Eventually, all things merge
into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great
flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are
timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are
theirs. I am haunted by waters.
Norman Fitzroy Maclean, A River Runs Through It
My paintings always feature
trails that dissolve into mysterious areas, patches of light that lead the eye
around corners, pathways, open gates, etc.
Thomas Kindade
My place is a place of magical trails. Each
bend in the trail leads to a new view, a new perspective, a new way of seeing.
The trail is bounded by two rivers. One is strong and staunch, forceful and
stalwart. The other is down-reaching, rooted, and profound. A slough meanders
its way alongside the trail, on one side to the powerful river – busy with
fishing boats, and tugs, and huge barges heavy with sand or rock; with salmon
and sturgeon. And on the other side to
the deep river – cold, black, with seals bobbing their way from salt water to
fresh, with osprey nests and hidden coves filled with lily pads, turtles, and
standing herons.
A slough is defined as an area of swamp,
characterized by lack of progress or activity. But myriad species of duck glide
through its waters, otters and beaver present on a rare evening, bears trundle along
its banks scooping spawning salmon up onto the trail for ursine family picnics
– tired of the summer-long feed of blueberries from the farms that spread
outward from the slough. The slough does not lack for activity or enterprise,
it is just of the wild sort.
But the light in this magical place is what
is special; sunlight filtered through green, water filtered through sunlight;
skies of blue, or cloud, or rain filtered through the lens of elegance and
grace.
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