In these new paintings I’ve explored a lot of territory that interests me—how the process of painting leads to ideas and how ideas lead to meaning. The subject matter has grown out of my personal perception of the world around me which includes nature and the human mind and heart.
The entire show will be visible on this website in the White Bird 2020 section of the Paintings & Pastels page on August 15th. There will also be a short video in which I talk a little more about the work, what it means to me and the process through which I travel to make a painting come into being. It too will be viewable on August 15th. And you will be able to see both the video and the paintings on the White Bird Gallery website as well.
If you are interested in purchasing a painting, please contact White Bird Gallery. 503-436-2681.
I am writing on May 14th, 2020. Anyone who comes to this site after today will have experienced the unprecedented changes wrought by the Covid-19 pandemic thus far No one on earth has been spared and I take this opportunity to wish everyone who may find themselves reading this my best wishes and hopes for your health and safety now and in the forthcoming months during which we will undoubtedly continue to feel the effects of the virus. I have been blessed during this time to have work to do, at home, in my studio, for an exhibition that was scheduled six months ago for August of the this year at White Bird Gallery in Cannon Beach, OR. Although much of the work was conceived and started before the middle of March, I cannot help but see much of my new painting’s content in light of the courrent situation. It has changed all ouf our perspectives. I am looking forward to sharing this work with you come August. It is yet to be revealed whether there will be a gallery showing or not, but certainly the work will be availble to view on line. More details will be available in a couple of months.
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On August 10th at about noon the first students arrived in my studio to spend the next two weekends exploring the painting experience. Although a self-described “reluctant teacher” this spring after a few months of living with my new studio I realized I couldn’t keep this place to myself and offered a class entitled “A Somewhat Experimental Offering to Those of You Who Would Like to Journey into Image Development and Oil Technique Over a Two Weekend Period in a Beautiful Setting” . I think because I’ve taken but two or three art classes in my life I find teaching art to be a mystery that only those who have been taught to teach it can fathom. For me making art is a process of self-discovery and so in all the classes I’ve taught in the past, I have made that the central objective—to explore one’s personal point of view. That leaves subject matter in the hands of each student and translation in the hands of the teacher. Technique is merely a well-worn path one uses to find the perfect view.
Because of space limitations we could only accomodate six students, which turned out to be a good number—enough to spark discussion and provide diversity in experience but not so many that giving personal attention to everyone became difficult.
On day one we concentrated on image conception and development. “What do I want to paint”? When we faced our blank canvases or panels the next day we were armed with ideas that had begun to be realized on paper.
We did underpaintings, we got our sketches finalized.
Some people went home with their barely begun surfaces, worked on them during the week or just looked at them. Others left the colored panels behind and let their minds work without tools. The following weekend each person followed through with their vision and even though no one “finished” a painting—everyone was well on their way to developing a work of art that truly represented her mind and heart.
Thank you dear brave people who came to my first class at Huckleberry Farm Studios. You have given me courage to continue offering classes. I’m working on developing different class contents which I can offer once a season. My next class will likely be in the Winter and will depend on some more brave souls to come here to explore their personal points of view during the metallic dark of the Oregon Coast in February.
This piece, begun as a demonstration in this class, will always have the influences of those who witnessed its development between it’s layers.
On October 1st I began an intense two week immersion into intaglio printmaking with master printer Julia D’Amario at the Sitka Center for Art and Ecology, tucked into ancient Sitka forests on the southern side of Cascade Head. Only 60 miles south of our home in Wheeler, it felt like a world apart. I had promised myself complete concentration on the experience which would unfold and reveal this unknown and technically complicated medium to me. Carl and I arrived with a few clothes, some simple food and little else to distract us from this pocket of time away from the details of our regular lives. After four solid months of unceasing construction on the studio we welcomed the opportunity to disappear into more creative endeavors, and to take a break from the physical and mental demands that the planning and execution of the major restoration of the house has required.
