Whispers at the Water’s Edge
I didn’t plan to stop at the lake that morning; something in the air simply pulled me toward it. The shoreline was unusually still, as if the world were holding its breath, waiting for something to reveal itself.
As I walked along the path, the silence deepened. No wind, no echo of wings; only a muted stillness that pressed gently against my thoughts.
Then, perched above the water on a small mound, I saw him: a lone mallard, watching the lake with an intensity that felt almost human.
There was something different about the way he rested there. Not tired, more like guarding a secret the lake wasn’t ready to give up. His head turned slightly toward me but he didn’t move, as if my presence was expected. The longer I stood there, the more it felt like I had stepped into someone else’s quiet ritual.
Back in the studio, I couldn’t shake the feeling. The mallard’s stillness followed me home, settling into the corners of the room. So I opened my paints, laid out the photos, and let the unease guide my hand. The first strokes came slowly, almost cautiously, as though the canvas itself was waiting to see what I remembered.
As the layers built up, strange details emerged: reflections I didn’t recall, shadows that felt heavier than the moment had been. It was as if the lake had slipped something into my memory, something that surfaced only through oil and brush. I kept painting, letting instinct lead where intention faltered.
By the time I stepped back, the mallard on the canvas was both familiar and… not. His gaze held the same quiet, but now it seemed to follow the room, watching as though he had brought the lake’s secret with him.
As the painting neared completion, the studio felt strangely connected to the lakeshore; as if a thin thread of mist stretched from the canvas back to the water’s edge. With each stroke, the mallard seemed to settle deeper into its secretive calm, and yet the shadows around him grew more suggestive, hinting at shapes I hadn’t noticed when I stood by the lake.
The colors took on a life of their own: greens turning darker, blues gathering depth like a storm preparing somewhere far beyond the treeline. Even the light in the room shifted slightly, dimming at the edges, as though the outside world was leaning in to watch the last details unfold. I realized then that I wasn’t just painting what I had seen; I was painting what the lake had kept hidden.
Standing there, I could almost smell the damp earth again, feel the heavy hush that had wrapped itself around the lake. It was as though the landscape had followed me home and taken shape in the brushstrokes: an old, watchful mood woven into feathers and reflected light. Even now, when I glance at the painting, I sense that same breath held in the air, the same unspoken story lingering just beneath the surface, waiting for someone patient enough to listen.
By the time the painting was finally complete, the mallard on the canvas carried a presence far greater than the moment I had captured at the lake. He seemed to look past the room entirely, as if remembering something from the water that I still couldn’t see.
The oils dried into subtle ridges that caught the light like ripples on a windless morning, and the shadows behind him settled into an almost-living stillness, echoing the quiet weight of the shoreline.
“Whisper of the lake” - oil on linen, painted alla prima
The painting is finished, yet the story continues. In every glance, I return to the water’s edge, to the quiet, to the bird who seemed to know something I have yet to understand. And in that silence, the lake whispers still.