Winter has the lowest rainfall.

When I arrive at the river, descending steeply from the forest into the narrow creek, it is barely flowing.

The trees that make up this forest – Stinkwoods, Wild Pear, Ironwoods and Yellowwood – have tiny leaves. The light catching these small leaves creates a unique light, a fine dusting of millions of points reflected.

There is no green light, only grey.

In the studio, mixing grey: Lemon yellow, Prussian blue, Van dyke brown.
Cool grey, Warm grey.
Transparent scarlet lakes. Cadmium orange and red.

Immediacy and reflection,

Attention and immersion,

A seeming contradiction, this shaded place is where I paint light.

The pools are still and cold. Walking through the water, waist deep, the ripples are smooth undulations. They stretch, distort and tear. A veneer. Broken reality.

– Peter Eastman