Above Turtle Rock

Working on Arches 300lb paper allows the watercolor to move freely while holding depth and structure. I lean into the medium’s natural fluidity, letting washes gather, break, and reform much like water moving over rock. The surrounding greenery acts as both frame and counterpoint, grounding the motion below and reminding us that even the most restless elements belong to a larger stillness.

I had taken a photo (several actually) on my last hike to Paria, just before my ankle injury—one of those moments that only reveals its significance in hindsight. At the time, I was simply drawn to the view from above: water moving insistently over rock, framed by dense green, unconcerned with observers or outcomes.

Later, while painting Above Turtle Rock, I realized I wasn’t trying to recreate the place so much as the feeling of that pause. The brief stillness before change. Watercolor felt like the only honest medium for it—fluid, responsive, impossible to fully control. Much like the hike itself.

In the days that followed, movement became limited, forced into slowness. But the memory of this place remained expansive. The water didn’t stop because I did. The landscape carried on, teaching me—again—that rest and motion are not opposites. They’re part of the same rhythm.

This painting holds that lesson for me now: sometimes we don’t know we’re standing at a threshold until we’ve already crossed it.