I’m crazy for water

My first memory takes place underwater at Dixie Pool in Lachine, Québec. I slipped on the silver ladder and for a brief moment I saw a new world beneath the surface—my family’s legs and a distorted sky. (I was quickly rescued.)

My parents were both water fanatics who met at a swim club. Water was what we did for fun. Whether I was in the kiddie-pool in the backyard, a chilly Vermont lake, the freezing English channel—I loved ‘em all.

When my husband and I left the big city, water was a big part of the attraction. We’re surrounded by lakes both large and small. There’s a river at the end of our road (see the photo above). In Summer my days revolve around paddling and swimming. Everything else fits around opportunities to be in, on, and under the water.

My deep love for water is integral to my nature but I don’t think I’ve ever sat back and thought about it too much. Until now.

What is it about immersion?

Paddling on a local lake

Losing my edges

Another aspect of immersion is the letting go of my usual self. When I lose the habitual worry and forget about my list of things to do there’s room for something else.

In the water, that something else is often a sense of interdependence and unity. I shed my ordinary self-centred, small-scale evaluation of the scene. Instead of me, water, trees, sunshine, otters chattering downstream, the rhythm of my swim strokes—these component parts become indivisible, fused. I become less significant, but more connected. When I was a kid I called this experience “losing my edges.”

The western classical tradition has seen Nature as something Other—to be conquered and used. As if we are separate from it. I’ve become increasingly uneasy with this view of Nature. It doesn’t align with my experience.

We are part of organic life, are we not? So how can we speak of Nature and not include ourselves? Nature versus humanity is a false dichotomy and one that has not served either side.

Abandoning this split and searching for a new way to be is also part of immersion for me. I feel a strong wish to find a more honest stance, to seek out connection, to shed old ways of thinking.

How do I paint this?

Honestly, I have no idea. But I’ve started. I’m seeing glimmers.

One thing I do know is that I won’t figure this out by thinking. I’ll figure it out by painting, looking, and painting some more.

One glimmer is a sense of multiple perspectives. A big painting I finished has an almost cubist feeling about it—as if this fantastical world was seen from above, the side, and within all at once. Sky, land, and water intermingle.

Another path forward seems to be through movement. Shapes that flow, intertwine, and overlap suggest the flow of water. Without a foreground the viewer is in the movement, not looking at it—immersed.

As I say, these are glimmers, little whispers that lead to…I don’t know where. And that’s the beauty of this process. That’s what keeps me painting. I love not knowing where I’m going (mostly). Sometimes I get frustrated and wish I knew. But deep down I realize that I’d have quit painting if it wasn’t so mysterious, if it didn’t lead me into unknown waters.

When can I see all of these?

I’ve finished about 10 paintings in this collection as of mid-February. I figure by late Spring I’ll have a solid group of work, ready to share in person and online.

Thanks for reading.

My swimming hole on the Black River, photo by Lindsay Smail, 2023

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