Spark Taylor

Finishing a plein air painting is often about knowing what to leave alone. The painting begins outdoors, where the light is changing, the wind is moving, and there is only a limited amount of time to capture what I’m seeing. Those first marks are spontaneous and responsive—an attempt to record not only the landscape, but the feeling of being there. Back in the studio, I take time to look at the painting with fresh eyes. I may adjust a shape, strengthen a value, simplify an area, or bring more attention to the focal point. Sometimes a few brushstrokes are enough. Other times, the painting needs more time to settle before I understand what it is asking for. The challenge is to refine the painting without losing the energy and honesty of those first moments outside. I want to preserve the freshness of the plein air experience—the atmosphere, the light, and the sense of place—while allowing the painting to become its own finished statement.

I made this painting of my late husband Jerry (Walter J Taylor) many years ago, before we got married in 1984. I only painted occasionally then. I made my living as a graphic designer and product development art director, and loved it. Never intended to do anything else as a job. Jerry was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 1999. As the years went on and his health as regards his memory and brain function declined, I became full-time caregiver during the hours I wasn’t at work. On the weekends, I started getting up at 5am, and driving down the canyon to Malibu, to paint. I could work a couple of hours and get home before he woke up, and begin my day as a caregiver. I don’t know why it was this that did it for me. I only tried it because I loved those little jewel-like oil color sketches done by the old plein aire painters of the late 19th and early 20th century—and I needed to do something to settle my mind from worry. We had a kid still in school, and a rapidly darkening future—but painting really helped me hold it together. The discipline of doing the work and not being attached to the result as anything other than learning—the act of being set up and ready when the sun came up—witnessing the beauty of the new day beginning and having the opportunity to feel that gratitude for my life and all the good things still in it—kept me sane. As I painted more and more, I started bringing Jerry with me on the drives. He’d settle in a chair with the dog, and enjoy the sunshine. It was sad, what was happening to him, but still many happy days too—we had a knack for that. We lost that dear man on the first day of 2009. We miss him like crazy. I'm still painting outside—still grateful!