1 minute read
Peter McDonald
California’s wilderness is burning and I take it personally, not only as a nature lover, but as an abstract artist. Trees are one of my basic symbols for security, roots of belonging, serenity. Here, even the ash from the yellow-orange inferno seems to mourn the trees, echoing the shape of the destroyed tree tops, while my mind sees, not blackened stumps, but a fevered memory of what was.
There is that moment at a party when the early awkwardness has been thrown off by the camaraderie, good cheer, and just the right amount of alcohol. It is bold colors, a swooshing to a crescendo. But then the night’s flamboyance becomes flecked with growing dark spots: a little too much booze, soured humor and brittle sensitivity. The mood begins breaking apart. What goes up must come down.
There are time warps, you know. Albert Einstein had a mathematical formula showing how gravity is caused by time and space. But let me spare you the headache and show you the fabric of time, warped by planets, in the luscious shades of my watercolor palette. I’m told time in space is different than on Earth, but only slightly. In the studio it’s another story. But who’s counting?
