Michael Branca – Some Light Thoughts

In one particularly poignant and memorable chapter of Walden, Henry David Thoreau devotes several pages to the color and clarity of the water in the pond. His descriptions are uncanny, not just in their lyrical prose but also in what they reveal about the observer: how deeply this singular beholder observed and processed the phenomena before his eyes.

Walden is blue at one time and green at another, even from the same point of view. Lying between the earth and the heavens, it partakes of the color of both. Viewed from a hill-top it reflects the color of the sky; but near at hand it is of a yellowish tint next the shore where you can see the sand, then a light green, which gradually deepens to a uniform dark green in the body of the pond. In some lights, viewed even from a hill-top, it is of a vivid green next the shore. Some have referred this to the reflection of the verdure; but it is equally green there against the railroad sand-bank, and in the spring, before the leaves are expanded, and it may be simply the result of the prevailing blue mixed with the yellow of the sand. Such is the color of its iris.

As human beings, how can we not repeatedly fall in love with the beauty of light and its effects? A mountain scene might be beautiful under any conditions, but there is something overtly spiritual about catching the first rays of the morning sun illuminating the peak while everything below still sits in cool darkness. Blink and you’ll miss it. Within minutes the view becomes something else entirely.

Light enables us to see, but there is a lot more to observation than just seeing. When we follow Thoreau’s example and take in the nuances of the world around us as they are, discoveries are made and deep connections can be forged—we become one with our environment, one with those with whom we share our discoveries, and one with ourselves.

I am often struck by how a seemingly prosaic subject can be transformed into a thoroughly remarkable object in the hands of a capable artist. Quite often, the resonance we receive from a work of art derives from the artist’s translation of the passage of light and shadow over, across, and through observed form. When rendered effectively and consistently, a chord is struck in the soul, triggering an emotional response that comes from the recognition of truth. Thus, a painting of objects on a windowsill or a drawing of a dumpster in a parking lot can become deeply resonant. The supposed subject matter of the artwork in these moments becomes irrelevant, a mere excuse to experience the world for what it really is.

While observing great paintings, I am often struck by the ability of an artist to seemingly generate light from within the canvas. Rockwell Kent, Edward Hopper, Gertrude Fiske, and Frederic Edwin Church (all of whom worked in Maine!) are masters of transcending the capable spectrum of paint. They worked with the same materials as anyone, yet their results suggest brighter lights and darker darks than the rest of us will ever find at an art supply store.

What is this alchemy? It is an observable fact that mere white paint can never be as brilliant as the glow of the sun, the gleam of a light bulb, or the glare of reflected light off a road. Yet the proper arrangement of a few dabs of color can convince us otherwise. Technically, we find tricks of the trade, such as cheating with darker midtones in order to make highlights more pronounced, or orchestrating compositions to align the brightest brights alongside the darkest darks. If done well, these stark contrasts fool our brains into perceiving more light than we actually see. But this alchemy only comes into being if the artist was present, observed the scene deeply, and used their admirable skills to honestly record their observations.

As Thoreau demonstrated, the close study of light is intertwined with attention to color. When we attune ourselves to noticing subtle differences in relative value, we also discover more nuances in temperature. It is a standard dictum in painting classes that warm colors appear to come forward while cool colors recede. This is not just a studio gimmick. Blues, greens, and violets can often be found unexpectedly lurking in the shadows. A painter’s use of a deep blue or violet to portray shadows on snow might seem out of place to a non-painter, but it is a fully observable phenomenon, an on-site revelation. Once we witness it for ourselves in nature, it cannot be unseen.

Readers, I challenge you to spend time observing light in a new way. Where can you find beauty in the mundane? Where do light and shadow come up against each other in an unexpected yet stirring way? Where can you find magic hiding in plain sight?