The last few strokes of paint feel like a symphony's final notes. Cymbals crash and the notes rise to a crescendo until they fade away and you are left with their sweet tone vibrating in your mind's deepest recesses.
This painting started out very differently. Aiming for a spare and serene vista, it evolved over time into a remembered pond from my childhood - at least a fictionalized version of it since it is no longer there except in my mind's eye.
I spend summer hours floating on a makeshift raft someone had made and tied to a branch pounded into the soft earth on the edge of a nearby pond. This usually involved getting my toes squishy with mud and pulling off the occasional leach, but I was young and I really wanted to float on that raft. It was in a field not far from our house. Not big but ample in size for a short float with a good book.
In this version, I can hear the laughter of children splashing and frogs heading for cover in the reeds to observe the activity from a distance. A path worn by animals or humans - perhaps both - winds its way along the shore, grass closely cropped by the many footfalls. The clear vibrant day, like so many I have known, welcomes all comers to linger at its shores.
