A River Runs Through It by Joan McLoughlin

Sherrod Sturrock

It’s the blue that draws you in, wide then disappearing into the vanishing point two-thirds of the way up the canvas. It is a patchwork of darks and lights, pools of deep grey, flashes of azure, splashes of cobalt crested with white that promise deep pockets, hidden dangers, and churning energy. Your eye is drawn up and then, following the turn of the brush, cascades down to a dripping waterfall. Dark curving strokes bank the blues, lined by an advancing column of trees, rooted with trailing inky fingers. Stark black trunks explode into shimmering golden boughs, like Aspen dancing in the bright of their collective glory. The ground is littered with the trees’ glow, forest shedding autumnal leaves. In the background are distant hills, greyly obscured by mist. The eye sees – is it mountains? Or is it the sky banked for a coming storm. A breath of white vapor drifts against the darkening horizon. Step back, outside the frame, and it is an image of joy and promise of places to go and things to come.