Pacific Vertigo: The Day We Stayed in the Rain
This painting grew from a single afternoon with my father.
We were at the beach on a bright summer day. The sand was warm, the water sparkled, and the shore carried the familiar sounds of summer. Without warning, the sky darkened and rain began to fall.
People quickly gathered their things. Towels were shaken out, coolers were closed, umbrellas were folded. Within minutes, the beach emptied as everyone hurried back to their cars.
My father and I stayed.
At first, I kept looking at him, waiting for him to decide it was time to leave. But he simply sat there, watching the rain fall across the water. He wasn’t going to let a little rain ruin the beach day.
Slowly, the day transformed. The bright colors softened into silver and gray. The waves grew heavier, moving with a deeper rhythm. The crowded beach became peaceful and still, as though the rain had revealed another side of a place we thought we knew.
My father was happy to sit in the rain. Seeing him enjoy the moment made me enjoy it too. We sat there together, watching the colors of the beach shift from the warmth of the summer sun into the softer tones of rain and clouds.
Years later, I recognize that same feeling when I paint. A canvas rarely remains exactly as I first imagined it. It changes, challenges me, and often leads me somewhere unexpected. I have learned to stay with that process, because sometimes the most meaningful moments appear only after things begin to shift.