This opportunity for me came in the form of the Jordan Schnitzer Print Residency, an awarded resident program, endowed by Jordan Schnitzer and designed by Julia D’Amario and founder of Sitka, artist Frank Boyden. Its intention is to introduce the medium of etching to artists whose main medium is not printmaking. Julia D’Amario is a master printer who worked for Pace Editions for twenty years with artists the likes of Jim Dine and Chuck Close. Her knowledge, experience and technical sophistication is unmatched and I feel immensely fortunate to have been able to work under her tutelage. Two artists each fall spend two weeks each with Julia in the Smith Print Studio. There is no requirement to produce work, but as Julia says, everyone who she has worked with produces something they are pleased with. This work is then editioned by Julia the week following the residency, and Sitka receives half the edition, the artist the other half. Julia as archivist of the collection receives a printer’s proof and then Jordan Schnitzer, a major print collector and the Portland Art Museum also receive prints from the editions.
The first week was punctuated by sleepless nights brought on by my sheer panic in the face of a copper plate with tools and materials I was unfamiliar with. Julia eased me through all this and by the end of the middle of the second week we had finalized three etchings and I was well on my way to finishing the final plate.
marking proofs with their state
We spent eight hours of each weekday and a few hours of the weekend days in the studio, forgetting time. Julia did all the masterwork—laying down the asphaltum, biting the plates in the acid, applying aquatint, tearing paper, inking plates and pulling proofs and prints.
Julia applying hardground
wiping the plate
pulling a proof
I never got dirty other than scenting my hands and clothes with 3in1 oil as I learned the magic of burnishing.
At Julia’s suggestion I came with no preconceived ideas about what sort of imagery I might attempt, allowing the new medium to guide me instead. The weather when we arrived at Sitka was glorious-clear, dry, windy and leaves were falling, chattering and blowing everywhere. They, leaves, became a theme that entered each of the images I worked on. Julia helped me narrow down the repertoire of techniques that suited my hand and my vision and encouraged my own way of handling them by making it all seem effortless with her expert skills.
“Foot Print” 12″ x 16″ the first completed etching
Printmaking is truly a collaborative medium and the experience of working together with Julia to create something beautiful was a unique and inspiring experience for me. It will have its effect on me for a very long time, if not forever.
I am preoccupied with the contrasts of tame and wild, nature and mind, perception and reality and have been since my earliest explorations into image-making as a photographer. My photographs focused on changing light and its insubstantial but atmospheric influence on our perceptions. In many of my pastels I depicted subjects that contrasted our search for knowledge through language and thought with our connection to nature. And the subjects of my paintings tend to examine wildness and our struggling relationship with it. Ironically, for 25 years I lived in a fairly typical static suburban environment. Little ever changed. Lawns were cut when the grass grew imperceptibly higher than acceptable. The predominantly evergreen shrubbed landscapes never changed from season to season except perhaps for a brief flourish of exuberant bloom in spring or early summer. Streets were swept, concrete driveways power-washed, any untidiness or sign of aging done away with before it could bring into question the values of the neighborhood and its residents. I looked outside my immediate environment for the questions and the answers to the subjects of my interest, and then felt like an outsider, an observer and recorder of these contrasts rather than a participant.
Here, on this uncaged piece of land, once planted and managed by people, then left to its own tendencies for many years, the contrasts that I believe to be important components of human understanding are palpable. Daily buffeting by the weather, seasonal changes in vegetation and animal life, the mental adaptations and necessary tasks that cycle with the heat and cold, wet and dry, light and darkness—all this is very immediate with little but a pane of glass or a roof of wood between myself and these elements.
The house was primitive but hinted at a simple elegance beneath its crust of age and dirt. We’ve changed its life a lot. We now live in cozy comfort where once bushy-tailed wood rats ran freely through the walls, making their tinsel nests and hoarding odd rodent sized knick-knacks and treasures and cobwebs were the only decoration. The dark and dank overgrowth on the land is slowly being cleared, revealing the sky and allowing the sun to warm places that haven’t seen the light for many years. Recently the changes have accumulated to the point where we wake up some days and feel like we’re in a completely different place than we purchased two and a half years ago.
Wresting order from the wildness is delicate work. It demands patience, thoughtfulness and awareness of the impact one is making. The balance we strive for was tipped long ago on this piece of property. As long as we live here we will continue to change the natural environment with consequences we cannot anticipate, no matter how good our intentions. We’ll remove the ivy, the holly, the bamboo, the happily persistent noxious weeds as best we can. At times it seems like a Sisyphean attempt, the strong nature of these invasives being far more powerful than us. But ultimately our presence is all that it takes to alter this place from its natural course. It is human nature to defy nature, either consciously or unconsciously.
At the end of May we began building the studio, a place in which to create. We have to clear and demolish before we can design and reconstruct, so earth is moved, walls torn down and old foundations shattered.
