When I’m at the ocean, I stare at a long roll of water. It’s already built up to a swell, reached the apex of its rounded height, and now begins to break as it moves onto the shore. Often the beach is curved, so when I gaze at its entire length, the waves seem to angle slightly away from me.
In my acrylic painting, Long Waves, I try to capture these angles and the dynamism of water’s restless vitality. Thousands of tiny lines depict the sea’s intense energy between the waves, filled with creatures and constant change.
Why does the ocean captivate my attention? Its vastness draws me as I contemplate this enormous force, far larger than I can imagine. Its massiveness is contrasted by an individual wave coursing toward me, a culmination that is more human-sized. On a summer day I splash into the wave, enjoying friendly and fun surf.
My father loved to fish for salmon and steelhead in the Northwest waters. I often accompanied him, loving his companionship. I played around on the beach, waiting for his next catch so I could spring to my job cleaning the fish with a long sharp hunting knife. I spent hours in fascinating study of their complex anatomy. The sea meant joy, intrigue, sustenance and the life cycle.
One day, in my twenties, while snorkeling, my partner and I got caught in a riptide. I’ll never forget the terror of being overwhelmed by the tremendous force of those waves. My partner drowned. Afterwards, I was bereft and couldn’t even enter a bathtub for six months. Over the next twenty years, bit by bit, I made friends with the ocean once more.
I can now kayak in calm waters and go on safe boats. Over time, with help from friends and therapists, I emotionally healed. Today, I maintain an unending respect for the sea and its domineering role in life’s journey, in my own, the fish and all other beings, large and tiny, who live there. When I look at the sea, its powerful force combines with my deep memories and both resonate within me; that’s what I paint in Long Waves.
