The Road Less Traveled, Joshua Tree, 14″ x 14″, Oil on panel, © Eric Merrell
As the end of the residency approaches, I’m trying to get in everything I wanted to work on. July was windy and then really hot, but August has been beautiful. Mostly in the 90’s during the day and in the 70’s at night. Just awesome. I wonder if this bodes badly for September? I’ve worked on broadening my approaches, trying some new things, exploring new places. I think I have some 70-odd paintings. (I haven’t been able to shoot very many of them yet, but will at some point for a future post.)
Some of the best memories: out looking for a spot to paint the full moonlight, I stopped along the road in Lost Horse Valley. As I stood there in the moonlight, I started to notice a shape or two flitting about in the half-darkness: bats. Then I noticed a few more. After my eyes adjusted, although only a handful were ever visible at any given moment, you could sense the hundreds of bats flying all around you, sometimes only a foot away. I don’t know if something with the moon brought out more bugs, or that they naturally congregate there, or something else. But it was so quiet, the only sound was of the approaching bats’ clicking, echolocating, like the sounds of a few marbles bouncing quickly onto a tile floor.
My easel and umbrellas were quite battered by the winds, and knocked over a few times. One evening, though, in the lower Colorado desert, I set up to work about 20 feet to the side of a large wash. After painting a bit, I heard a noise like a car approaching in the distance. As it grew closer, the sound distinctly became the rushing wind, barreling down the mountains – straight through the wash. From my vantage, I could see the smoketrees and creosote in the wash straining under the onslaught; but the only thing that reached me was a nice cool breeze. As this tended to happen every so often, I grew accustomed to it and congratulated myself for being clever enough to avoid painting in the wash, my original intention. As I heard another gust approaching, I must have reached over to grab a tube of paint, or brush, or something – I don’t recall what – but as soon as the wind hit the wash this time, it made a quick turn and blasted into the easel from the one weak spot. Though it was tied down, the easel was still thrown a few feet, and the palette skidded face-down across the sand, leaving streaks of yellow and orange on the desert floor. I decided to call it a day, and laughed while I cleaned everything up. Not much of the paint was salvageable.
I can’t wait to return home now and sort through everything from the residency. Already have many ideas from the sketches and notes.