I can’t speak to another’s artistic process. Even my own is difficult to put into words, an elusive, other worldly energy fueled by whispers on the wind that echo inside my mind and manifest in a physical reality. A puzzling delight.

I look for answers in the woods as the world is waking up. In the cool breezes of the early hours where deep wisdom is offered up from swaying tree branches while birds sing the songs of dawn.

This morning my thoughts were occupied by the phenomenon of chance. Is there intention in that which is random, accidental … is ANYTHING accidental? 

A few weeks ago I was beginning to sense the unmistakeable call to paint. At first it’s small things … being newly captivated by the artful, almost sensuous way the lines form in the tall grass, the brilliant color in summer leaves, the sculptural clusters of fallen, ordinary pine cones, the staggering light rays highlighting every bit of fluff as it filters through the Ponderosa Pines. 

The world becomes more alive, calling me to come closer, listen, be still as deep inside I feel a familiar, beckoning restlessness … an exquisite awareness on the edge of being almost painful.

I’m not naturally a patient person. I’m a doer. But experience has taught me to wait until the creative energy is saturating every cell of my body. Then I know it’s time to get to the studio. 

Many times over many years I’ve pushed ahead of inspiration and nothing good has ever come of it. I’ve ended up with an off-center, irritating piece that I quickly covered over with a healthy coat of gesso. 

I’ve learned that you can’t force the flow of creativity that comes from a much purer place than the mind and will … a fragile energy planted deep in the heart of an artist to be respected and nurtured.

When the time was right I went to my studio where I had prepped a big square canvas with a fresh coat of gesso. I was unsure where the paint would take me, but fairly certain it would be some kind of adventure. I wasn’t mistaken. 

I got out the tub with my favorite tools and began perusing jars of paint. I noticed the lid on a full jar of golden yellow looked as though it might not have been screwed down properly since I last used it a couple of months ago.

I picked up the jar and it slipped out of my hand. The lid flew off and at least half a jar of bright golden yellow paint splashed on the pristine white canvas and spilled onto the floor. 

I admit I wasn’t in a ‘Zen’ place all composed and chilled … I definitely had an, “Oh Shit!” moment. But it didn’t last long.

I took a deep breath and sprang into action managing to mop up the floor and scoop up a little of the paint on the canvas. However, it quickly became clear that I was going to be working with a warm palette. I have learned to bow to higher authority. 

Painting has been an in-my-face tutorial in front of and beyond the canvas. A teacher in the art of living and being true to myself. 

Being determined by nature I am practiced at throwing the strength of my will toward a pursuit. That comes easily to me. What’s more difficult for me is to muster the courage to simply show up as I am. All too often I’ve tried to force myself into what I ascertained to a better person. It’s always, always gone badly. 

When I stand before a canvas and connect to the energy within I let the paint take the lead. It’s then I hear my own true voice and I know who I am. 

That day in the studio a few weeks ago the paint did lead the way and over a few hours “Molten” was born. It’s hot, dramatic and almost looks like a lava flow … An accident?

Molten 40×40