That’s my motto for September: Every day, there’s a light or two less. In September it’s the sunsets that matter to me — as if by watching each one I can make the day last a moment or two longer even if I can’t stop the earth from turning away from the sun.
Well, that moment needs an illustration in my Damn France Book. Because that’s the kind of travel book I write: low on the literal, high on the weirdly subjective.
So I started with a photograph I’d taken in aLoire Valley town (see above). Nice, right? (That’s why I took it.) I studied it, and found that it would do just fine as my reference photo (see below, with markings so I can tell where the horizon is):
I’m showing you this so you can see what I think: I mentally drew lines to show where I thought the tree line, the horizon, and the darkest reflection in the water would be . The scene needed a distinguishing feature, something that gave it that unmistakable romantic Loire Valley feeling. So I gave it one (see “castle” cut-out overlaid on photograph below):
That’s the actual chateau in Azay-le-Rideau, with slight perspective improvements on my part, to accentuate the turrets and the spires and all that castle-y stuff.
OK. Now I’m in business. I’m ready to paint me a picture of my Loire Valley September sunset moment.
(There’s a light pencil sketch of the landscape and the chateau, with a dab of watercolor resist fluid to mark where the setting sun is.) Then I did a wash of my setting sun colors:
Whew. Got the yellow, pink, and violet paint to stay put and not blend into a puke taupe mess. Now, all I have to do is not screw up the river and I’m half-way there to a not-putrid illustration:
Not bad. Paintings always look kind of shitty at this stage, so I’m not worried that it’s a lost cause. Yet. Now for the brooding, gothic, romantic landscape features:
Ooooo. I like this (above).
Sure hope I don’t mess it up when I paint the chateau:
Hmmmmm. I’m beginning to have my doubts.
Oh well, too late: I’m committed to seeing this to the bitter end. (I think it’s mildly entertaining to catch a work-in-progress at the moment when it all went wrong.)
Let’s just cut to the chase:
Oh, Jeeze. This is not what I had in mind. Nope. No way.
I could tell this illustration was a stinker long before I finished it, but I made myself paint the whole thing so I could study the failure in all its completeness. And now I know how not to paint this picture!
And when I do, you’ll see it here.
Now, speaking of A Light Or Two Less, I have some cat news to tell you.
You’ve met the Lights of my Life, my Hobos, the feral cats who came to me as kittens, and who live in my backyard (until Winter, when they have their own cat entrance into the basement of our house.
They were so little here, two years ago, they could all fit on the same patio chair. That’s baby Taffy, in the shadows, that’s baby Lickity in the black and white ensemble, and that’s baby Butter, sitting upright, catching the rays of sun on his beautiful ginger coat.
Butter was the first of those fierce, wild, feral babies who let me touch him. This is a photo of the first time he let me scratch his little head:
Notice the little drop of milk on his chin. Butter loved his dairy products.
In the Comments of my last post, Carol (with her cat-senses alerted) asked Where’s Butter?
And I meant to tell you all, but I was waiting for the right time, and there really is no right time.
Here’s the deal I make with my feral cats: I will watch over you best I can, and you will be the cat you were born to be, even though I know there’s a high chance that you will break my heart. I don’t know how else to love these maddening, delightful, wayward, untamed creatures.
We tried to keep Butter in the fenced yard with his more homebody-brothers, but he was the one who had to see what was across the street.
I know that Butter would have been miserable if I’d taken his adventures away from him, made him into a house-bound cat. So I let him live “wild”, as he wanted, even if it did in the end cost him his life. Butter died on September 2, 2010, while crossing the road in front of our house.
This is not the first time a cat has broken my heart; it won’t be the last. But this is the one and only Butter heartbreak, and we will miss the leader of our pack forever.