I saw the painting high on a back wall of a thrift store. Immediately drawn to it, I bought it for next to nothing, planning to hang it in the study where I write.
It’s a seascape, but an unusual one – and I could tell my husband did not see the appeal. “When you look at that picture, what does it say to you?” he asked.
I could understand the question. A sky of brick-red clouds hangs over foam-capped ochre waves that crash against mahogany rocks. To him, the scene may have seemed dangerous, tumultuous, bleak.
I can’t recall what I answered then. But today, looking across my study at that painting, I’m still drawn to it. And now, I can put into words what it tells me.
In that place where everything looks brown, murky and decidedly unsettled, there’s movement. There’s life. And the light is breaking through.