Tomás Karmelo Amaya, an Indigenous visual artist and director from the A:shiwi, Rarámuri, and Yoeme tribes spoke about his creative journey and how he brings his heritage to the creative process. A summary of what I understood one of his main points to be: His people have the practice, when going to visit a person or place, to introduce themselves, state their intentions, and then ask how they can help. He gave an illustration about wandering the streets with his camera, carrying that practice with him in his mind, and being at the right moment, at the right time, to respond to people driving by who wanted their picture taken. It turned out to be one of his favorite photographs. 

 

Before the snows came this fall, I was out in one of my favorite spots along the Raquette River, and while I usually greet the landscape around me (Internally. No one wants to run into the crazy lady who talks to the trees...), I hadn't quite thought of offering my help or asking how I can be of service. So this time, after I said my wordless hellos, I asked how I could help transmit the beauty and the essence of the place -- or rather, whether it would be helpful if I did, and if so, to please help me be able to capture it.

 

Well. It did not go super well. The reflections, golden backlight, the contrast of the backlit rocks, and of course, all the moss (my fav!!!) were all so inspiring yet complex, and the sunlight came and went, changing the scene entirely minute to minute. Still, I plodded along and tried to trust the process, even though the whole painting just looked dark and murky, not at all like the jewel-like sparking waters in front of me. 

 

 

After about two hours, I was almost ready to pack it in and call this one a loss, when the sun came out again, this time slanting lower through the trees than when I had begun.

 

When a painting looks like crap, I often feel the least afraid to be bold, because it's crap anyway -- who cares if I mess it up!

 

So with one last burst of energy, I threw the sun in there and lightened up the very distant space where the trees parted for the stream to meet the river. And wouldn't you know, it felt like everything I had painted -- all the overly dark rocks and murky water -- had been in preparation for that final moment, to pop that light in there and really make it sing. It felt magical. 

 

Ta da! It was all worth it. 

 

Now when I venture out painting and introduce myself with an attitude of servitude, does the universe hear my supplication and flow through me to create masterpieces? No. With resound. I have since painted many a Frisbee (called thusly among plein air painters because once they are complete, you pluck them from your easel and fling them like a Frisbee far, far away, preferably off a cliff or into oncoming traffic.)  

 

If nothing else, it has helped me feel like I am in touch with a higher purpose or power instead of just "working selfishly on my little hobby" (or so say the negative tapes in my head). And it almost transforms the whole endeavor into a spiritual practice, complete with ritual: the Laying of the Brushes, the Pouring of the Thinner, the Toning of the Canvas. Now, with the addition of the Mumbling to the Trees, that ritual is complete.