On seeking sunshine
When I was 5 years old, my family adopted a dog, a black lab/pointer mix that I named Rainbow. She was with me through every year of elementary, middle, and high school. One memory of her that sticks out in my mind was the repetition of coming home from school in the afternoon to find her napping on the floor of the living room in a spot where the sun was shining in most intensely. Excited to see her, and happy to be home, I'd lay down with her and pat her for a few minutes, her fur always hot to the touch.
I remember the intensity of the light forced me to close my eyes, especially if I was laying on my back. The warmth almost always put me to sleep. These are the first clear memories I have of the sun and all that could offer, and of Rainbow, the one that taught me this.
All these years later, I still find myself seeking out the same kind of moments in the world, but also in my home. I have always known exactly what time and for how long the sun would shine into every home I've ever made. Animals teach us this. They are the ultimate sunshine seekers.
I've been fortunate to have a cat named Wednesday for the last 11 years. Wednesday was recently diagnosed with a heart condition after a few months of her having "dizzy" spells, and sometimes even collapsing. One of the last times this happened, I could tell that she was getting dizzy, and I decided to pick her up. I'll never forget the feeling of her going limp in my arms. Thankfully, she seems to be in relatively good health after finding the right treatment.
Like my childhood dog, Wednesday reminds me of the importance of feeling the sun on my face, and after a stressful medical journey, I hold onto these moments a little tighter now. She knows exactly where to be to make sure she experiences the sun every day, and I join her as often as I possibly can.
If you're wondering, the sun comes up and shines through a window in my Los Angeles studio in the mornings, and it continues to for a few hours almost every day.
I've been in Los Angeles for about 4 years now, and a question I often get is some iteration of "What brought you to LA?" or when they find out that I'm relatively new here, they'll ask "How are you liking LA?" My answer always has to do with the sun. My body feels amazing here, the dry mild heat, the constant light. Obviously, this assessment of SoCal is not a radical or surprising realization, but it doesn't make it any less true. I've always been well-aware of the importance of the sun. I just seem to benefit from an extra dose of it.
A few months ago, I started a series of paintings on paper thinking about all of this. They are deliberately simple and child-like in my depiction of the sun, and I've been using string that I've coated in layers of paint to render rays of sunshine, pressing and pulling it across the surface to leave marks that radiate outward. They are small, humble paintings about the pursuit of sunshine, about being a kid laying on the living room floor with my dog or an adult laying on the floor of my painting studio with my cat in Los Angeles, that kid-me in a small town in New Hampshire probably couldn't have even dreamed of.
What I love about my studio is that it gets the most sunlight out of any room in my apartment, which means that Wednesday is usually in there with me. I can paint for a bit, then look up and see her snuggled up near the window in the sun, and then return to painting again. While I've been working on these little paintings, I go back and forth between being a little kid again and being in my studio. I carry all of those memories with me and weave them back into the work, as I always do. From the living room floor in New Hampshire, to the studio floor in Los Angeles, with Rainbow and with Wednesday, all under the same sun.
More soon,
Kevin
