'On The Sky'"Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies..."
- Henry Francis Lyte
The Sunday service at the Ocracoke United Methodist Church has travelled with me into Monday. Or, rather, the ringing sound of the hymns.
It is a perfect sun-filled morning, and I am humming
'Abide With Me'.
Humming, (rather than singing), as I don't really know the words, but I love it in all of its old-fashioned glory, and the way it makes the tears (involuntarily) well up in my eyes.
Wasn't it one of the last songs played on the Titanic?
The phrase which stays with me, '...point me to the skies...', has (in my humming version), become the only spoken part of every verse.
And so, with this phrase nailed in my brain, I decide to 'up sticks' (at least for the morning) and travel to one of Ocracoke's far-flung beaches with Chester, a box of watercolours and a sketchbook.
And, in so doing, point myself to the skies.
We drive through the village, (stopping for a moment at the coffee shop), and then along the Back Road, Old Beach Road, curving past houses, stunted village trees, jungly undergrowth full of bird song. And on past the Ocracoke Child Care, ('Peace begins in the playground'), turning onto Highway 12. We creep along at 'village speed', passing the main grocery/hardware store, U.S. Post Office, Sheriff's Office, Howard's Pub and the South Point Road, to the outer reaches where we can finally step on it, on the open two-lane highway stretching up the island.
It feels a bit like escaping. Not that I don't absolutely love the little village of Ocracoke,
but here, when you 'head out on the highway', you are (typically) on your own.
On we drive, past the little airport, the 'lifeguard' beach (with no lifeguard at this time of year), Hammock Hills nature trail, NPS campground, pony pasture, and on to (what we call) the 'North Beach'.
There are, in actual fact, two vehicles already parked in the sandy little pull-off. Chester leads me up the high dunes, (in his eagerness to run wild and free on the beach), but we stop at the top to take it all in. The view, that is.
Oh my my.
This first glimpse (of the day) of the wide open Atlantic never fails to impress.
It is all so extraordinarily beautiful.
I spot the people belonging to the vehicles - a couple, surf-fishing 100 yards one way, and a dad with two kids shelling in the other direction. Chester, unleashed, sniffs his way to a dead something and has a happy roll in it, all four legs in the air.
I set up camp. Paints, pencils, ruler, brushes, water-bottle, sketch pad, folded hoodie to sit on, and (very naughtily) one can of icy cold beer, to bury in the sand until 11 a.m.
As awe-inspiring as the sea is, the sky is a pretty equal match.
And, happily, if I were to choose one day for sky-study, this is a good one.
The first thing that strikes me is colour. Do I have the right ones in this little paint box to capture it all?
I decide to work in a grid-like manner, drawing a series of small squares on several pages. Now I can systematically record the subtle nuances, and at the same time create (what I consider to be) a pleasing pattern.
But it isn't as easy as it seems.
The sky, blues moving into lighter blues, into greys, into whites.
The paints, though, (in a lovely wooden box inherited from a favourite Renouf relative), are up to the task. I begin with a range of blues, greys, earthy greens and browns. I mix, add water, more colour, and do my darnedest to capture what I see.
The wind, scuttling cloud, swiftly moving shadow, sparkling sunlight, reflecting and effecting the colour of the energetic constantly moving sea.
I include the vivid hues of the sea in my sky studies, (and a fair bit of the ubiquitous sand,
blowing about and ending up as part of the art). Not sure I've really captured the colours, but happy with the process.
And so it goes, until Chester nudges my arm and I see his lolling tongue.
Thirsty.
We each have our drinks of choice, (so good) and then a long long bare-footed amble in the shallows of the ebbing sea.
Later, back in the cottage, (feeling somewhat sunned-out), I read, lying on a sofa cushion on the floor of the shady screened porch, "Hawthorne on Painting". His words speak to me.
"Get acquainted with your palette, dip into pans that you almost know won't do. Experiment."
"Each day has its own individuality of colour."
"Have the humble attitude. To see things simply is the hardest thing in the world."
"As long as one is simple and childlike and humble, one progresses. Keep this point of view and there is no limit."
"Irritatingly correct - charmingly incorrect."
That's it, isn't it. The truth about all things interesting in art. That the work be 'charmingly incorrect'.
Not duplicated accurately.
Nor copied mindlessly.
Nor fiddled with endlessly.
But observed, touched, tasted, with all our human foibles and imperfections.
Point me to the skies and I'll show you what I see.
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