Friday, October 14, 2011


I know why I'm driven to paint, or pastel, or drawing, or even photography. I've always known it. It's about possession. I'm driven to possess - to capture and possess - a color, a feeling of light, an impression, a thought. It's not about the object. It's about what light does to it, or shadow, or interplay of colors.

And I can never get it right. And I just hate it when it finally changes and is lost forever.

This time of year is the hardest. The bright yellow of the leaves where the sun strikes them directly, the darker yellow - almost a peachy yellow - where the light is indirect, the faint hint of pink along the edges of just a few leaves, the interplay of all those shades among themselves.

And worst of all, most painful, is the inability of catching pure light itself. There's a light that's like it's coming through water or glass. It happens in the morning, as summer wanes. It's so clear, so pure. And even a photo won't catch it.

This is what it's like to have God always receding into distance ahead of one, enticing and never satisfying, never to be owned or possessed but always driving one onward in spite of oneself.

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