Andrew Larson

Shadows are fleeting, only a breath away from gone, present on a liminal boundary. Being and not being. And yet, shadow implies presence. Light becomes shadow, becomes pattern, becomes texture, becomes surface. Then surface is texture, is pattern, which is light and shadow once again.

 

And so, light reveals the world. Our worlds. We follow the slow coming and going of the light with our waking and our sleeping. As the Earth swings ponderously ‘round the sun,

 

            winter melts into

 

                        spring bursts into

 

                                    summer sighs into

 

                                                fall and settles into

                                                           

                                                            winter once again.

 

Then, more than any other time, the shadows are long, and the light tenuous. On rare blue-sky days, bright snow blinds, but more often it reveals the subtle

 

             blue

                        gold

                                    rose

                                                grey

                                                            of shadows,

 

colors chasing the sun from noon to gloaming to night and back again. If winter is the right time for shadow-watching, then watercolor seems a fitting tribute, nothing but a splash on a page. Shadows of paper and paint balance on that edge between object and light, between careless chaos and tight control. Recognizing this balance steadies me, a reminder to make peace with my place between what was and what will be.

 

 Shadows whisper to me,

                                             trust,

                                                         all will be well.