Through all my comings and goings, north and south, I've almost always carried a sketchbook with me. Landscapes of various kinds have been the constant theme of most of my doodles and sketches. Although I certainly take lots of pictures, there is something more intimate and meditative about taking the time to sketch the skyline or some trees that catch my eye. I'll share some rough sketches representing the different fields of vision that have marked my journey in significant ways.
One horizon where my heart is anchored and that is always a point of return in my life is the Saint Mary's River, which made my college experience so magical. I spent many sunsets and late nights staring out at the mysterious flow and flutter of the water and the luminescent life in it, sometimes able to look up and see the Milky Way. I also remember becoming entranced by the shimmer of sunlight (or moonlight) on the water, which seemed to create a glistening path heavenward. That feature has often appeared in my drawings and paintings.
Although the river is a place of beauty, wonder, and personal renewal, it is also the place where my dear friend Justin was lost in a freak drowning accident at the end of my first year of college. I spent lots of time, both with friends and alone, sitting in his memorial bench in the cemetery overlooking the river not far from the popular fishing spot where he drowned. I would sit and stare at the river as it reflected the sun, moved by beauty amid the pain of loss. Sometimes I would sit and sketch. My eyes were often drawn down the path to the water, to three trees, that seemed to be dancing with arms, or branches, outstretched and intertwined. Just beyond them was always that shimmering path of light on the water, which became to me sort of a symbol of a spiritual connection to a world just beyond.
Most of my better sketches are likely at my parents' house in Maryland, but this simple one caught my eye recently--I immediately recognized those three trees, which have since been removed in an effort to protect the riverbank from the effects of erosion. It was a quick study, one of many, that I used to develop a painting of the view from Justin's bench. The finished piece was featured in my senior art show, and purchased by the school as an award. For many years, it adorned the office of Justin's father, a professor of English literature who has recently retired (and who, I believe was able to borrow the painting long-term for his new home down south.) He featured the painting on his blog on the anniversary of Justin's death this year, along with a poem written by a another member of the college community. Both the poet and I were drawn to that shimmery path that stretched and danced out over those waves, finding peace and comfort for our loss in its ephemeral grace.
My senior project included paintings of trees--twisted, gnarly, and at times whimsical--in which I found enchantment and spiritual themes. Perhaps a sketch that preceded that body of work is these trees in Providence, Rhode Island, a city founded by my ancestor Roger Williams, and a place I visited a few times before graduating.
After college, I moved from Maryland to New England--staying with grandparents in both Massachusetts and Rhode Island while I studied illustration at Rhode Island School of Design. Providence was my new stomping ground, and, besides some prior excursions in Washington D.C., was a city for me to get to know mainly on my own. My Mémère accompanied me on art trolley tours and Waterfire nights where we made precious memories, but it was by navigating this small city alone that I started to gain independence. And sometimes, not too unlike other RISD students, I would settle on a sidewalk and flop out my sketchbook and draw a skyline or a tree that caught my eye.
Boston was another city I was getting to know simultaneously. Bigger than Providence, but still much smaller than New York or São Paulo, I found it just big enough to get lost in. Here is a sketch of the Charles River on one of my first trips into the city after moving there. I remember I met my good friend Jeni that day. I knew right away that she was a kindred spirit, and that this was a city I could call home.
And here is a collage sketch I made as I contemplated my busy life, balancing school and multiple jobs and various social circles that brought me from one side of town to another. I would often take multiple forms of transportation and crash over at friends' places, trying to easily get from Providence to Boston to the suburbs, from one gig to another. Somehow I made it all work out, and gained lots of interesting friends and experiences along the way.
As I think about important horizons, I can't forget Italy. In a recent post, I talked about my two trips there, one during college, and the other after graduating from RISD. Besides the layers of history that I painted there, I was always drawn by rolling hills, olive trees, azure coastlines, and the mountains in the north. One of the places I stayed at was on the border of Switzerland, in the foothills of the Alps. There were always views that lifted my gaze upward, as well as experiences with language and culture that got me outside of myself, connecting me to the broader world.
Since moving to Brazil, I've found my eyes and my sketches still drawn to trees--of quite different varieties! The vast openness of the Paraíba valley, and the stretching expanse of sky over the mountains and tall buildings also catch my gaze. Thunderstorms and sunsets are often more dramatic here, and the negative spaces between giant leaves and tall buildings compel my gaze into contemplative meditation as I ride the bus or walk all over the city.
If asked which landscape I would associate most with home, I would have a hard time choosing. The Saint Mary's River remains a momentous milestone in the journey of my life, but in other ways, the Charles is also an important landmark. The skyline in Providence gave me an early sense of freedom, while the sunsets behind bare autumnal forests in Maryland gave me a keen sense of wonder. Somehow both places were part of the journey that led me to São José. Here I contemplate the tall, cement buildings encompassed by enormous trees and lush vegetation that add life to what might be an otherwise dull cityscape. The mountains of northern Italy first opened my eyes, but now my gaze takes in the nuance in color and form in the hills and mountains and wide open skies surrounding Saint Joseph of the Fields. Each of these landscapes have surrounded me on different lengths of my journey, and I enjoy seeing them all come together in art, even through simple sketches.
