Despite the run of hellacious heat we’ve been experiencing this summer in the Hudson Valley, I’ve been thinking a lot about waterfalls. It began during the spring run-off from the Catskills, when my hikes into the forest presented dancing cataracts and falling cascades at each turn in the path. They are dormant now, of course, but the imagery lives on in my head. That tells me I need to pay attention. In the past, persistent mental slideshows like this have a way of making their way onto my easel.

But I have to ask myself why? Are these falls a metaphor for something? If that’s the case, maybe they symbolize the obstacles we all face throughout our lives? When water drops over a precipice, it follows a path that is impossible to chart, bouncing off rocks, sliding over moss and diverting at gravity’s whim. But, in the end, it splashes into a pool or basin, then regroups and flows past. It finds a way.

Lately, when I daydream about floating down one of these mountain streams, I find myself remembering the familiar nursery rhyme “Row, row, row your boat.” It’s become a little mantra of sorts - a soundtrack to my mental movie. I take it to mean that I should remember to go with the flow of my life and only gently row. And if you yield some of the control in your life-path, it will bring you exactly where you supposed to be. As I type these words, I realize that sounds a bit childish and naive, but it just might be true in its simplicity. Our inner compasses are better calibrated than we often give them credit for.

So, I’m returning to the studio with a nursery rhyme in my thoughts and a repeating film of falling water, rocky shelves (sometimes sharp), and soft mist, around which to navigate and see what picture-stories might come from it. As Papa Hemingway once wrote, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

My Collection - Ben Martinez

I was fortunate to have a wonderful, solid group of artists as teachers and mentors at Swain School of Design back in the late 70’s. David Loeffler Smith, Sig Haines, Dick Dougherty, Jackie Block, Russell Daly, Nancy Campbell and Tom Corey, to name a few. But none of them had the impact of Ben Martinez. Sig taught me mechanics. David taught me how to see. Dick taught me draftsmanship. Jackie taught me composition.

Ben put it all together. His classes were a combination of holistic observation, free verse, history lesson and open discussion. He preached hard work and practicality. Among my many memories of his teaching are a recitation of the poetry of Kenneth Koch, a demonstration of fresco painting (complete with period-ish costume from the quattrocento), a primer on where to “forage” art materials (like sailcloth scraps from the marine suppliers on the New Bedford docks) and how to craft your brushstrokes.

Last month, I finally came to own the painting above, a beautiful landscape from a familiar woodland in the SouthCoast of MA, my former home. It was an early wedding gift from my betrothed, further proof that she truly knows what makes me tick. What a joy to see it hanging on my wall.