Coming Together

I rarely know what to paint all at once.

The truth is that the subjects rarely arrive fully formed.

More often, they gather themselves slowly and sit quietly in my mind.

Last autumn, I picked up a few maple leaves while walking on Witherspoon Street in Princeton, New Jersey. What caught my attention was their color.

These were not the brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows that maples are famous for.

Their colors felt quieter.

Earthier.

The longer I looked at them, the more they impressed me with their restrained richness. They seemed surprisingly grounded for maple leaves, and that intrigued me. I took several home and pressed them in a book so I could return to them later.

When I pulled them out, I was struck again by their unusual earthiness. I decided to paint them and began to lay them out.

Their pointed shapes and subdued color called for a companion that would honor them without competing for attention.

Turquoise seemed perfect.

I've always been drawn to the color of the stones and even visited the Turquoise Museum in Albuquerque years ago. It was there that I first learned about Kingman turquoise and the remarkable range of colors and textures found in the stone.

Years later, I came across a tube of Daniel Smith's Kingman Turquoise watercolor and bought it immediately.

Then I waited.

Eventually, the moment arrived.

Two observations—one organic and the other inorganic—separated by many years, finally met, and I created Maple Leaves with Kingman Turquoise. It remains a very meaning watercolor for me because it unites distant places, memories, and inorganic and organic things would not have met otherwise — autumn leaves picked up on a sidewalk in Princeton, New Jersey and stone discovered years earlier in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Resources:  The Turquoise Museum (not affiliated)

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