Meditations on Fire No. 2 - The Speaking Flame

Listening to my father speak about painting near the end of his life felt like standing close to a flame that still knew how to speak. In his Alzheimer’s state, so many names and dates slipped away, yet art always remained. When he could still walk, I would bring him to my various studios when it was my time to take care of him. When viewing some of my paintings, he would lean forward, eyes suddenly bright, and talk about an underpainting peeking through the surface, and how it was never a mistake but a whisper from earlier decisions. He loved how layers carried memory, and how a painting could hold time the way land holds story. 

He spoke with wonder about mixtures, pigments meeting oil or medium, and turning into something neither had planned. Those moments thrilled him, the accidents that felt discovered rather than made. He told me that if you really looked, there were dozens of small paintings living inside one canvas, each passage its own quiet world. I watched his hands move as if still mixing, still brushing, even when no brush was there. 

What moved me most was the way his eyes would light up when he spoke to me about painting, as if recognition lived deeper than language. In those moments, my heartbreak loosened its grip. I felt myself letting go, freeing something I had been holding too tightly. It was during this time that my desire to be a painter was reaffirmed, not through instruction, but through shared seeing. I knew, without question, that he is still behind me, my biggest fan. 

Meditations on Fire No. 2 (The Speaking Flame) holds this reflection. A color field of magenta and Indian red, pierced by blue flames that seem to speak across layers. The fire becomes voice, memory, and release. Through it, I found meditation, grief softened into motion, and the certainty that painting is where our conversation continues.