By Steve Siciliano
Sometimes when I look at the sky I imagine that I’m gazing at a painting. It could be a painting of a clear summer morning when the horizon is brightening and a white ghost of a moon is fading into the gradually deepening blue. I study how tree-top greens look against the expanse of blue and if I’m lucky a few high flying crows will add distant specks of ebony to the canvas.
Other times it might be a picture of billowing, snow-white clouds floating silently like icebergs in a crystal blue ocean. Sometimes the artist will choose to use the darker colors of the palette—slate, ash and charcoal grays, boiling dark purples and roiling burnt umbers. If it’s a painting of the sky at twilight there could be pastel layers of crimsons and pinks, reds and yellows, magentas and oranges.
Above us each day are works of art that rival museum masterpieces. An upward gaze is the only price of admission.