We work at ground level, the old house hanging above us, propping up the beauties of old age with the strength of new concrete. The work will be done in calculated phases so that we do not ask more of the integrity of this old structure than it can manage and hopefully by the end of the summer we’ll have a closed in basement ready for finishing. This change to the house is elemental, and its character will grow.
Carl and our friend Phil, and myself, are doing all the work, one day at a time. Meanwhile the grass keeps growing and this place lives its own life in many ways undisturbed by us and our dreams and realities. The land and sky are perpetually creating and at times it seems silly to be building a place in which to create when there is so much of that happening around us without our efforts.
One of the most challenging puzzles of this property is its water system. The deed came with a water right to Chevoit Creek, signed in 1934 by Dr. E.R. Huckleberry, the Tillamook county physician who built the house in 1922. The original document, with its ink pen signature, is a precious commodity in a rural area especially one with the geological characteristics that our coastal area possesses. Despite the heavy rain the soil around here is granular and slippery, holding the water like a sponge and wells are nigh impossible to drill. There are few potable aquifers beneath this jelly-like substance to tap into. Springs are a common source but if you don’t have one on your property, creek water is the next best thing. The land is carved with creeks but many of them run dry around July or August. You need a year-round creek to have a reliable water source and then you better hope that no one upstream is logging or building a development. In the city we take water for granted. It’s clean and it comes hot and cold reliably out of a tap. There, we never think about it.
When we bought this place the pvc pipe that ran a quarter of a mile up into the untrailed woods to the point of diversion in the creek, the specific position of our water right, had completely failed. During our “inspection” of the property, in a hike fueled by idealistic enthusiasm, Carl and I and our real estate agent, Darcy, tramped up muddy elk trails and over fallen trees in search of the PVC pipe, hoping to spot its unnatural whiteness in the dim forest.
It turned up here and there, broken, buried, slid and then disappeared before we could find the end point. We were soaked by the steady rain that fell, Carl was injured by inserting his foot into a hole, and slightly disoriented we found our way back by walking down the center of the creek. Undaunted, that October, we purchased the house without it having running water.
By February of the next year and after much research Carl had designed a water system that pulled water from a spot in the creek 300 feet from the house. It required a pump, housed in a small shelter on the edge of the bank above the creek, 200 feet of pex pipe and electrical wire in conduit to run underground from there to a pressure tank, housed in a 8’ x 12’ shed, and then another 100 feet of pex and electrical wire to connect to the house, also laid three feet underground. Thus began a six month long quest to having water come out of the tap at the kitchen sink.
While sighting the path of all that pipe we explored the property more intimately than we had before we purchased it and in the process we grudgingly discovered three significant dump sites buried beneath the blurring but ever increasing vegetation. As the reality of their depressing existence slowly dawned on us we realized before we did anything else, we had to get rid of the depressions filled with historic debris. It took us a while to accept that we had to hire an excavator to help us out, but through a bungled attempt at ditch digging (another story) we acquired the phone number of Norm Hartwell. Norm soon became our savior.
When Norm came up to check out the potential job, he thought oh, maybe four hours, maybe a little longer and he could have the job done.
Four days later the dumps were cleared and masses of vegetation were hauled away. A backhoe is not a precise tool. It was February, wet, dark and slippery. We were left with a lot of mud strewn with broken jars, rusted can lids and decaying batteries.
Norm was heroic in his efforts to help us, but in moving the trash up the hill from its low spot (aren’t all dumps in a low spot?), a lot of small bits of junk slipped out of his grasp. We will be finding shards of broken television tubes for years to come. Nonetheless, the overall effect was stupendously cleansing and a 27 cubic yard dumpster full of muddy garbage left the property.
During this four day process our friends, Carol and Mike Riley visited for the first time. Mike is a landscaper and poet. As Norm rumbled over the land, and Mike scanned the property with his sensitive and knowledgeable eyes he suggested that while Norm was there he dig a pond just above the greater of the three dumps and carve a course to release the water from a sodden and trapped area around the big Black Walnut. Clearly a winter creek was trying to make its way to the bay.
Norm did this and when he opened the channel and the water came rushing down through what was the dump area it was like healing a wound, swabbing it clean.
