What a dragonfly taught me about art

I just got back from three days in the wilderness with my daughter, no phone, no notebook, no paintings, following a river up into the Trinity Alps. I didn’t go to think about art. But something found me anyway. What I saw sitting on the bank of that river taught me something about the work we make and the work we leave unfinished that I’ve been thinking about ever since. And when I got home and walked back into my studio, I understood something about my own work I couldn’t have seen before I left. 

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What a Dragonfly Taught Me About Art (Three Days in the Trinity Alps)

I just got back from three days in the wilderness.

No phone. No notebook. No paintings.

Father’s Day, off the grid, following my daughter and a river up into the Trinity Alps.

I didn’t go to think about art. But of course something found me anyway.

 

 

The River and the Rock

At some point I stopped walking and just sat on the bank of the river. Not really thinking. Not planning. Just watching the water move, listening to the sound of it, and letting my thoughts wander.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough to lose track of time.

Then a dragonfly landed on a rock beside me. The most beautiful iridescent blue. It sat impossibly still for just a moment.

And then it was gone.

And that’s when I really saw the water for the first time.

 

What Water Holds That Everything Else Doesn’t

Here’s what struck me sitting on that riverbank.

Water is different from everything else in the wilderness. Different from the stones, the trees, the sky above. What makes it different is that it holds two worlds at once.

The sky above reflected so clearly you could almost step into it. And the stones below, the cool dark depth of the riverbed.

Both present. Shifting between them in an instant.

A shadow crosses and the reflection disappears and suddenly you can see all the way down to the bottom. And then the light shifts and the surface closes again and you’re back to sky.

That movement between surface and depth, between what’s reflected and what’s underneath, is what makes water so endlessly interesting to look at. And sitting there watching it I started to think about painting.

The painting that holds you works the same way.

Something on the surface and something underneath. Both present. Neither forced. Both essential.

The colors, the light, the thing that first catches the eye. That’s the sky reflected. The surface that draws you in and makes you want to look.

But the stones below. That’s you. The inquiry, the interior, the soul of the thing. The part that doesn’t show until the reflection breaks. The part that takes time to see and rewards the looking.

We need both.

The work that only lives on the surface doesn’t really hold. It catches the eye and then releases it. There’s nothing to return to, nothing to discover on the second or third look.

And the work that never surfaces stays down like stones on the riverbed. Unseen. Present but unreachable. All interior, no invitation.

You need to let both of them be there. That’s the art of a life.

 

The River Runs Whether or Not You’re Watching

And then I thought about the river itself.

How it was here yesterday. How it will be here tomorrow. Whether I’m sitting on this rock or not.

It just moves. It doesn’t wait for a witness. It just runs.

And then it hit me. Our work is the same.

Most of us carry this belief, quietly and without examining it, that the art only lives when we’re making it. That when we step away for a trip or a season or a life that keeps demanding things, the work stops too.

But it doesn’t.

The paintings you’ve already made are still working on you. Sitting in the back of your awareness, settling, revealing things slowly that weren’t visible when you first made them.

And the paintings you haven’t made yet are gathering somewhere. The way a river gathers in the mountains before it finds its channel. You don’t see it happening. That doesn’t mean it isn’t.

The work runs whether or not you’re there to witness it.

 

Why Stepping Away Might Be Exactly the Right Move

I want to say something directly to anyone reading this who is feeling stuck right now.

If the work feels strange or like a stranger. If you sit down to paint and nothing comes or what comes feels wrong or off or not like you. If you’ve been pushing harder and getting less back.

Maybe stopping is exactly the right move.

Not giving up. Not walking away permanently. Just stepping away. Letting the river run without you for a little while.

Take the trip. Be with the people you love. Follow the river. Sit on the bank and watch the water move and let your thoughts wander without asking them to produce anything.

The work will keep running. It doesn’t need you present to do what it does. And when you come back, you might find, the way I did, that what felt like a stranger has become something you can finally see.

It’ll take you back to your art. It always does.

 

The Places That Do This Best

I’ve noticed over many years that certain places have a particular quality of doing this for me. Of stripping back the noise and letting something quieter come forward.

The wilderness does it. Water especially. Rivers and coastlines and anywhere the light moves on a surface in a way you can’t quite predict.

And this November I’m taking a group of artists to two places that do this completely.

The Mayan Riviera in Mexico, November 6th through 13th. All that water and color and wildness and the particular quality of tropical light that wakes your eyes up and feeds your work in ways the studio simply cannot.

And this one I’m extra excited about. Santa Fe, New Mexico, November 15th. Where the high desert light is crystalline and the skies go on forever and something about the landscape takes your breath away. You almost feel like you’re on another planet. 

The retreats are one of the only times I get to make art alongside everyone in person. All together in one place, brushes in hand, talking, laughing, making work side by side in a place that shifts something inside you. 

There are limited spots remaining for both retreats.

Click here to learn more.

 

Now It’s Your Turn

Where do you go when you need to find your way back to your art? Is there a place, near or far, that consistently strips back the noise and lets something quieter come forward?

Share it in the comments below. I’d genuinely love to know where your river is.