Ocean's Fury There's a moment paddling out through surf when the sea stops being scenery and starts being something that's happening to you. The horizon disappears. There's a wall of water standing over you and it's the only thing in the world, and it isn't fear exactly, it's attention. Everything narrows down to the next few seconds. That's why there's no horizon in this painting. There's no line to steady yourself against and no far edge to look towards, just water, right in front of you, all of it at once. You paddle straight at it, edge the boat and either break through it or over it, and in that second or two everything mixes: boat, sea, sky, spray, your own bright colours. That's the painting. Get it right and you slice over the top and land on the calmer water behind it, and you've barely got your breath before the next one is on you. Get it wrong and you're upside down. The world goes dark and grey and sandy, bubbles everywhere, glimpses of colour from the boat, and you can feel yourself being carried backwards towards the beach. Roll up, and you're straight back into paddling out again. The oranges, yellows and reds are the colours we often paddle in. We wear them so the sea can't lose us, and I've never been able to see them as safety gear. To me they mean adventure, nerve and joy: the colours you put on when you've decided to go out anyway. What I wanted to paint is what those moments actually feel like, which is exhilaration. The raw power of the sea, the speed of the boat and your own skill all working at once to keep you upright and moving through it. When it comes together it's an extraordinary thing to be part of, and it builds a bond with the water that's still with you hours after you're back on dry land. There is a calmer place, out beyond the break, where you sit and rise and fall on big green swell and get your breath back and wait for the wave you'll ride in on. This painting isn't that. This is the getting out there. The gold leaf is where the light catches the spray. Scattered rather than placed, because that's how it happens: a flash in one place, nothing in the next, gone before you've properly registered it. If you'd like to see how the painting was built up in layers, I've written about it in my journal.
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