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My father died today: the end of a very long, mostly happy, vigorous life. We were with him. I'm grateful for so much, relieved that his suffering was short, and yet still feel like a tree has fallen in the forest: it's hard to imagine life without him being in it too. But of course, as long as I am alive, he will live in me.
Portraits by Jonathan Sa'adah, 1981 and 2021
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The clouds and sky continue to fascinate me, especially when storms are brewing and the clouds become full of water. They inspired me to get out my acrylics and do this fast sketch on paper the other day: brushes full of water and pigment, making marks to depict clouds and sky, which actually have no pigment at all, just light and dust and water in various forms, from vapor to droplets to ice. It's curious when you think about it.
Water has also entered my life in another way recently: I've gone back to swimming because we have a pool in our new building. During the pandemic I haven't swum at all, and even before, it was really hard for me to keep it up as a regular practice. The best routine for me at the moment seems to be settling into every other day, around 7:30 in the morning. There's seldom anyone else in the pool then, and I can swim my laps in an atmosphere that feels extremely meditative even when I'm working hard. It feels great to enter the water, and after a few laps, everything sort of melts away as the rhythm of the strokes, the breaths, and the turns takes over.
When I began to do it seriously, a month ago, I started out fairly easily, trying not to strain my shoulders or lower back, and now I'm swimming about twenty minutes straight, and will work up to thirty. A couple of times a week I've also been doing yoga, and we're walking and biking quite a bit in the new neighborhood, which, once you get away from the main streets where there's busy traffic, is much quieter and less congested for cycling than our old one.
Moving more always feels better, but I certainly don't think of myself as an athlete, and like many of us, I've sometimes tended to do something new for a while and then get out of the habit, though I've walked regularly for years and years. However, as I've considered my father's long life, there's no denying that regular exercise played a huge role in his physical and mental well-being. Being able to make swimming the central activity would be a very good fit for me. It's hard to express how happy and comfortable I've always felt when I'm in the water. Being able to swim regularly, without the obstacle of commuting to a distant pool, feels like a great privilege, as well as doing my body a lot of good. I hope I can keep it up.
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transparent watercolor in sketchbook; stormy sky just before sunset
I've never lived up in the sky before, but it feels like I do now. We have windows on two sides of our new apartment, facing north and west, and they look out on the nearly-flat northern part of the city and its suburbs, the airport to the west, and the foothills of the Laurentians in the far distance. That's the horizontal picture. But vertically, more than half of what we see outside our windows is sky.
2B pencil
One of the best features of living in a northern temperate zone (in my opinion!) is that the weather changes all the time. I've always lived in the northeast, so I thought I was used to the pattern, not only of the seasons, but the day-to-day weather, what the clouds mean, how the air feels, the visual and tactile sense of whether it's going to get colder or warmer, drier or more humid, whether precipitation is coming or not. But I realize I had no idea of just how much change there was in the sky, the clouds, the sunrises and sunsets, and the rapidity of change during a few minutes, let alone a whole day. It's completely fascinating.
medium-point fountain pen
fine-point fountain pen; fleeting early morning clouds
So I've been drawing the clouds, or starting to. I'm finding that they present particular challenges if one is trying to capture the essence of a certain sky, partly because of the constant movement and morphing of their shape and form, and partly because it's not easy to draw something that is white, on white paper: unless you indicate the sky itself in some way, all you can do is draw the sunlit edges of the clouds, the shadow sides, and their basic forms, and suggest their movement through the type of strokes you use.
HB and 2H pencil
Suggesting a summer sky isn't difficult, but studying and drawing a particular cloud or cloud formation -- getting at its identity and essence -- seems to be quite a bit more challenging. All cumulus clouds are not alike! An early-morning mackerel sky, or an ethereal formation of mare's tails, give way in minutes to other forms. Likewise, painting a sky in oil or pastel or acrylic is much easier than drawing: like a photograph, you're freezing it in time, maybe even with photos for reference, and you've got the whole range of colors at your disposal.
white charcoal pencil on toned paper
Watercolor also represents a distinct challenge. Doing a realistic painting is more similar to what I just described about painting in other media, but doing a fast sketch is really tricky, and I feel like I'm just beginning to get my feet wet. These are all early experiments from my sketchbook, between July 3 and July 29, 2022.
transparent watercolor
My final comment on this post, after a month of observation, is that we can actually see how the weather is becoming much more extreme and violent. It's been really windy, not just up high, but on the ground as well, and the pace of mostly west-to-east movement of the clouds is fast. Ominous, huge, dark grey clouds appear, usually in the west, with storms developing rapidly, and we can see them in the distance; sheets of rain falling on distant parts of the city or landscape. When thunderstorms are actually upon us, the rain lashes the windows with real force. Last Saturday there was a classic anvil cloud in the northwest that was truly apocalyptic in appearance; I'd never seen a cloud like that. That evening a home in that area was hit by lightening -- the neighbors saw an actual fireball fall from the sky and hit the roof. Another afternoon, I watched a dark funnel starting to form below a large thunderhead in the far distance and called my husband to come and look; as we watched over maybe ten minutes, it was slowly absorbed back up into the cloud, and never stretched down to the land - but it was the first time I'd ever seen that, too. Tornadoes are not a usual occurrence in Quebec, in spite of the flatness of the St. Lawrence valley, but a tornado did touch down that same evening about a hundred kilometers northwest of Montreal.
Drawing and painting the beauty of skyscapes is one thing, but I didn't expect to have a ringside seat for extreme weather. We are not suffering from the same heat levels as Europe or India or the American southwest, but our weather is definitely changing. How can anyone deny the absolute necessity of action?
transparent watercolor with touches of gouache for the city lights
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