So what about the kingfisher? A few months later I was in the kitchen which overlooks the south field, the black walnut and beneath it the small, dark pond dug by Norm. I heard a kingfisher’s distinctive caw. I hadn’t heard that call since my walks along the Tualatin River in the Willamette Valley. I knew it well, but there was no reason for a kingfisher to come up our little valley. We didn’t offer what kingfishers love– fish and frogs. I looked out the window to the black walnut and there, perched on one of its lacy lower branches overhanging the little pond was the Kingfisher. He sat and then he swooped down to the water, dove in, rose out, landed on the branch he descended from, bobbed his head and gulped down a tidbit. I had no inkling that when we started down the path to a water system we would make a place for kingfishers to dine. It’s a lesson in consequences. It turned out well but it’s something to remember.
detail from “The Pond and the Kingfisher” –oil painting in Waterstone show, May 2012
Winter has held its ground. Just yesterday there were still patches of snow lacing the mountain tops around the river valley. It seems late in the year for that sort of alpine scenery but it is spring according to the calendar. When we meet people around town they say, “Well, you’ve made it through your first winter…” It is a compliment and a kindred embrace in this coastal environment of storms and heavy rain that often drives people back to the valley after a time. One finds that the day truly comes from the sky. Sometimes the sky radiates sunshine, sometimes it makes clouds, often it pours rain and more regularly than one might imagine the wind hurtles at great velocity from the southwestern horizon transparent in the sky’s color. So we watch the sky.
The higher sun has moved above the Sitka forest to the south of our property and brought heat and light to that side of our house. In the warmth lady bugs have infested our rafters and gathered around all our south facing windows, inside. At first we felt like the recipients of abundant good luck. At night they would sometimes drop from the sloped ceiling of our bedroom and crawl about on our pillows or walk across our cheeks. There was something intimate about their familiarity.
Our welcoming attitude soon turned to patient tolerance and then to annoyance. They are tough little creatures. Apparently they don’t eat anything but instead wander aimlessly back and forth, up and down, like automatons on a pane of glass. Randomly they bump into one another, back up and then go on in different directions. They huddle in large red colonies, looking like a shiny beaded handbag stuck in the corner of window. Sometimes they fall into the kitchen sink and swim doggedly for as long as they need to, stroking through soap bubbles until rescued and then they continue uninterrupted, pacing on whatever dry surface they land. We began vacuuming them up and releasing them outside from the vacuum bag. Their numbers grew and grew until we were vacuuming several times a day to keep up with their migration into the house. Finally we stopped releasing them and sadly the ones we vacuumed were quietly entombed in the bag. It is one of the phenomenon of a sunny day at the coast. Where they are when it rains is still a question.
Detail from “Days at Huckleberry Farm” for May exhibit at Waterstone Gallery
In the last week or so, we’ve brought out the tools of spring, which for us are shovels and posthole diggers. One of the ironies of our move here has been the lack of a vegetable garden. So much land, so little tilled soil. We’re starting from scratch—an apt phrase as we scrape and tear away dense brambles and thick grasses to reach the soil.
Our big garden needs a serious deer fence and we’ve started that construction, but we have space for a small kitchen garden at the east side of the house in which we hope to actually plant something this spring. It needs a retaining wall and also a fence to keep the deer from browsing our plantings, but it’s of a manageable size so when the sun comes out we leave our indoor work to dig between rain showers.
It’s right outside the studio, a temptation I resist as the deadline for my show draws near and I have unfinished paintings calling for my attention.
When we first took possession of this place it was terribly overgrown. Large, leafy, generic flora crawled ploddingly over the land. Normal garden shrubs had grown to enormous proportions. There was a Viburnum davidii that covered an area the size of four pickup trucks side by side. A mystery plant, identified by someone as a “Mexican wedding bush”, twiggy, with very small leaves, created a barricade fifteen feet wide and ten feet tall and ten feet deep between the parking area and the upper field at the edge of the woods. It took me a while to identify the sculptured tree-like shrubs that grew out of old fallen trees as mature, or rather, ancient ivy. The septic tank and its concrete cover lay yards deep beneath a web of vicious dried blood colored blackberry canes the thickness of a cat’s foreleg. Buddleia, or benignly named Butterfly Bush, the sale of which is now outlawed in this state, congregates in dense self protective groups all over the property. It has thrived so well, that when in flower the heads are as long as my forearm and droop heavily like laden Chinese paintbrushes dipped in white and rich violet. English laurel has also laid claim in large colonies, starving the earth wherever its long tentacle roots penetrates and its evergreen density blocks the sunlight. Some of the trunks inside the laurel “hedges” were a foot and more in diameter and the tops reached thirty feet. We had an excavator remove 108 cubic yards (that’s four 27 cu. yd. dumpsters) of the stuff from in front of our house revealing a section of bay and ocean view we had not known we had. And that is just a drop in the backhoe bucket.
