The Art of Being Present: How Surfing relates to my Coastal Oil Paintings

Driving to the beach first thing Saturday morning is always filled with hope for good surf, anticipation of an amazing session, and a sense of peace as I cross the rivers to get there.

As I pull up, I unpack my car and pull out my surfboard. It's routine. I've done this hundreds of times, and it's become so familiar that I can't imagine not doing it.

Then I make my way across the boardwalk and through the sand, set my board, chair, and bag down, and pause to watch the surf. I'm studying the break, looking for the best place to paddle out and, hopefully, catch my first wave of the day.

As I think about finishing art school, I realize that some of these feelings have followed me into the studio.

Over the past year and a half, it's become just as familiar to get up in the morning and make art, or spend a couple hours in my studio after work.

I'm always coming up with ideas, sketching them out, pouring inks, taking my canvas outside to spray paint, and refining details with oil paints. It's become a process I genuinely look forward to, never quite knowing exactly where the painting will take me.

Today is the first time I've realized that these two parts of my life really relate well to each other.

I think part of the reason is that neither one comes with guarantees. When I paddle out, I don't know what the ocean is going to give me. When I begin a painting, I don't know exactly where it will take me. Both ask me to let go of control, trust what I've learned, and be completely present in the moment.

When I'm surfing, I'm sitting on my board watching the waves. If I spend too much time thinking about other things, I might get distracted and get hit by a wave I'm not ready for. So my attention stays on the water, the waves, and the people around me. It pulls me away from everyday problems.

When I'm done surfing, I've always called it a reboot for my brain. Despite being such a physical activity, I leave feeling refreshed, happy, and exhausted in the best way.

Similarly, when I'm in my studio, that's the only thing I'm thinking about. I sit or stand at my easel, drip acrylic inks across the canvas, watch them flow, think through the design, add more paint, and play with spray paint outside. The practice can be just as refreshing for my brain.

Every wave is different, just as every painting has a life of its own. I can prepare, practice, and show up, but I can't force either to unfold exactly the way I imagined.

I might have music or an audiobook playing quietly in the background. My ADHD brain seems to need that extra layer of sound to stay in flow. But the problems of everyday life don't come with me into the studio.

When I'm done, I usually feel refreshed. Of course, there are bad days. I've had bad days surfing and gone home frustrated. I've had bad days in the studio and walked away unsure or even crying. But as my skills have grown since school started. Now, I find myself leaving the studio looking forward to the next painting, knowing a good outcome is probable and an amazing one is possible.

Maybe that's what I've been searching for all along. Not just better waves or better paintings, but those rare moments when I'm completely present and at peace.

The ocean gives me that.

Painting gives me that.

I want that feeling to live in my work.

My dream is that when someone looks at one of my paintings in their home, it pulls them into a moment of calm reflection.