Spring weather in Maryland is extremely fickle, proffering up 70-degrees and sunshine interspersed with a drizzle on your head and a cold nip to make you try to shrug your ears down into your impotent collar. This afternoon I abandoned my light jacket in the backseat of my car, and toyed with the idea of driving with the windows down. But as I left work I found myself not watching the road, but instead focusing closer — on the prismatic Picasso forming on my windshield as the raindrops painted themselves upon its surface, reflecting colors of gray, green, white and red.
I split my sight — one eye making sure my car stayed in between the short yellow slashes and the unending white line, the other watching the kaleidoscopic rendering of staccato rain that every now and again was first smeared then wiped clean. The clarity lasted only a moment before the droplets interrupted the canvas with their diaphanous form, some abandoning their initial landing spot to forge a wavering trail. No destination, just a disappearance at the end without a conclusion — having worn themselves out, stretched too thin.
Before the wipers slid across the glass with a measured grace, the landscape created was that of a fractured reality or a purposeful interpretation. A piece of art where the gods paint clear on clear, in unmeasured drops and drizzles, using only wind and gravity for tools — creating a series of polychromatic 20-second paintings that made me immediately grateful for the mercurial March weather.