The Art of Daniel AmbroseHauntingly Beautiful Paintings & Illuminating Words
I lean my back against a sun-warmed rock and feel the heat leak into my bones. Just breathe. Just leave me here, scattered among relics of the sea; purple mussel shells, golden kelp and speckled granite. Slake my thirsty soul with saltwater, and shake my body out...
Sometimes words are too shadowy to describe the luminous spectrum of life experiences. When words fail, all that remains is the profound beauty of silence. The need to express the ineffable existed in humans long before we invented the written word. We communicated in...
For the past month I’ve been on the west side of Florida. I came here to study the shoreline and sunsets on the Gulf. I’ve got a solo show in January of major oil paintings and wanted to create a body of work from a . . .
Sitting in a cafe, cup of black coffee in hand, hardcover sketchbook open on a thick wood table, I wait out a tropical storm. Reviewing recent drawings of the local beach, and making notes from a book I’m currently reading by Thich Nhat Hanh, The Art of Mindful Living.
Lightning and wind have been lashing the area all morning. Churning up white waves on a typically placid sea. Through the cafe’s blurry windows, gray and . . .
The sun is gleaming on the the water. Far out on the horizon, a rolling thunderstorm grumbles over the Gulf. Closer to shore, cumulus clouds drift in a silent, lazy train.
I am surrounded by textures, immersed in patterns, forms repeat in various incarnations. Floating, curving and ever shifting forms. The moist air of clouds. . .
“Excuse me sir. . . excuse me sir. . . Sir, sir, excuse me. . . sir were you sitting here when the maintenance people came and took my stuff?”
I was kind of hoping he wouldn’t be here today.
The sound of thunder rolled me out of bed early this morning. I decide to go to the same spot on the beach that I painted yesterday. Maybe do a color study of the morning glory.
The clouds are massive, packed and bunched up high in the sky. Thunder booms and a dark curtain of rain brushes along the horizon. I whip out my paint box to capture its color.
A lone tree down the distant shore catches my eye. A dark note. I had not noticed it yesterday. An Australian pine? This is what I was taught to call them as a child, until someone told me they are also called Casuarina. I don’t know. I don’t even know what color it is in this moist light. I see that it’s dark, a gray violet and a bit warmer on the —
Where to See Daniel’s Art
Cheryl Newby Gallery