountain warms, purples, and narrows to a small slanting shape. I chase the shadows down the mountainside. Mount Hood is going to sleep. Soon, so will I.

LIFE PAST

I loved the twisted shapes of this old tree. It was easy to get to from my car parked at the “road closed” sign. The whole time we were painting the tree, people kept driving up to the end of the road, and walking out on the snow, as if they couldn’t quite believe that it was closed. I too wished it weren’t closed, and I had more choices of painting spots.

MT HOOD LOOMING

From the skiers’ parking lot, we hiked up the corn snow to the first bare patch on the mountain. From here, the peak is hunkered down, it shoulders rising around us with blinding snow. Sunglasses, or no sunglasses? Looking at my paints with sunglasses on, I decided that the colors were invisible. A hat is going to have to do. We paint the various colors of snow, finding variety despite the lack of shadows. The trees are a welcome break to all that white. And of course, the cobalt sky, which is gradually dotting with clouds. (I painted it before the clouds came.) Can a mountain loom on a 4 by 6 panel?

SUNRISE IMMINENT

Yesterday I tried to get up to paint the sunrise. 5:30 I thought would do it, and that is only a half-hour earlier than I’ve been getting up. But at 5:30 I looked out and the sky was already light. I’d planned it too late. It was shamefully easy to talk myself back into bed.

This morning I try 5:00. Again the sky is light, but not so awfully light. As I’m headed for the bathroom, I consider talking myself out of it, but there are my clothes on the counter and somehow I put them on. I am out the door in ten minutes. When I arrive, the show is already going. I am glad that my paint is still out from yesterday. I shove my paint box on to the car seat, put up a small canvas, and begin to paint.

It is quiet, dead quiet here in the parking lot. Up the mountain I can see the lights of the grooming machines at work. There are a lot of cars in the lot for so early a time. Did they all get up at 5? It seems a herculean feat to me.