Morning Light through Pomegranate Tea Bag

Morning Light through Pomegranate Tea Bag

Often I am asked where I find my inspiration.  My answer is always the same.  When I wake up in the morning, I open my eyes.  I am surrounded in every direction by shapes and patterns, colors and textures.  Some whisper to me, some sing to me, and occasionally I am left breathless by the excitement of the patterns created by the light hitting the objects in my world.

The morning sun pouring through the window illuminating last night’s pomegranate tea bag left me breathless.  The tea bag itself caught my attention first.  Knowing the light could change in a moment, I ran for my camera.  I wanted to have a reference for the details I knew I was not observing at the moment.  As I began to take photos (I love digital cameras) I began to see more of what had excited me.  The patterns of the shadows on the granite counter are fantastic.  The color of the tea bag echoes the cabernet wine in the bottle that reflects back the color of the tea bag.  Two dozen snapshots later I captured the second image shown here.

Morning Still Life

Morning Still Life

Same subject, same objects, totally different image, both are suitable as starting points for paintings.  I had been awake for ten minutes.  No wonder I find the question of inspiration odd.

What I don’t say is that even with my eyes closed, patterns, lines, shapes and colors rearrange themselves like a kaleidoscope in the darkness of my brain.  I have trouble sleeping because it is far too much fun to watch the images move about in my head.  Rock climbing and yoga are the only two things that have ever stopped the shapes from dancing in my head.

It is 2:48 am.  Sleep refused to quiet the wanderings of my thoughts.  I read a bit of  The Mind’s I before going to bed.  Where do we store a lifetime of smells, sights, feelings, experiences, memories, thoughts?  Where do the images and sensations vanish to when they are not pulled to the front out of that void we call our memory?  Every eight or nine years I find myself in a place where I catch an aroma that instantly brings me back to an early morning in a small village in Germany outside a bakery.  The baker opened the door to the kitchen as my friend and I walked by. Seeing two young girls up at 5 am pleased him and he gave us a bag filled with warm pretzels and bread.  Where does the vision of that baker and the smile on his face hide inside of my head?

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