I grew up in Seattle, across the street from a lake. Because I spent most of my childhood swimming in that large basin of water, it became my second home. When I dove in, I went so deep I touched the bottom and felt the crawdads playing. Fish swam nearby. Lily pads grew around me. Sun sparkled on the segmented wavelets. The shores shone with vibrant verdant hues. The lake was filled with and surrounded by life: flora, fauna (including me) and shimmering light.
In my painting of a lake, I depicted a green shoreline, seen at the top half of the picture. Below, in the water section, I created exaggerated reflections in bands of light and dark swirls.
At the border, between the lake and shoreline, I suddenly drew two bright ovals. They reminded me of eyes with lowered lids, like Tibetan Buddhist close-ups of the Buddha’s eyes in contemplation. I visualized them as nature itself, gazing out, perhaps meditating or ruminating. The shapes intrigued me.
The whole scene was built up with layers of thousands of tiny lines which, to me, captured the natural world’s intense energies, because the greenery and waters each pulsated with vitality. Many of the small lines are etched using the tip of a toothpick on a wet acrylic surface.
I imagined the Buddha perceived serenity while the spaces wriggled and churned with wild vigor: this duality formed nature’s gift, the same opposite dynamics co-existing within me and outside of me. I aspired to comprehend and accept both in ever-fluctuating balance.
Apparently destined for watersheds, I live on a lake today, still intrigued by the intense green and endlessly winking lights. I’m a Homo Sapien, a mammal, simply one of Earth’s countless life forms, each blessed with its own unique type of awareness. In this painting, water and shoreline might be reflecting upon one another.
