Lunabelle, egg tempera painting by Daniel Ambrose

“Is this what you’re looking for?” My muse inquires. High above an aqua ocean, three white birds coast south through curling clouds, wispy like smoke. The moon a day from being full, floats above palms and sea grapes in an ageless sky. The setting sun carves dusky cradles in the sand. A sense of peace prevails in the breeze. A peace tinged with yearning.

What birds are these?

Reckon I’ll never be able to tell you the source of inspiration, when it will come, or why it even comes at all. Is it stored somewhere in the universe, like lightning in a bottle? Maybe it prowls the shadowy corners of dreams, or lurks beneath our bed of memories. I can only imagine. Exhilarating like love, the energizing feeling is unmistakable when it strikes.

If you search for inspiration, it will elude you like the origin of wind. You can not command nor coax or whistle for her like a dog. She won’t come. It’s like trying to talk birds out of the trees.

Where are they from? Where are they going, those large white birds?

“If you could be in a cloud, which one would you choose?” Within the lilac mist of time, I recall a summer voice. Silently, I answer. I’m already there.

Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, you must leave a back channel to inspiration open in your mind—a vigil candle burning for the muse. Embrace the Divine, receptive and poised for work. Dismiss the noise in your head, and inspiration will come unbidden like a blow from Thor’s hammer, or the soft cooing of a dove.

A whisper of a breeze kisses my cheek. I roll on my side and study faraway things then reach for my sketchbook to transcribe the sweet murmurings of my muse.

The mystifying birds ghost into the blue.

Spring Visitor, egg tempera painting

When I was twenty-four, I built a house. And though I didn’t know it then, when I landscaped the yard, I was also planting inspiration seeds for this enchanting egg tempera painting, Spring Visitor.

Around that house I planted trees, shrubs and flowers; maples, sweet viburnum and jasmine. Imagined the trees growing tall—providing shade for the porch and branches for children to climb someday. Shrubbery offering cover for birds, flowers attracting butterflies and bees. I made bird feeders, and in the backyard created a pond with a waterfall and erected a wood fence.

In my painting, a humble wren perches on that wood fence. The flower is from a drawing in one of my sketchbooks of a dogwood in my brothers yard in South Carolina. He was in college at Clemson while I was building my house.

This painting is the second version. The first version was a sweet painting of a bird in a flowering dogwood tree. I toiled on it for two weeks then scraped it off.

Painting is like writing. A process of discovery. You begin with an idea, then find what you are actually trying to say is something else all together.

The first painting was inspired by a memory. The further I got into it, I realized the heart of my idea was about respect.

Twenty-five years after I built it, I returned to see how the house was holding up—see how the trees had matured. As I rounded the curve, the house came into view, and my expectations evaporated.

The house was still there — but abandoned — not a sole tree, bush or flower remained in the yard. Not even a leaf.

I slid from my van and stood in the yard and looked around at the barrenness. In my mind I pictured the sandy vacant lot before I built the house. Remembered the year I spent designing it in my head. Offsetting walls so the sun would stream through the windows at different times of the day and seasons.

The deals I made—bartering for heart cypress I shaped and lacquered to trim the interior. The fireplace hearth of Tennessee field stone. Building oak cabinetry with raised panel doors and the stained glass window I crafted for the front door. The constant trips in my old Ford truck with my dog T.J. Hauling tons of materials; lumber, stone, bathtubs, concrete and plants. Recalled the men who trusted me and supplied materials. When I ran short of money, each one simply saying, pay me when you can.

I remembered raising walls by the strength of my back and dreaming of my unborn children filling the rooms with life.

Children did not come after several years. So I converted a bedroom into a studio and set my mind to painting. To express feelings too strong for words.

These memories flowed through me as I painted Spring Visitor. Mixing egg and pigments, brushing layer upon layer, feeling the textures of the fence I made, the bird I fed, the flower in my brother’s yard. A word that kept coming to mind was respect.

Maybe Spring Visitor is a painting about respect.

Respect for the muscle and sweat I poured into that house. For my younger brother working to put himself through college, and for the life of this bird. Respect for the men who had faith in a young dreamer, taking him at his word when he promised with a steady look in the eye and firm handshake to pay them back.

And I did. Every one.

In the larger context, respect for all my brother, sister painters who put beauty into the world. Respect for other viewpoints, for anyone who overcomes challenges to rise above baseness and cruelty to make this world a better place for themselves and others.

Words backed with integrity. Honor and humility. Dreams steeled with determination, creating beauty and striving for excellence.

These things are worthy of respect. These ideas can make paintings.

You can build a life on these virtues.

Spring Morning, egg tempera painting

I wake to a bird singing. Ashen light saturates the linen curtains. I make coffee and carry it across the road to the beach. Balmy air, bright green waving palms greet and gladden me. These things sing to my soul.

At waters edge I slip in my toes. Still too cold for a Florida boy. Opening my sketchbook, I make notes of the waves — gentle breaking, curling color — glassy bottle green—surface tone – silvery. A softness glides through the atmosphere.

The sun climbs higher, and a snowy egret strolls into view. She turns and a slight breeze ripples the water and lifts her new breeding feathers to the morning sun.

Birds.

Find what you love and make it yours.

I remember this one. I drew her in my sketchbook in 1992. Twenty-six years ago we crossed paths.

No, that can’t be true. It’s not her. She is long gone. Her bones are likely scattered to the winds.

It is her memory I paint.

I see her in every spring morning, in each egret sailing over shining water. Every time the light traces patterns in soft feathers and turns them into delicate lace, I see her forever soaring.

Budding artists ask. “I don’t know what to paint. What shall I paint?”

And I say, paint what you love. Paint the things you think about. Study your subjects well so you can embody them with the ring of truth. Invest many solitary hours in your studio. Test, explore, play, sacrifice. Learn the rules, then break them. It is difficult bringing forth something that has never been. Trust me, painting authentically will bring out every emotion in you. Paint the deepest part of you.

Ignore the external distorted voices coming at you from all directions. Spend time with those things that inspire and resonate with your higher self. Listen to the sublime music of your soul.

These moments are true. Paint this truth. You’ll find success in your own originality.

Find what you love and make it yours.

Some people ask. “What is happiness?”

The potential for happiness exists in each passing moment. It lives in meaningful work, witnessing the miracle of a bee on a flower, conversing with a dear one, or enjoying a fine painting.

Find and notice these moments. Linger on them and make them a part of you.

Find what you love and make it yours.