On Tuesday I went back to the cemetery to paint. I drove around for a while looking for a "good" spot. I found myself thinking about what constitutes "good" for me. I'm not drawn to the biggest, fanciest grave markers, whether they be stones or statues. Nor am I drawn to the sometimes symmetrical rows of stones. It seems I'm drawn by the unusual, the ironies, the implied stories, which will remain mysteries unless I also take the time to go to the cemetery office to do some research.
So as I drove around, I was attracted once again to the dead trees in this place of the dead; the duck family, squirrels, deer and birds (the full-time living visitors among the dead); and, finally, the odd row of almost two dimensional markers made of rusting metal, marching down a slope toward a huge tree. Since I'd already painted a dead tree, and I couldn't count on the living creatures to sit still for me, I opted for my mysterious row of markers.
As I had planned, I took about five minutes to feel the place: the cool shade of my vantage point, the near silence, the way the morning sun turned the rusted metal markers near white, the long shadows on the grass, the birds that liked to perch on the decorative balls atop the markers. I wondered about the stories these markers, now devoid of writing, might tell. A family site? A poor or miserly patriarch who couldn't or wouldn't afford stone or marble? Deceased related in time or cause of death as well as family ties? Is no one left on earth to care for or about these humble markers except an artist who happens to feel attracted to their simplicity, irregularity, and mystery?
I sketched, executed a very rough acrylic value painting, and took it back to my studio where, last night, I painted the first layer of oil. Tomorrow I'll return to my family of mysterious markers and, hopefully, complete the piece. Stay tuned.
As for the experimental meditation, I believe it definitely helped me make that connection to sense of place. We'll see if/how it affects the painting.
Comments