The isness of things.

Photo credit: Dunham Farms

This weekend my husband and I picked out a watermelon at the store. We usually buy one before we finish the last one so that we always have some around to snack on, and this practice continues all summer. Watermelons have always had a special place in my heart, partly because I find them so delicious, and because they call to mind one of my favorite memories from growing up.

My family visited my grandparents in Little Rock, Arkansas every summer. On those trips, I never knew if we’d be able to go fishing or swimming in the lake, but I had special hopes we’d get to go to the watermelon stand on one of the nights we were there.

The watermelon stand was magical to me. They were open just for the summer, and a few hours at night. It was a small shed in the middle of a lot of grass, along with maybe 7 or 8 small picnic tables with peeling white paint and a single glass saltshaker on each. There was a string of white globe lights and a bug zapper in the yard. The only other light came from the small ordering window cut into the side of the shed, and the neon sign from the used car lot nearby.

Watermelon slices were all they sold, cut into one long size only, and came through the window with nothing but a knife. I’d sit munching away on watermelon, spitting seeds into the grass near my bare feet, listening to the subdued chatter of adult stories and the occasional bug zapping.

That memory from a few short summer nights has stuck with me all these years. The combination of a few simple elements created a soulful experience for me. The place wasn’t trying to be anything other than offering ice-cold watermelon to people on a hot summer’s night. It simply was what it was, and nothing more.

I strive for that kind of presence in my work, including what’s necessary to tell the story and create the feeling I hope to capture, but not too much to get in the way. I want the painting to have a potency and be what it is. I want to be clear about what this painting is about, and what I want to come through. Sometimes less is more, and sometimes less is not enough. It’s a tricky balance and I don’t always succeed. But recalling things that have such a big impact on me can become a guide for the work. There is information in them.

I’d love for you to share how specific memories or experiences impact your work.