I was driving to Asheville today when, two hours into it, mountains appeared - ultramarine blue and distant. I did not see them again for 20 minutes, but my mood elevated. Meanwhile, I had been scanning the radio stations, skipping over bible proselytizing and commercial droning and I found a great Latin rhythm, so I left it there. When the DJ began speaking earnestly in Spanish, I listened. Despite 3 years of Advanced Spanish in High School, I understood nothing (except maybe the numbers). But the cadence of his voice tickled my brain, so I left it on.
This was another reminder of how music/sound is akin to painting. The rhythm of his speech was textural. The tone - like a color. Even the canned laughter and applause were marks upon a canvas. I am often struck by these similarities. Listening to another language emphasizes this. The sonant massaged my brain.
Tomorrow I will drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway because every single person I asked today said that was the place to go and paint. I am now ensconced in a simple but pleasant apartment in the foothills (thank you, "airbnb") and again have the luxury of painting all day tomorrow and driving right back to this futon to go to sleep, rather than hunting up a new place to stay. Ahhh.