Here's the story:
A field in Glendale, California, contains what I’m told is the world’s largest collection of police helicopters. It’s a calm, sunny day, ideal for trying out gouache paint. But I’m not expecting what’s about to hit me.
I pass through a gate in the chain-link fence and approach a building. Inside, two women with headphone radios are communicating with police helicopters around LA. One looks up, adjusts her headphones, and asks, "What can I do for you?"
"I'm an art student," I say. "I wonder if I could set up outside and paint a picture of that helicopter." I point through the large windows. "Is that one going to stay there for a while?"
She pauses for a moment, seemingly surprised by the request. "Sure, I guess so," she replies. "That one's not going anywhere for a while. Just stay on the grass and off the airfield." She resumes her work as a call comes in.
Outside, I unfold my stool near the landing area and lay out my paper towels, sketch paper, and extra panels.
I paint the sky gradient and distant mountains. Soon, I hear the faint sound of a helicopter. Like a speck, it grows bigger, approaching until it’s overhead.
Then it hits me—the downforce from the rotors knocks off my hat. Loose papers fly up and disappear behind me. The hot wind dries the paint instantly, and dust and gravel get in my eyes. I clutch onto the painting.
As the chopper shuts down, I pick the loose papers off the fence and pack my things. The pilot gets out and smiles as he walks by. "Sorry about that," he says. "I wondered what you were doing there."
[This painting is reproduced in color in the new edition of The Artist's Guide to Sketching. available in the USA from my little family web store.]