There are more examples of rampant vegetative domination we’ve discovered here with which we will obviously have to contend in the coming years. The holly and the ivy are probably our most stout adversaries but as we battle these, and other humanly introduced invaders, there are a few foreigners we want to save.
There are stunningly beautiful, old and gnarled rhododendrons in danger of being absorbed in some horror-film manner by bamboo and cotoneaster, sweet rambling roses hopelessly entangled with blackberry vines, a statuesque cherry tree, crowded out by volunteer hollies infested with ivy. As we clear areas we discover more isolated and struggling beauties as well as the contour of the land and the vistas that open.
One of the first captives we liberated was the hulking and mysterious black walnut that is rooted like a sentinel at the base of a steep conifer encamped bank on the pathway to the creek. We see its striking form from the south windows of the house. Its canopy spans forty or fifty feet and its height is almost equal to that. In winter it is a bleached skeleton, stark and eerie against the dark backdrop of the woods. In summer it is a lush green bower, branches waving above our little pond, inviting a rest in the shade. In fall it ignites in brilliant yellow leafery. It was hard to miss, even through the densely interwoven screen of shrubs, grasses, vines and struggling trees that lay between it and the view across the lower field from the house. The tree is shaped like a torso with arms outstretched to the sky as if to receive some great descending bundle. Because it backs up to a sunless north facing hill, it is almost two dimensional, spreading widely, but not deeply. Under our first gaze in late summer it blended into the background, was just another very leafy, oversized presence on the property but with eye-squinting puzzlement it became clear that it looked this way because it had a thirty or forty foot alder tree horizontally balanced across its center, bisecting it, the alder’s dead branches pointing out and downward appearing to belong to the walnut. It was a tangled, precarious mess of gigantic proportion which had to be dealt with. This Amazonian scale teeter-totter was poised above where we planned to run our household water pipes to and from the creek. Heavy sigh. What to do?
A day came at the end of January 2010 when Carl felt able to tackle this seriously dangerous task of removing the alder from the walnut. It had struck us while pondering the problem that it might be possible to lighten one end by cutting the branches that were within reach, thus allowing the heavier trunk end to swing down to ground level. Without a better plan, this is how Carl proceeded.
Donning a hard hat seemed like wielding a papier mache shield in battle. Carl is careful though not easily intimidated.
At that time we had a small, underpowered chainsaw that took a lot of endurance to use. Carl cautiously reached from beneath the walnut trunk so it could guard him from unexpected falling branches. After cutting his way through what he could reach, the top of the alder getting lighter and lighter, he was rewarded with a creaking shift in weight and the alder tree tipped in slow motion, its butt end hitting the ground with a heavy thud on the opposite side of the black walnut.
The remaining trunk was still enormous and dangerously placed, but the theory had worked so Carl cut the end that was now touching the ground. Low and behold, after another big groundshaking drop of timber, the upper segment lifted away from the saw cut, swayed up and slipped down the other side to an almost upright position against what one can only imagine to be a relieved walnut tree.
By this time, Carl had had enough excitement and tension to last a while and so the comparatively small remainder would wait for another day.
Since then the place has changed a lot. The dumps have been removed (another story yet to come), areas have been cleared and mowed, ivy has been girdled on many trees and in dying is leaving massive brown weavings dangling from the tallest trees. In the landscape they are unsightly curiosities, but they make me smile whenever I glance out the windows and see that evidence of our labors and commitment to this place.
In Manzanita, the quaint beach town about six miles north of our place, there is a yarn store on the main street. I’m not a shopper, and confess to not really knowing what most of the merchants in Manzanita have to offer. Except for the bakery, the grocery and the bookstore, I’m just not curious about the other shopping opportunities. Perhaps I’m afraid of temptation, but apparently I wasn’t afraid enough to not wander into the yarn store. I went in there one day, almost two years ago, in my mud covered clothing, dirt under my fingernails, on a whim, after picking up some groceries at the Little Apple (the local market) across the street. The wool was seductive. I never ventured in again until this past fall when I asked the proprietress if I could have knitting lessons from her. She said “no” and “come to the knitting nights and someone will help you”. The wool had been gathering in my mind. The week before Christmas I nervously drove the six miles in the rainy dark to my first knitting night. And this is why I’m now painting sheep.
