Ahh, sweet summertime. The long, languid days that stretch on as endlessly as the horizon line over the marsh from dusk to dawn. Hot, humid, the air thick with sunshine and possibilities. It is no secret that summer is my very favorite season. I am up with the first crack of sunlight in the early morning hours and chasing the very last rays into the coral backlight clouds well past nine. I’m a sun chaser. The thickness of the heavy air feels like a comforting blanket in spite of the drops it forms on my neck and brow and I spend every second I can outside and by the water, my happy place, so it only makes sense that my brightly colored floral palettes for springtime quickly transition to the landscapes and endless sky that stretches on around me with a heavy emphasis on that horizon line. It feels like a natural transition from the frivolity and excitement of the newness of spring to the staid simplicity of summer. You can feel the shift. When it’s that unbelievably hot outside things become quieter, day to day activities become a bit more plain sailing, things become a bit more sedated, a bit more black and white (or shall we say blue and green) all hushed to an easier pace by the song of cicadas.

That’s the thing I love most about the heat, it creates, if not forces, pause.

This summer was a busy and challenging one for me, personally. My husband and I navigated some health things, work things, change of career things, big life chapter change things, and with the end of July we met the one year anniversary of loosing my mom in the middle of it all. I have a lot to say about crossing that milestone that perhaps I will save for another post. What I will say is that I’m not sure that I’ve done anything more meaningful in my entire life than to walk my person to the end of this side of heaven, where I could go no further. I’ve spent most of the past year deep diving in all the ways and therapies trying to sort that all out on the other side of it. Grief is a hard fought wrestle. Most people, well intended enough, get off the train at the first stop. Maybe the second or third if you’re lucky. By the year mark… the rest of it becomes between you and God. But standing on the other side of a year out I can say, the really good stuff on the other side of it, the silver linings that don’t make things any better but make it so that you can hold on and press forward another step…those things come from the wrestle. The stuff that makes you pause to appreciate a horizon line, a sunset, a flower in the sidewalk crack.

Beauty from ashes.

The heaviness was not just in the heat of the air outside.

Duality.

In my mom’s service the pastor preached on the vastness of God. It’s why my mom loved the beach so much. Why I love the beach so much. There is something to that horizon line and how small it makes you feel when you see sky meet sea. I spent most of this summer revisiting the archives of many past lowcountry landscapes, marsh scenes, skyscapes, etc. all inspired by His vastness. Each a captured moment of awe that I could trace back instinctively and intimately.

Many weekends by the shore, many trips taken, many laughs shared, many walks to watch the sunset over the marsh, many bike rides before coffee, many, many moments in between this summer, many paintings inspired by it all…

“…before them were the sands, with rocks and little pools of salt water, and seaweed, and the smell of the sea and long miles of bluish-green waves breaking for ever and ever on the beach. And oh, the cry of the seagulls! Have you ever heard it? Can you remember?”

―C.S. Lewis,The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

As August came, my summer focus shifted slightly and my need for pause and to “be still” began to grow into a bit of an all consuming desire to produce again. To be fruitful. An emphasis on my biggest prayers this summer were on fruitfulness. So, as I wrapped up a season of long stretching sky and sand the creative juices began to flow again, my palettes began to stretch and expand in hue again, and I began to crave a new and different shift in my artistic focus.

“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.”

-Sylvia Plath

Inspired by my summer of farmers markets and produce stands I dusted off my first stab at still life portraits again since college. It felt like the most natural and definitive thing to paint to capture the essence of this moment in time for me. My call to “be still” and process and grieve, a deep appreciation and immense gratitude by my current state and the things (or objects) around me. A gratitude that can only be formed by walking through fire. And the tension I feel in wanting to emerge from that place and be fruitful in a way that is uplifting, honoring, and produces good harvest whatever that may look like for me.

The odd, uneven time…

September is, in my humble opinion, one of the most overlooked months. The beauty of the days that are still bright and long and full of all the goodness of summer yet hint at the fall to come with lower humidity, cooler temperatures…all gets overshadowed by the return to the hustle and bustle of school and work and schedules and routines and trying to do it all again and adjust to it all again and the endless desire to jump forward to the next and rush in the ushering of autumn and end of year holidays... All good, wonderful things. I love them too. But in rushing them through you miss the beautiful days of not quite summer not quite fall. And you find yourself sweating to death in an apple orchard in a plaid flannel shirt in 90 degree weather wishing for what is not quite yet.

The in between.

The beauty of we don’t quite know what it is yet.

So this is where we are camping. End of summer (yes, it’s technically fall as of this weekend).

But September still.

Soaking it all in. Producing. Being fruitful. Painting fruit. Waiting on the harvest season to come…

Finally, I’d love to end this by sharing some of my summer inspirations that shaped this season for me below.

Thanks for coming along for another season together this year!

XX,

Christina