I’ve been making art about what I see as the seasons change here in the Dordogne for a while now.
I go for a walk and notice the zingy ochre moss, the fluffy newness of willow buds, and how they change from one day to the next.
Then I head into the studio and transform what I see into a completely different image—a bridge between what I observe outside in nature and what I find within when I connect to the natural world.
It seems only natural then to take the art outside too.
For practical reasons, I tend to work outside when the task is simple and the weather is good.
The easiest parts of a painting to do en plain air, so far as my work is concerned, are the beginning and the end. Both the first and last steps of my paintings essentially involve one color and one gesture—a brushstroke or a hand drawn line.
Working outside means getting occasional bugs, plant bits, and mud on the canvas. Some brush off and some leave behind traces that become part of the finished work.
It seems only right that the crickets, dandelions, and so on should get to have a direct hand in art that’s meant to be inspired by the natural world.
The more time I spend painting outside, the more I wonder how I can directly connect each canvas to the landscape that nurtures and inspires me.
The other day as I was debating how to finish a certain green painting you saw a lot of last week, it started to drizzle outside. I immediately abandoned my reflections and pivoted to a fresh canvas waiting nearby.
This was my chance to let outside get a bigger say in what happens on the canvas.
I mixed up a deep indigo—the color of blue sky reflecting off crows in flight, a kind of comfort; the confidence that gives you strength to strike out on a new adventure—and hauled my materials outside.
Over the low stone wall, through the pony fence that falls flat into the field the second you unlatch it. Scramble to get it shut before Yoshi realizes he has the chance to make a break for freedom—or rather a visit to the mare at the bottom of the hill who he can smell from here and who only ever looks down her muzzle at his small stature on the rare occasions that he makes an escape.
I notched the canvas into the branches of what I suspect used to be part of the fig tree before either lightning or an overenthusiastic ram knocked it over.
Dipped my favorite worn out paintbrush into the blue liquid and ran it across the canvas.
The shape reminds me of a mountain in the distance beckoning to be climbed or a wave rushing toward you on the seashore. Connections to other times and places in my life. It reminds me that wherever we find ourselves, we carry a piece of every landscape we’ve lived in with us.
Then the best part happens.
The drizzling rain patters onto the paint.
The color rushes from the tidy lines of the brushstroke to pool around each point where the rain hits the canvas.
All-natural polka dots!
What a thrill.
This experiment in art meeting nature is a success. Now it’s back to the studio for the next steps and—who knows—more ideas about how to bring the world around me to the canvas.
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