Channeling Virginia Woolf
To write about plein air painting
Perhaps only someone who draws or paints has experienced the stirring, the gnawing, deep in the gut, the catch in the breath that accompanies that first glimpse of a stunning composition that beckons her to paint. Like the musician who listens to the melody of the wind swishing through leaf-laden trees, a wave crashing upon its own waters and lapping upon the shore, or the soulful whoo-ing of an owl in a moonless indigo night is drawn to his instrument, and the dancer who feels the rhythm of music in every muscle, and must move, gyrate, sway with the sound, so when the clarity of an unblemished sky or the formation of the clouds that float within it, the golds and russets and reds of autumn, the pastel colors camouflaged in the whiteness of snow and the skeleton of the land in winter, or the reflections of the orange and pink sunset in the lake inspire us, we don our hiking boots and paint-spattered clothing, hoist our gear upon our shoulders and trek to just the right spot to paint en plein air.
While any time of day or evening in any time of year is acceptable, spring and fall are the most comfortable, as in winter we must be bundled in layers, but not so thoroughly as to thwart free movement of our painting arm, and prepared for the possibility of frostbite or fingers frozen to the brush, and for the paint to freeze; and in summer, when…
