Near Zion National Park, in the lower left hand corner of Utah is the Kolob reservoir, where at this time of year, an artist can sit at the water’s edge and paint the turning, trembling aspens and the boulders that tumbled there a million years ago. A friend and I had recently decided that while much of what the world is experiencing is toxic right now, one can still nourish oneself on the wind, a paddle and a steep climb.
Our guide, Joe, is a guy who has spent his life dangling from a carabiner in Zion. “When I’m climbing the mountain,” he says, “it’s like I’m floating.” He squirts the overflow from his chewing tobacco on a distant rock and slings a hundred-foot rope over his shoulder. There is no internet in Joe’s day. As he jetés, freestyle from foothold to foothold, his dented metal water bottle swinging at his hip, we tag behind like pilgrims in the curious hope of catching what he’s got.
Our party is delirious with yard-time. Lockdown has primed us for a keen ascent and patience with the sap and sand. We call out guesses at the taxonomy of the ponderosa pines and the cause of the mineral sheen that bleeds an iridescent varnish from the sedimentary rock face, before Joe fills us in. The curves and swales of Zion’s canyons cut late September’s cerulean sky into patches of flat form and colour. Paintable and impossible to paint — like when A.Y. Jackson came to Western Canada and denounced the trees as being too close together — we are swallowed in the canyon slots and standing pools, our terrors hushed by the roaring, rushing whitewater. At night, retired under a dome of lite-brite constellations blaring through an ink-black universe, the wind churns through the canvas of our tent, but we are asleep.
PS: “Study nature, love nature, stay close to nature. It will never fail you.” (Frank Lloyd Wright)
Esoterica: Back at sea level a few days later, Peter and I board a plane to New York. Here, another friend and I agree that the galleries, now open, are one more excellent choice for a place of refuge. “I need this,” he says. I meet another friend for lunch and we cherry pick our heart’s content of fall shows — Carmen Herrera at Lisson, Robert Mangold at Pace, Suzan Frecon at Zwirner — a trifecta of colourfield for a post-lockdown world — New York is diligently coming awake. It is not yet cold. Standing amongst my own paintings, up four flights of stairs in the heart of Chelsea, I once again feel the universe simplify, and remember last week’s mountain. “What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind,” wrote E. M. Forster, “if they do not enter into our daily lives?”
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“My sun sets to rise again.” (Robert Browning)
Candace studied at the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Angers, France but it is her travels in the deserts of Africa and Oman, Antarctica and the Arctic, and sacred sights of Machu Picchu and Petra that serve as her true place of learning. A desire to combine these experiences with a deeper understanding of her own spirituality has provided the underlying focus and inspiration for her paintings.