Fisherwoman with Her Son

The Story of the Making of Fisherwoman and Her Son

All winter and spring long I ached to return to Valencia and to that beloved shore that I called my true home. 

How long had I dreamed of the sweet salt air and that dazzling brilliance of the sunlight uncontrollable dancing on the ever-moving sea?  How long had I hungered for the challenge of capturing that elusive light on my canvas? Of once again charging ahead with insane hubris to attempt the impossible? To capture a moment of that precious and elusive light as if in amber, preserving its beauty for mankind for all eternity. 

So imagine my frustration when I finally arrived, only to be frustrated by the fates. The summer storms, common that time of year, were fiercer and more frequent than I’d ever experience. Trapped in my cottage by the shore, my anger mirrored the that of the thunderous clouds that trapped the light that was my muse. As the storm raged in the heavens, my heart raged against a fate I was powerlessly to escape.

Fortunately, our Savior smiles on us sinners. After days and days of waiting, the storms abated late one day. My heart nearly burst from my chest as I sprinted from the back door of my cottage to the shore with all the tools of my trade in tow. I hope to take advantage of brief respite to capture what I could.

I was rewarded with a glorious scene before me. The storm’s rage had left its mark upon the sea. For as far as my eye could see, the ocean was stained red earth as if it bled from a thousand cuts inflicted by the storms’ passing. And it churned furiously, as the next wave of thunderclouds drove heavy winds against its troubled face.

But the light, my glorious light, returned of so briefly before the waning of the day. It broke through the cloud cover and furiously danced on those churning waves like I’d never seen, as if making up for lost time.

What you see depicted here is my humble attempt to capture that wondrous light as it raged against the storm and the dying of the day, reminding me that my own rage was but a dim echo of its own.