Out Sketching
When I first ventured forth with my art pack and folding stool, I had no real idea what I was doing. I remember my goal as simple: I wanted to be outdoors, I loved to sketch and this was an excuse to stay out there longer. So I gathered simple art supplies to take on family camping trips. I sketched wherever I found time and subject matter. That’s how I discovered what every artist learns: it’s not just about the final art product. It’s taking a second look, and then another. My observation skills increased. I learned to see. Come along with me, and I’ll explain how this works.
Parsnip Creek, Part 1
It’s mid-summer, 1978. We park along the gravel road as close to the creek as possible. My husband, Don, grabs his camera and sets off with the children to explore the meadow. I shoulder my art pack, pick up my folding stool, and head downhill to the creek. Thankful for my boots, I scramble over rocks to reach an open area on the bank where water tumbles, like liquid stairsteps, down four levels of splash before it levels off into a small pool. From there the stream swirls into dark corners under the bank, then plunges onward, lively and sparkling, down a nearly impassable steep slope to the lake. I unload my gear. Here is a good place to sit comfortably and sketch the water.
The water source is a spring not too far up the mountainside, probably combined with snow melt that is still draining from higher elevations. Numerous rocks, remnants of an ancient lava field, interrupt the stream of water, but fail to impede it for long. Crisscrossing the creek in places are downed logs, some large enough to walk on. Willows crowd the bank, but leave enough open spaces for the fishermen in the family to throw in a baited line. However, this is not a great place for fishing. The biggest challenge for the angler is the rocky hill and the incline down to the lake. No agile trout is likely to be caught there.
I lean over the bank and scoop up a handful of creek water, a shock of cold, wet elixir, at once cleansing, refreshing, invigorating. I take a careful look at the current which shows in graceful curving lines, lyrical rhythms on the pool surface. Spray from the rapids wets my boots, and I pull back a bit from the edge. The rush of water, gurgle, and splash, sounds a natural music sweet to the ear. I close my eyes and let the sound stir my inner artist, deep inside, aware and appreciative…