At the end of March the area I live in was hit hard by an ice storm. Over a million people lost power. Many were restored in a day or two. We were out for 10 days. No power, no running water.
Sounds terrible, but we coped. We collected rainwater to fill our toilets. We played gin rummy by lantern light and used ice from the pine trees to chill cocktails.
But that’s not the interesting part
What interested me was that life became more basic. I woke up and hauled water. Food was more need than want because preparation was a hassle (except for snacks, we ate a lot of snacks). Daylight became precious.
Nothing was easy. I wouldn’t say it was genuinely hard, but everything was awkward and laboured, even making a cup of tea. I certainly got frustrated, and sometimes felt sorry for myself. But I knew were were better off than many—we had heat and an extremely well-insulated house.
I did some painting, when the light allowed. I prepped a couple of big canvases when the light was changeable. I swept the floor.
But in between there was nothing to do.
What to do?
I watched the wild turkeys for long stretches, noticing the effort it takes for the big toms to put on their mating display and how the colours on their heads brightened over the course of the week. I watched red squirrels darting in and out of the tunnels they built through the snowbanks. One noisier, one redder, another stealthier—all of them driving our young cats wild.
Wild turkeys outside our window; large Negroni featuring ice from our pine trees
It started to remind me of summers as a kid. I was fortunate to grow up in the 1970s when we all ran free and had to entertain ourselves. Nothing but time, bicycles, and our own ideas. A certain amount of boredom was often part of the day—it was the fallow time that led to invention, adventure, and questions.
During the recent power outage, once I got over the urge to fill my time I found a new level of relaxation. It was like a muscular knot suddenly released under a skilled hand. Once it was gone I wondered what the hell I was doing before.
What was I doing before?
Under normal conditions I fill most every moment—with real things like studio work and eating. But also with nonsense like my brain running in circles worrying about things I have no control over.
And then there’s the digital abyss: the computer, the iPad, the smartphone. So often any gap is filled with a quick scroll through Instagram, horrifying myself with news headlines, or looking up some random fact that doesn’t matter.
What happens when I don’t fill every gap?
First, the useless swirling in my brain slowed down. Faced with practical problems, my brain had to start coming up with solutions, working with materials at hand, and getting creative. Much more rewarding work than worrying.
I also noticed my mind started to wander out of its usual ruts.
With the power out, I went to the piano to improvise more than usual. I worked in key signatures I’d been meaning to explore. Not out of some “you should” impulse, but from genuine curiosity and sense of exploration.
Similarly in my painting studio, I let go of assumptions I didn’t even know I had. I ran out of materials to make new canvases so I used old ones I prepared for oil painting last year. The washes of acrylic paint behaved quite differently on this surface forcing me to work quickly, allowing colours to blur and mix almost like marbled paper. It was a technique perfectly suited to the moment.
Ice Storm, 36 x 48″, acrylic on canvas
Nobody watches me work in my studio. But with the power out and no smartphone I felt isolated and free. Before the ice storm I felt free in my studio. This was a new level I hadn’t experienced before.
The paintings I created during our blackout have an immediacy to them, an unfiltered energy. They are unpolished and raw. But they are also wildly alive and true—something I value deeply.
And now?
Well, I don’t recommend going without power and water, that’s for sure! But I do want to keep more emptiness in my day—to allow myself to be genuinely unoccupied. Not as some luxury, but to recognize the necessity of it even when it feels awkward.
And I do want some of the energy of the ice storm paintings in my more considered work. I want to find that edge between loose and deliberate—and I have a new sense of where that edge is. Hopefully I can spend more time in that territory. Wish me luck!
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