The Plein Air writers read their works last night. Variety was the word the readings evoked.
Some wrote poems, got flashes from the past or impressions of the scenes. Some were very serious examining painfult parts of life and others were celebratory of the moment. After hearing everyone else read their pieces I decided I am a story telling kind of writer. Here is one of my pieces . . we were confined to five hundred words and I thought it would be fun to see if I could write a mystery that short. To see the rest of the writer's pieces go to http://artsinthegorge.org
Spot o Paint
All morning the wind had plagued her. At one point, her palette knife blew away in a gust, leaving a big spot of just mixed paint hiding in the grasses. She had mixed this color from a glimpse of sky among the ever shifting clouds and she rather liked it. It had just a vestiage of green, like you see in breaking waves.
She stepped away from her work for a few minutes. When she got back, the painting was gone. She thought at first it must be a prank. Kelly was confused. Briefly she wondered if she had put it somewhere, but since the paint was still wet, she wouldn’t have done that. No, the painting was clearly gone.
Kelly tried to decide if she should scream and make a fuss or just quietly look for it. All around her painters were hard at work mixing colors and brushing scenery. In their concentration they wouldn’t have seen a thing. Kelly walked towards the lodge with the loose idea of finding the owner and asking if she knew how her painting could disappear.
On the path she found a woman with a camera. “Excuse me”, Kelly entreated, “did you see someone going by carrying just a painting?” The camera lady said “No, but be careful of that glob of wet paint on the path. Don’t step on it”. Kelly looked down to see her recent mix of blue green shinning up at her. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “that’s from my painting!”
They found another paint spot leading away from the house. As they walked closer, they could see little dots of the color smeared on the stones with regularity. These clues led them to the road, where a man was unlocking his car. They asked him if he had seen the missing painting. “No,” he said, “I’ve just been for a walk with my dog.” The dog in question came bounding up and jumped up on Kelly. She looked down to see a dollop of blue green oil paint on her pants. “Well,” she said, “you might not have seen my painting, but your dog has.”
The man looked puzzled as Kelly picked up the dog’s paw and showed the man the color oozing out from between the dog’s toes. “Oh,” he said and turned vermillion with a touch of burnt sienna. Sheepishly he opened the back seat to show Kelly a still wet, slightly smeared oil canvass on the seat. “I found this in the weeds. “ he claimed.
Kelly had no reason not to believe him, so she explained how her painting had probably blown there in a gust of wind. The man reluctantly handed it back. The photographer put in “it’s probably for sale if you really want it.” The man considered. Taking into account the smear, they negotiated.
As the dog continued to decorate the world with paint, the first sale of the 2008 Plein Air was made.
Causes Linda Hunter Supports