There are days when it seems like every effort is met with resistance. When plans go awry, when I feel like I'm met with a wall every time I try to do something, I'm extremely tempted to pack it in and give up.

Enter the Power of Pivot.

My day started with anticipation. I was finally getting out with my plein air group, the Plein Air Artists of Central Kentucky! Trying for weeks I had missed art-out after art-out, but today was my day. Our venue was quite a distance from the farm, but I counted the hour's drive a small price to pay for the opportunity of making art outdoors with fellow artists.

BUT...

Barry's car had two flat rear tires. There was no way I could make it to the art-out, paint, and be home in time to take him to pick up the car by 4pm.

Canceled. I was utterly deflated.

BUT...

Barry pointed out that I could still paint en plein air. After all, we had a whole farm-full of lovely landscape. So I pushed past my disappointment, made the necessary mental adjustments, loaded up my kit in the UTV, and headed up the hill to our ridge-top field full of native grasses and wildflowers.

I wandered about for quite a bit. I find it harder to see my subject in a familiar landscape than in a new one, and I think I was still partially tied to my original plans. Fortunately, a clump of wild ageratum spoke to me everytime I passed by.

I couldn't see how the low cluster of purple would fit in a composition at first, but I knew it must somehow, so I set up my tripod and gear. With the insistent breeze I chose a low profile.

BUT...

When I set up my chair, though, I realized that there was no way my back was going to tolerate its relaxed seat. I'd be in pain in short order.

Full halt.

BUT...

By now I was getting used to the pendulum swings of this day. Instead of veering off course and heading back down the hill to look for a better seat, I asked myself what else I could do. I ended up setting up really low, kneeling in the short grass and leaning back slightly against the chair. The low point of view was perfect, absolutely perfect. What I couldn't perceive before was obvious to me now. I quickly sketched a thumbnail and notan, and I was off to the races.

The next step was mixing color. I love the back and forth of taking in the color around me and interpreting it on the palette. The browning grasses, the varied greens of trees and field, the goldenrod peeking through - its yellow the perfect foil for the pale violet of the ageratum -all came to life in the hues of my palette.

Surrounded by my subject, I became one more player on a very large stage. I began to notice the other actors. When the wind picked up, a turkey vulture exulted in his tetrahedral glide. When it died down, a host of dragonflies rose from the grasses. The usual flocks of small birds were missing, but I didn't notice at the time. I should have known...

All of a sudden a big gust of wind hit me out of nowhere. My phone and my sketchbook face-planted into the piles of paint on my palette. I grabbed at my umbrella as it threatened to sail away and take all of my gear with it. After the gust had passed, I was left stunned and clinging to my hastily righted tripod. I didn't even want to look at my phone.

Somehow I got everything squared away and my phone wiped off (there's still some green paint on it that I can't get to.) My sketchbook fared a little better.

I set everything back up, adding ballast in the form of a water bottle and a few other heavy items hung in a plastic bag from the middle of my tripod. I was ready to paint.

BUT...

The wind was rising. Now I noticed and understood the absence of the little birds. Once the wind starts to rise on that ridge top, it doesn't quit. Ever. My heart sank as I realized there was no way I was going to be able to continue.

BUT...

What if I packed up everything and relocated to my studio at home? The finished product could not be rightly called a plein air painting, as by definition at least 50% of the painting must be done outside. Not a biggie. A painting is a painting, and I had hopes of it being a good one.

I would definitely run the risk of being recruited for whatever job Barry was working on, or needed to delegate. I texted him with determined fingers on my smeary phone: "I am coming down, but I am NOT done. I'll be in the studio."

Making a note to myself, "don't forget the dragonflies," I packed everything up and drove back down the hill.

I set up once more and began to paint in my quiet, out-of-the weather studio. I found that in addition to my sketch, my pre-mixed paint, and my primed panel with its faint outline of the composition, I had also brought the whole experience of being outdoors back with me. I could still feel the wind, feel the sun on my back, and hear the rustling of the grasses as I painted with my favorite knives.

With that studio session and one more for finishing touches, "Wind and Wild Ageratum" was done. And I didn't forget the dragonflies.

Looking back at my three pivots, I have to ask, "What if I had given up on painting en plein air when my PAACK plans were cancelled?" 

There would have been no painting. If I'd just gone up and taken reference photos, there would have been no extended experience, probably no turkey vulture, definitely no dragon flies.

"What if I had gone back down when my chair didn't work out?"

I might have lost time and the opportunity to observe and mix my colors on site, and I definitely wouldn't have arrived at the low vantage point and unique perspective.

"What if I'd given up when the wind knocked me down (literally and figuratively)?"

I would have lost everything and have left myself with nothing but defeat. Would I have recovered? Of course, art is nothing if not a series of recoveries. But looking at what I have instead, I think the loss would have been great.

"Wind and Wild Ageratum" will always remind me of the Power of Pivot.