The Lifecycle of a Painting, Part 1

Art doesn’t appear out of nowhere. It grows and develops. This is the lifecycle of a painting.

The Beginning: Experience

Art is born from experience. This is what makes art different from simply drawing or painting.

You can draw to practice your skills, or paint to attempt to learn a certain technique or effect. And those skills and techniques are helpful tools to produce art. But a work of art always comes from a place of observation. The artist experienced something, observed it, and then shared their observation. This is what makes art so special and intriguing. It is the shared experience of another person, a glimpse into their viewpoint and what they find meaningful.

I was blessed with an experience.

Fly Fishing is an Art

It was the last morning in May, and the sun’s light was starting to appear in the valley, but the sun itself was still hidden behind a mountain range. It was nearly summer by the calendar, but only spring in the mountains. So it was cold. I was thankful for my chest waders and my down coat. I knew I would shed the coat in an hour, but it was necessary now.

I already had a fly tied to the end of my line, and I was eager to catch some feisty brown and rainbow trout. I scrambled down the hillside, weaving between knee high sage brush and willows that towered well over my head. It’s not easy in waders, but absolutely necessary in order to find the right spot on the bank of the clear Fraser River.

The gateway to the river, where the wall of willows allowed entry, was not a fishing hole. It was a shallow side run, and most of the fish avoided it. So I waded through it to a small island surrounded by the rushing water. Again, not a good place to fish with tall willows behind me that would eat my flies if I attempted to cast my fly line. I needed to cross the wider, swifter branch of the river at my feet. The far bank was mostly grass and sage with plenty of room to maneuver and cast.

The Power of Observation

I stepped into the nearly freezing water, protected from the shock by my waders, but still feeling the cold creep through. The weight and force of the river sucked the waders tight around my legs. It had rained the day before so the river was up a bit. I picked my way blindly and slowly on and around hidden rocks on the river bed, straining to maintain my footing. Suddenly the bed dropped to waist deep, and the pressure enveloped my entire lower body, but I was nearly across. I leaned forward, grasped the dry, coarse grasses, and hauled myself out of the river.

Finally I was free to try to trick some trout.

But I froze.

The light that was previously leaking through gaps and passes in the mountain range had now begun to flood the valley floor. And it lit up Byers Peak in front of me with a spectacular glow as I remained in the shadow of the mountains behind. The contrast between light and shadow, warmth and cold, captured my attention, and I forgot about the fly rod in my hand.

Even after all that struggle to find the perfect fishing spot, fishing must be delayed. It was time for observation, for experience, for appreciating and basking in the moment and the place. And it was time for a few photos. The trout could wait, but the sun would not.

And that is how a painting is born.