In the summer, the sun dips slowly and glows in between the skyscrapers of downtown Boston, just barely in view of my studio but making for some picturesque sunsets. But in the winter, it creeps southward, eventually parallel with our wall of windows. It lolls so big and low in the sky over the concrete canyon created by the street and church that for a few minutes, a blaze of red-orange light lasers through the double panes, covering the bricks and chrome of our little apartment with a fierce fiery glow.
It's so different from the sweet clean light that fills my studio during the day. Despite the shocking intensity, this special winter light only lasts for a short time... barely long enough to grab my camera and snap this photo of the light illuminating a few small buds on the windowsill.
Its brilliance is enough to kinda shock me each cloudless afternoon as it bursts in. It'll probably only last another week or two before it's obscured by the jigsaw of neighboring buildings and roofdecks.
I feel like the last few months have been peppered with moments like this; sweet, contemplative, deliberate moments of calm and clarity amidst whirlwinds of thoughts, plans, work, opportunities, deadlines, autopilot. Like I look up from my easel or desk and suddenly (but brilliantly) the sun is setting. Where did autumn go? Wasn't it just summer? I went camping. I flew to New York City on business. I started a large artwork commission and a personal project was born. I said a sad goodbye to some things in my life in the hope of kinder ones ahead. An opportunity to show my work came - with only two weeks to prepare! I'm joyfully looking forward to my most creative season of painting and most challenging month of business, and excited for my mom to fly out to my side of the continent for the holidays this time. I've felt invigorated by the changes in the seasons this year even though they seemed to fly by.