Candor

Lisa Rawlinson

Candor

Candor X 2017 | watercolor and gouache on paper | 41" x 29.5"

May 30, 2017

My car's engine was not happy. It was over 100 degrees, and the long drive upwards from near sea level at west Texas interstate speeds did not agree with its aging parts and pieces. For the fourth time, I had pulled over on the side of the road, allowing it to simmer down and catch its breath. It made a long drive even longer, and were it not for the monumental show filling the sky to the north, sitting in a hot car on a hot road on a hot day in no shade would have been pure misery.

Mesas rolled out along the horizon, outlined by the spinning and blinking of rows upon rows of wind turbines. Subtle desert hues had become super-saturated and were glowing in the edge of sunlight ahead of a massive storm front. I'd been driving alongside it for hours, watching it come closer and closer, and while the enormity of the storm was already affecting the light it was still hours away.

Some tourists had pulled over in their rental car just down the road. Two twenty-something women struck carefully choreographed fashionista poses as lighting darted around chaotically inside the clouds behind them. They traded places with a young man who had been taking the photos. He held his arms out, as if raised to the heavens, tilting his head back. The three examined the photos for Instagram readiness before getting back in their car and speeding off down the interstate.

I was to camp that night, and by the time my car had made the rest of the trek and I'd turned south to reach my destination at Davis Mountains State Park, it seemed like the storm was passing to the east of me. Hopefully. It was dark, and I was tired, and it was time for bed, regardless. Worst case scenario, I could make a run for my car as the storm blew in. The perks of car camping. Pitching a tent in the dark in a familiar campground was quick work. Everything was still and peaceful, and uncharacteristically, I was asleep in minutes.

The storm did not condescend to give me any warning though. There were no approaching winds, no gradual downfall of rain. An unknown amount of time later, I was jolted into a state of wakefulness as my innards were shaken by a clap of thunder bellowing from directly above. Darkness was replaced by a sudden white-blue light penetrating the walls of my tent from all directions. A monsoon strength downpour was pelting my storm-tested tent, its roar displaced by more deafening thunder, not so much rolling as pile-driving and delivering a simultaneous crack of lighting in my immediate vicinity with each smack-down. And there I was, in a tent, under a tree, in the center of a major electrical storm.

The Big Bend area of Texas is a place where people sometimes die. The harsh and remote environment is not forgiving of stupid decisions or mistakes or just bad luck. Heat and a lack of sufficient water are often culprits. Falls occur. No doubt there has been a snakebite or two. And lightning strikes have claimed quite a few lives, something I was suddenly keenly cognizant of. In a swirl of fight or flight chemicals, I mentally mapped out my limited choices: stay put at the risk of lightning striking a nearby tree and then my tent and then me, or make a run for my car, which was a good 4o feet away, and be the tallest thing around. I chose the former.

The thunderous booms continued to jostle my organs around inside me, a very unnerving sensation, while I waited until I could count a few seconds between the claps and the bolts. I was laughing maniacally—like a kid on a runaway roller coaster with an ear-to-ear grin and tears streaming from their eyes, just going along for the ride—and counting. Or trying to count, most of the time I couldn't even get up to one. The rain had started to penetrate the fly of my tent, and a slow but sure trickle infiltrated the dry bubble of fabric. I slipped my boots onto my feet and gathered my pillow and clothes in a ball at my chest. Finally, I counted to three and a very calm voice in my head said, "It's time." I zipped open the door and saw that my tent was now surrounded by a two inch deep puddle on all sides. I grabbed my car keys, stepped out into the storm, and I ran, still laughing like a crazy person.

Inside my car, I found a towel and changed into dry clothes. I watched as the intensity of the storm began to move away towards the south, and all those chemicals suddenly fizzled in my blood stream. Exhausted, I fell asleep in the driver's seat. An hour, maybe two, passed and I woke up with a tingling leg that had been pinned between the seat and the gearshift. It was calm now. The thunder rumbled quietly now at a far distance. As I sat up, a burst of light in my peripheral vision caught my attention. In the near blackness I could make out indistinct shapes of nearby trees. Another burst lit up the branches of a small bush. And then the bush came alive with small bursts of electricity, lingering just slightly. And then it stopped. I stared into the stillness. There was another one, off to the other side, floating in midair. Not there. Then there. Then not there. Ahead of me the tree line sparked with larger, grapefruit-sized bursts. One. Another. Another. Another. And then show time, like fireworks in the trees.

All around me these bursts of light popped in and out of existence. Here, there, in the air just above the trees, along the branches of the bush again, farther away towards other camp sites, embedded in the tree line, unlike anything I had seen before. Existing only in one spot before extinguishing back out of existence, the bursts seemed to trace a path not just in the branches but through midair. Floating gracefully, fairy-like, flashing in certain spots like a firefly periodically lighting its tail along its carefree flight path. It was beautiful. And I could feel it on my skin as my hairs stood on end, a slight electrical vibration. A burst in the tree dotted a quick path to the top of my tent. There was a large flash at the top pole then the bursts skittered down along one of the poles and into the water where they danced like water bugs atop it. That was the part where I would have died.

But in the safety of my car and its outer metal shell, I was having a transformative experience of another kind. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. Ahead of me the trees had lit up like a Fourth of July show again, and a series of bursts gently floated towards my car. I had my nose almost pressed to the windshield, mesmerized. A burst of light the size of a basketball exploded into being directly in front of my eyes, inches from me, with only the glass between us. Its white light momentarily blinded me, but it lingered long enough that I made out the bluish glow around its outer edges. And then it was gone.

This phenomenon went on for hours. I finally fell asleep, though I fought it as hard as I could. The next day I gathered my soggy tent into my car and drove south to Big Bend National Park, unable to get those bursts of light out of my head. I had turned on the band Balmorhea, a ritual I have when I drive into the national park, the music perfectly orchestrated for that scenery. The song Candor came on, and it was like it had been written as a soundtrack to what I had witnessed, different instruments aligning to the rhythm of the bursts exactly. That was how I understood how I could always transport myself back to that night.

It's become another ritual for me to turn that song on repeat in my home, the light dimmed and a wet sheet of watercolor paper before me. As I listen, I make marks on the paper to the rhythm, recalling specific bursts, the tingle of electricity on my skin, and that fairy-like dance. Working this way is a departure for me. I am a thinker and that translates into the things I create. But I've come to understand that this is about completely letting go, the way I did that night, maniacal laughter and all. It is something I've needed to do for a while. To unlearn some of my patterns that have kept me locked along a path that was not fulfilling. This is about that, letting go, living honestly, with sincerity, with openness, with candor, for me.

A meteorologist friend later told me that what I'd seen was most likely St. Elmo's Fire. The painting pictured above is the tenth of these paintings, each unique and each titled "Candor" with a corresponding roman numeral afterwards, which act as a mental time machine for me.

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