Autumn.

For nine months each year, I await her arrival.  For the first hint of her cadmium reds and oranges, yellow oxides, and burnt siennas.  For the first inhale of her crisp, woodsy fragrance traveling through time and space to reach me as I step out into the evening, as I unlatch and push open the window.  She is the one constant in this unpredictable story that does not fail to be.  She simply ‘is.’

This unparalleled love for Autumn dates back to a decade ago--when I, a painter in the early years of her discipline, was coming into my own.  It was then that Autumn found me at my true youth--when I was most malleable and receptive.  She showed me the oft-coveted and yearned-for qualities that are ever lacking in human relationships: never fickle or temperamental, strangely dependable and assuring.  A genuine spirit, a loyal friend.

Though I have written much about Autumn and my relationship with her over the years, as well as used her as a foundation for a unquantifiable number of paintings, I never tire of her presence.  With a grace that softens even the hardest of hearts, she does not cease to evoke, emote, and perpetuate warmth.  The falling leaves, the poetic dusks and dawns, the splendid earth tones, the lightness and haziness of it all . . . She is magic, so magical.

Indeed, my forever muse.

-OH