I have a confession to make.
I saw the musical Annie years ago and I cannot tell you a single thing about it. I do not remember the actors. I do not remember the story. I do not remember the stage. But I remember what one line meant to me.
The sun will come up tomorrow.
Apparently, one line was all I needed. I have never forgotten it. I have built much of my life around those words. I have built much of my art around them too.
Again and again, I paint sunrise. Sometimes I paint the landscape as I see it. Sometimes I use only colour, light and the faint suggestion of a horizon. I approach every blank canvas as I approach sunrise. I show up before I know what I will see or create.
In March 2015, I was diagnosed with lung cancer. And in that moment, I began to think differently about tomorrow. Before cancer, I assumed I would have it. I made plans for it. I postponed things until it. And I expected another day after it. Then I stopped assuming.
I would never call cancer a gift. But through that experience, I received one.
I learned to appreciate the time I have left. I also learned how badly I wanted more of it. Not for anything grand. I wanted more time with the people I love. I wanted more laughter. I wanted more time in my studio. I wanted more ordinary days.
Because I value every morning I have, I willingly leave a warm bed before dawn. Even I sometimes question my judgment. But I go.
On this particular morning, I left home while most of Toronto was asleep. I wrapped my hands around a warm cup of coffee and made my way toward the lake. When I arrived, I could see nothing. Not the water. Not the horizon.
All I had was coffee and confidence. I knew the sun would rise. I just did not know what I would see. Would I watch the sky change gradually? Would I see brilliant orange across the entire sky? Or would clouds obscure almost everything?
I waited. Then I noticed one seam of gold at the horizon. Then another. Within minutes, I could see gold, orange and red across the entire sky.
And there I was, grinning beside the lake, glad I had chosen the sunrise over my warm bed. I watched every second.
Before I left, I knew I would paint what I had experienced. Back in the studio, I began with the darkness. I made one mark. Then another. I painted the sky as I remembered it, moving from deep ultramarine and violet into gold and orange. I kept the water dark below.
Although the painting is abstract, I can still see the landscape in it. I did not try to reproduce every detail of the morning. I painted what I felt as I watched the sky change from darkness to light.
I called it A Question of If.
Looking at my paintings, I recognize how often I return to sunrise. Many begin with mornings beside the water. A viewer may see colour, shape and the faintest suggestion of a horizon. I see where I stood. I remember what I experienced and how grateful I felt to be there.
Through my paintings, I have recorded my own history of gratitude.
I did not question whether the sun would rise. I questioned whether I would be there to see it.
I do not find that thought frightening.
Instead, I think about everything I still want to experience. If I open my eyes tomorrow, I will be grateful for another day.
I will spend more time sitting at crowded tables surrounded by people I love.
I will find more reasons to laugh until my stomach hurts.
I will walk into my studio, turn up the music and grab my coffee.
And then I will paint until I lose track of time.
But most of all, I will recognize how extraordinary my ordinary life really is.
The sun will be there tomorrow.
And if I am there too, I am going to live.
A Question of If – Sharon Bacal