People ask me “What do you paint”? It’s a difficult question to answer and mostly I deflect and rattle off a list of subjects. What does one paint? It is of course the frightening question that steams in an artist’s mind whenever faced with a future exhibition. What will I paint? (heavy sigh) I’ve titled my upcoming show at Waterstone “Portraits of a Place” and I made a list of subjects a few months ago based on this idea. At the time I didn’t know I would be painting sheep. But I hadn’t yet met Sage Walden and Brian Tallman, or had I bottle fed a lamb. It seems my life is the well of subjects that I’m always worried about not knowing, not finding. It’s all there right in front of me all the time.
So Sage is a knitter, and a spinner of wool . She is usually at the knit nights imparting her considerable knowledge on the subject and sharing stories. It’s a cozy, relaxed scene and the women who come converse with heads bent to their hands, concentrating on stitches, rambling from needle sizes to recent events in the world and in their lives. Sage and Brian have a sheep and cattle farm up the Nehalem Valley. About three or four weeks ago the lambs started coming and Sage invited me to come out to see what that was like. The old “farmer-wanna-be” in me sniffed heaven and Carl and I took her up on the invitation one morning. We were immediately enlisted to gather lambs, bottle feed the scrawny ones, give water to the moms. We met Mrs. Hen, Albert the calf and Archie, the shepherd. As I gazed out across the fields, misty mountains in the background, sheep dotting the green pastures I saw the paintings that my great-grandfather, Willem Steelink, made his living and reputation by—sheep, bucolic and outlined by sunlight, peacefully nipping at green blades of grass. It was bemusing. Does everything eventually come down to genes? Is there an inherited vision? Who knows? I just knew it was time to paint sheep.
So there might be a portrait of a sheep or two in this upcoming show.
There’s a lot of weather at the Oregon Coast. In December we had nearly a month long period of dry sunny days, crisp and cold, an unusually uplifting experience during an often dismal time of year. Last week it snowed on the beach, another oddity, and in its brevity, also uplifting and strangely beautiful. Now it’s very windy, and parts of the coast have received record rains. Our creek, which is our source of household water, is muddy from scouring its banks after running relatively low for the past couple of months. Our taps run tea-colored. We are affected directly by the weather here every day. We have no central heating, no furnace, no forced air. This is a good thing when not uncommon gale force winds blow down the power lines. We heat with wood, which there’s plenty of but this time of year the wood is damp even when it’s dry. When the temperatures are freezing outside, the edges of the house inside are cold, we wear more clothing, sometimes a hat indoors. With a little portable heater the studio can maintain a temperature of around 58 degrees when it’s in the 30’s outside. Pretty comfortable, with the right clothes. But it takes forever for oil paint to dry!
detail from a painting in progress
I have a number, I think nine paintings started. Two are commissions and the rest are intended for my show in May. My work has always been mostly autobiographical and this group of paintings is no different. The subjects come from this place, where all the people and the creatures and the plants that live here are subjects of the Weather. And now these paintings too are subjects of the weather, and subject to the weather and their progress is dependent on it. Who knew modern”climate control” was an art material. Depending on the amount of rain, the temperature or the sun pouring through the south facing windows of the studio it can take a week or more for one layer of my many layered pieces to dry. It means that I have to suspend my momentum, move to another piece, calculate which one will dry when, so that I can make continuous progress, not missing a chance to work. The deadline always looms. It can be frustrating, but it also defines the contemplative nature of oil paint. While a piece dries in its developing stages, I look at it over and over again in its unfinished state. Each stage has its own completeness and time allows me to contemplate its possible wholeness, or its misdirection. What started out as an idea, then a picture in my head, then a sketch made from various resource materials, takes on a new identity in oil paint, governed by the mysterious qualities of ground pigment and linseed oil. It is as though the paint is the weather that floods the idea, that snows on the imagined, and blows away the sketch.
Tonight it’s warm, the fire in the woodstove is hardly needed, but the wind blows and the creek is rising. What will the weather bring tomorrow?