I'll be taking a break from this blog through the rest of July as I travel back to wander a bit through the horizons of my hometown, both in Maryland and in New England. What landscapes have been most meaningful to you? What natural features that often go unnoticed give you a sense of wonder and transcendence? Share some special moments of your journey, and let's connect on Instagram @danitissima.
One horizon where my heart is anchored and that is always a point of return in my life is the Saint Mary's River, which made my college experience so magical. I spent many sunsets and late nights staring out at the mysterious flow and flutter of the water and the luminescent life in it, sometimes able to look up and see the Milky Way. I also remember becoming entranced by the shimmer of sunlight (or moonlight) on the water, which seemed to create a glistening path heavenward. That feature has often appeared in my drawings and paintings.
Although the river is a place of beauty, wonder, and personal renewal, it is also the place where my dear friend Justin was lost in a freak drowning accident at the end of my first year of college. I spent lots of time, both with friends and alone, sitting in his memorial bench in the cemetery overlooking the river not far from the popular fishing spot where he drowned. I would sit and stare at the river as it reflected the sun, moved by beauty amid the pain of loss. Sometimes I would sit and sketch. My eyes were often drawn down the path to the water, to three trees, that seemed to be dancing with arms, or branches, outstretched and intertwined. Just beyond them was always that shimmering path of light on the water, which became to me sort of a symbol of a spiritual connection to a world just beyond.
Most of my better sketches are likely at my parents' house in Maryland, but this simple one caught my eye recently--I immediately recognized those three trees, which have since been removed in an effort to protect the riverbank from the effects of erosion. It was a quick study, one of many, that I used to develop a painting of the view from Justin's bench. The finished piece was featured in my senior art show, and purchased by the school as an award. For many years, it adorned the office of Justin's father, a professor of English literature who has recently retired (and who, I believe was able to borrow the painting long-term for his new home down south.) He featured the painting on his blog on the anniversary of Justin's death this year, along with a poem written by a another member of the college community. Both the poet and I were drawn to that shimmery path that stretched and danced out over those waves, finding peace and comfort for our loss in its ephemeral grace.
My senior project included paintings of trees--twisted, gnarly, and at times whimsical--in which I found enchantment and spiritual themes. Perhaps a sketch that preceded that body of work is these trees in Providence, Rhode Island, a city founded by my ancestor Roger Williams, and a place I visited a few times before graduating.
After college, I moved from Maryland to New England--staying with grandparents in both Massachusetts and Rhode Island while I studied illustration at Rhode Island School of Design. Providence was my new stomping ground, and, besides some prior excursions in Washington D.C., was a city for me to get to know mainly on my own. My Mémère accompanied me on art trolley tours and Waterfire nights where we made precious memories, but it was by navigating this small city alone that I started to gain independence. And sometimes, not too unlike other RISD students, I would settle on a sidewalk and flop out my sketchbook and draw a skyline or a tree that caught my eye.
Boston was another city I was getting to know simultaneously. Bigger than Providence, but still much smaller than New York or São Paulo, I found it just big enough to get lost in. Here is a sketch of the Charles River on one of my first trips into the city after moving there. I remember I met my good friend Jeni that day. I knew right away that she was a kindred spirit, and that this was a city I could call home.
And here is a collage sketch I made as I contemplated my busy life, balancing school and multiple jobs and various social circles that brought me from one side of town to another. I would often take multiple forms of transportation and crash over at friends' places, trying to easily get from Providence to Boston to the suburbs, from one gig to another. Somehow I made it all work out, and gained lots of interesting friends and experiences along the way.
As I think about important horizons, I can't forget Italy. In a recent post, I talked about my two trips there, one during college, and the other after graduating from RISD. Besides the layers of history that I painted there, I was always drawn by rolling hills, olive trees, azure coastlines, and the mountains in the north. One of the places I stayed at was on the border of Switzerland, in the foothills of the Alps. There were always views that lifted my gaze upward, as well as experiences with language and culture that got me outside of myself, connecting me to the broader world.
Since moving to Brazil, I've found my eyes and my sketches still drawn to trees--of quite different varieties! The vast openness of the Paraíba valley, and the stretching expanse of sky over the mountains and tall buildings also catch my gaze. Thunderstorms and sunsets are often more dramatic here, and the negative spaces between giant leaves and tall buildings compel my gaze into contemplative meditation as I ride the bus or walk all over the city.
If asked which landscape I would associate most with home, I would have a hard time choosing. The Saint Mary's River remains a momentous milestone in the journey of my life, but in other ways, the Charles is also an important landmark. The skyline in Providence gave me an early sense of freedom, while the sunsets behind bare autumnal forests in Maryland gave me a keen sense of wonder. Somehow both places were part of the journey that led me to São José. Here I contemplate the tall, cement buildings encompassed by enormous trees and lush vegetation that add life to what might be an otherwise dull cityscape. The mountains of northern Italy first opened my eyes, but now my gaze takes in the nuance in color and form in the hills and mountains and wide open skies surrounding Saint Joseph of the Fields. Each of these landscapes have surrounded me on different lengths of my journey, and I enjoy seeing them all come together in art, even through simple sketches.
I'll be taking a break from this blog through the rest of July as I travel back to wander a bit through the horizons of my hometown, both in Maryland and in New England. What landscapes have been most meaningful to you? What natural features that often go unnoticed give you a sense of wonder and transcendence? Share some special moments of your journey, and let's connect on Instagram @danitissima.
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