Recently, I sold a painting that had special meaning to me.  All of them have memories attached, how hot it was the day I painted it, artist friends who were painting with me that day or, that was the day the wind blew my easel over.  If you're a plein air painter you know what I mean.  For us, the fact that each piece has its own distinct story attached gives them all added value.  At least, emotionally.  But, the painting I'm writing about today is special to me for a different reason.  Let me give you a little of the backstory.  

     Early on in my painting endeavors I was told by a very good, highly esteemed painter that "The world is gray".  As a consequence, I tried to neutralize every color I used.  My resulting work was, as you might expect, fairly gray and colorless.  This wasn't the fault of the aforementioned artist.  You see, it is my nature to be literal, and I simply took his statement to be more all encompassing than he intended.  So, for a while, I struggled making paintings that had certain redeeming values with respect to composition, design, values, etc... but, still looked pretty lifeless.  That finally changed when I had a conversation with two painters of the Colorist school of thought.  Now, while I don't completely subscribe to their way of assessing color, the truth is, after listening to them explain their approach, I have never been able to look at color as I previously had.  Now, I find myself somewhere comfortably in the middle between "the world is gray" and the Colorist approach.  

     Shortly after my conversation with my Colorist friends, I found myself painting in a grove of Sycamore trees near my home.  Suddenly, I was seeing colors I hadn't recognized before.  I'd like to say it was exciting but, in truth, it was more disconcerting than anything.  In any event, I came away with two 11x14 studies that day that looked very little like any of my previous work.  

     It was late Fall so, perhaps it shouldn't have been too surprising when the following weekend I looked out my studio window to see snow falling gently.  My family lives in the high desert northeast of Los Angeles so, when it snows it usually doesn't last long before melting away.  But, as the day wore on the snow got heavier, persisting well into the next day!  My wife and kids had gone to visit my in laws about seventy miles away and at a much lower elevation.  Well, as it turned out, we received so much snow that the only highways between our house and their's had been closed due to the severe Winter weather.  My family wasn't able to return home for three days!  And what of me?  I was stuck in the house with nothing to do but paint.  If you think you're sensing a smile on my face about now, you're right!  I love my family more than anything but, to have three uninterrupted days to paint in my studio is an incredibly rare thing!  I took full advantage of it.  I took out my Sycamore studies from the previous weekend and began working on larger studio versions of them.  The time flew by and I painted well into the night before finally forcing myself to rest.  For three days and nights I slept very little, ate even less, and painted to my heart's content.  And then, something very meaningful happened.  It's the reason my recently sold painting, "The Final Act Of Fall" has such special meaning to me.  I looked at the completed versions of the work, the second one being, "Autumn's Gentle Departure", and the thought that came to my mind, not with a whisper but, crashing loudly so as not to be missed or underappreciated was this; "Wow!  Look at that!  No one can convince me that THIS isn't what I'm supposed to be doing!"  I suppose, to some that might seem overly prideful or self indulgent.  But, I wasn't thinking about what a masterful painter I must be to accomplish such work.  In fact, if anything, it's always the process I'm impressed with.  Rather, my thoughts were a reflection of how much I love doing what I do and an affirmation that though I'll always have more to learn, I have reason to feel confidence in the quality of my paintings.  That was the moment I realized that I was in fact, doing what I am meant to do.  And that is a powerful thing to realize!  It helps me through the infamous periods of self doubt we artists are known for.  It gives me confidence to stand before audiences and deliver demos and lectures about painting.  That realization has simply been invaluable.  And I wonder, what has your experience been?  Have you had "That Moment"?  If so, I'd love to hear about it in the comments.  Or, feel free to write me at [email protected]