In Sedona, AZ this summer, my husband Thomas and I woke our son Rowan, age 5, at 4:30am to see his first sunrise. We bundled up, piled into our tiny rental car, and headed up a steep mountain in a soft drizzle of rain.
The sunrise was, as far as they go, unspectacular. The sun never made an appearance, and the rain picked up.
I tried to explain that sunrises were usually more interesting, and that we'd had a valid reason to drag him on this early morning adventure, but my son was underwhelmed and cranky, so I followed him down the wet rocks back to the car in near-darkness. On the way back down, I paused to take in the Sedona mountains as silent hulking silhouettes, the city lights like lanterns at a garden party. I snapped a photo for source material and scurried to catch up with Rowan.
Thomas stayed a little longer, chatting with a couple of guys who'd shown up even earlier to photograph the light show that wasn't. They offered Thomas a cup of their homemade "Summit Chai." My husband, who dislikes tea, politely declined, but we shared a good laugh about this later--the social drug of choice in Sedona is Summit Chai.
It can be hard to know what will ultimately inspire me in the studio, but I haven't been able to get the early morning image out of my head. This weekend, after my husband kindly installed a new shelving system for working on diptychs and triptychs, I began a calculated first draft.
The painting sat like that for a few days, waiting for me to return. Today, when I got home from the office, I discovered that my son had briefly escaped his babysitter's watch, taken creative initiative, and added a yellow "tent" to the painting, along with some "fire dragons." He left the paint tubes open on my taboret (thankfully, they didn't dry out), and he set the used brush on my pallet (the brush did dry out, but I managed to save it with some effort). At first I felt slightly violated - how dare he - but this feeling quickly gave way to delight about having a kid who felt compelled to do this.
We've done quite a bit of painting together, but Rowan has never helped himself to my grown-up paints and an in-progress canvas without my permission. I think he's been feeling extra big since starting kindergarten this week, and he is also so clearly an artist himself, although I'm with Picasso on this not being particularly unique for children.
Anyway, when I started the sunrise painting, I'd imagined trying to depict the scene as closely as possible. I had expectations. But I've also learned that when I get too technical or concerned with the outcome, I lose interest in a painting before I've finished it, hitting the doldrums and not always wanting to see it through. My favorite way to paint is to be in a race with wonder, working spontaneously enough that both the process and outcome hold surprise. My favorite paintings are always surprises.
So I decided to let Rowan's modifications serve as a reminder to control less and live more. I've been working on it this afternoon while my son watches iPad on his beanbag in my studio. Periodically, I ask him to pause and tell me what he thinks about the painting.
"Mom, I love it. Keep it like that," he says. "But you should change the name. Call it volcanoes, not mountains. Keep it like that forever."
"Thanks Rowan," I say, "I am still working on it, but I'll try to keep it as true to this as I can."
"Good job, Mom," he says, throwing me a double thumbs up and going back to his show.
I'll let you know when I finish. That is, if Rowan doesn't finish it first.
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