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Way back in the 1870s, the house I live in, and the house next door were built together as twins, or rather mirror images, by a prominent family in our town in central Massachusetts.  Because the houses were originally built and owned together, they share a driveway, and some beautiful mature landscaping.

My husband and I have lived in our house since 1999; our neighbors, the Davises, moved in about 15 years ago.

George and Karen Davis are a bit older than we are,  though not quite as old as our parents.  We often stop and chat when we see them out in the yard. George is a retired physicist.  He knows all about wild mushrooms and native plants, vegetable gardening, and the natural habitat of the Northeast woodlands.  He's a permanent fixture in the garden. With Karen's creative input, he's been restoring the garden in a wild, native woodland sort of way. 

When I look over at the garden and house next door, I feel as though I'm looking back in time, to the late 1800s.  It has an enchanted aura, especially in springtime, when the dogwoods and azaleas are in full bloom.  

Last spring (2019), I was awe-struck by one dogwood tree in the Davis's front yard. It was just teeming with delicate, creamy, almost pink/almost chartreuse-colored blossoms.  There was an old violet-colored azalea bush rambling underneath it, also in full bloom.   Every time I passed by, I wanted to just drop everything and paint the scene.  I wanted to spend time in the presence of this beautiful tree, I wanted to take it in and study it, so I could hold on to its memory.

But within a matter of just a few days, the lovely blossoms had begun to fade and disappear. I had missed my opportunity; It would be a whole year before I'd have the chance to capture the tree in bloom.

The next year (2020), during the height of the COVID-19 lockdown, the tree and the azalea bush faithfully bloomed together once more.  I knew the time would be short.  I was determined that I would not miss this opportunity.  So without delay, I set up my easel facing west, in mid-afternoon, and I got to work observing and painting. 

Like on most days, Mr. Davis was quiet and busy working in the yard.  This day he was bent over a woodpile that was partially covered by a blue tarp beneath the dogwood tree.  A stand of hemlocks towered behind, glowing in the afternoon light,  backlit by the sun.

As I began laying down the shapes and colors, the composition took shape. I slowed down, looking closely and thoughtfully. I began to reflect on the beauty and timelessness of the garden and the old house. I thought of all of the gardeners who had lovingly tended this property year after year since the beginning. I thought of Mr. Davis, contentedly pouring his energy into this labor each day, like a little boy playing outside in the yard.  

I painted until the light changed, then packed up my easel and went inside, eager to get back to it the next day. Fortunately, due to nice weather that spring, I was able to work on this scene in the garden a few more times.  But before long, the blooming season for the dogwood was over once again.  I moved the unfinished painting into the studio to continue to work on it, with only a reference photo I had taken on my cell phone, and my memory of the day.    

I've never had the best memory for people's names and important dates. This has been embarrassing at times, but I've learned to accept it, and to compensate in social situations.  While I wish my memory for these things were better, I've come to the conclusion that, thankfully, in the great scheme of things, it's really not that important.  

What is important is the beauty that is present in the people, places, and everyday events of our lives.  Beauty, meaning, and truth (rather than names, dates and facts) are deeper memories.  They imprint within our minds and hearts, and they give us joy.  

A painting is not merely a recording of what a thing looks like; it is a tangible memory of a deeper understanding about the subject. It is brought into being by the artist quieting his mind and carefully noting what he sees- the shapes, colors, rhythms, textures, harmony and contrast- while simultaneously being open to the feelings, the ideas, and the truths, that the subject matter reveals.  A painter draws on experiences of beauty and understanding that have embedded deep down, from as far back as childhood (and maybe even further back than that).   These significant memories rise to the surface. They inform the painter's understanding.  They are building blocks of new understanding going forward. 

Though I sometimes have trouble remembering a name or a date,  I don't worry too much about it.  What I can do is seek to capture the beauty, the meaning, the truth in the world around me, and put it down in a tangible memory.

This is why I paint.  

copyright ©2020 Gina Kalenderian