Under An Early Evening Sun

There are days when I feel the urge to do something creative but lack the energy to tackle the commitment of a project. It’s likely to happen on a gloomy, cold, listless day. Even opening a drawer to rummage through stacks of paper feels overwhelming, much less puzzling through questions of color and composition or facing the inevitable self-doubt inherent to the creative process. That’s when I pull out a sketchbook and pencil and distractedly doodle with as little thought as possible. Then at least I can claim to have done something. Sometimes, the output isn’t half bad. On other days, I feel a lingering dissatisfaction with the results.

Neverthless, when I revisit a few of those less-than-ideal sketches, I grow a little more fond of them. Usually it happens when I realize that I captured something I normally would have overlooked. This little skyline, a series of humble buildings outside of my window, was one of those moments.

I’m pretty sure that the original sketch happened in the middle of a cloudy afternoon. But when it came time to figure out colors, I couldn’t recall which buildings were blue, or white, or gray—or was it actually beige? So I made my way to the window and looked out.

An hour before, the overcast skies of summer had blanketed the city in flat, dull gray tones. Now the fog had burned away and revealed a new landscape. The early evening sunset tinted a clear sky and bathed the street in washes of pale marigold and fiery amber. Blue shadows stood out in sharp relief. The smudges of tarnish and age on the century-old buildings disappeared, leaving behind facades that shone with freshness, cheer, and brilliance. They looked like the scenes printed on quaint postcards.

That magical, fleeting light is difficult to capture. But now—freshly inspired—I felt empowered to try.