J. Grant Swank, Jr.


My wife and I were walking down the road here in southern Maine. I looked to my right and then to the left. I stopped. I said, “This is an art gallery.”


It was right there — without ticket admission. Without having to park the car. Without anything but stopping long enough to watch a branch fall from a nearby pine tree. Crash!


We got art plus sound. It reminded me of the Light and Sound desert presentations of Egypt. Those of us on tour sat there on the sands, nighttime all around us, taking in the light sprays and sound reverberations in one of the most awesome art shows I’ve ever had the privilege of attending. Pyramids loomed in front of us. History spoke over time. And we were held captive.


So the branch cascaded, spewing dust into the air — white snow dust — as we both laughed aloud, convinced we had two of the best seats “in the house.” It was God’s house we were in — though no front door and no back door and no windows. Windows surrounded us, as far as our eyes could see.


Earlier in the day I had driven out through Denmark and then into Hiram, going some of the really back roads. All of a sudden I looked over to my left. There was a huge white expanse — misty, cloudy, eerily bright with sunshine. I knew that what was there in the summertime was a lake. I figured the lake was still there but this time artfully decorated in white white white shadows, sunlight breakthroughs and then exceptionally clean fog fog and some more fog.


All along the lake covered with winter splendor were empty cottages. I thought, “My, those owners of cottages don’t know what art they’re missing in the winter season. They bask here in summer months, bragging on their stay in Maine for vacation’s two weeks. But if they could only take in the February fog-in-mist mushroomed in white bursts moving left and right.”


Art. In front of me on our walk here in Windham were branches everywhere. Some of them were downed by heavy winds several nights past. Others were still bravely clinging to the trunks. But whatever and wherever, they were laced with white.


“Look at that one dried up leaf hanging from the tree limb over there,” I pointed out. One fragile leaf. Yet it bravely held a handful of light fluffy pure white snowflakes. I wanted to touch the leaf but felt as if it would be sacrilege for breaking God’s art fix on that particular nature spread. So I just peered at it from all sides, remarking of its simple, frail marvel to the eye.


“No artist could do better than this,” I exclaimed, not really caring that my wife heard me or anyone heard me. I just had to say it. “No artist could come up with a winter art book of watercolor paintings such as what we are privy to today.”


It was absolutely breathtaking.


Others hibernate inside their houses during winter season. They seem to be afraid of season’s cold against the face and ears. I instead covet it. I like the summer; but it’s the winter that takes me to its frigid, lovely heart with pleasure.


I think I take to winter so readily because actually I love art, I enjoy art displays, I like taking up my own watercolor paints with brush, and so I am especially appreciative of the divinely unique art stroke with snow and limb.