In memoriam…
The first show of my artwork almost never happened.
It was scheduled for mid September 2001. In the wake of the attacks on the 11th, when the world stood in shock and silence, we weren’t sure that is was the right thing to go on with the show. Our community said please. We came together in support of each other and the basic human need to find common ground.
Art.
The attempt to make some representation of the world around us.
The study of beauty.
The act of creating.
The art of listening.
Reflecting on 25 years of pursuit of that common ground, each of my paintings feels like a breadcrumb. A trail to find our way back, and pebbles in a long road that leads us forward.
I believe that art has a vital role in reminding humans of their shared common ground. And at the core of that is love. Full stop.
So, in that light, and with gratitude for the support from our community which has given my brushes a chance to fly for these last 25 years…I have a new painting to share.
The Peace of Wild Things 24 x 34
Herself
my love
my Muse
and in this case my model.
The backstory is that I had an idea to paint freshly harvested tomatoes
nestled in the apron
of a grandmother.
And we all know the beauty and the wisdom of that.
When the time came
and the first ones had ripened to red
I called Pat out to pose.
She donned the apron and made her way out to the garden bench.
Sitting patiently while I fussed
rearranging fabric and tomatoes
turning her this way and that
to catch just the right light
she quietly grimaced and twinged
as the ache in her back grew intolerable.
We kept the session short
and it wasn’t until days later
when I went up to the studio loft
to look through the photos I took
that I saw what I was really meant to paint.
There is a truth to the aches
that come with aging.
To tell the story honestly
is to look behind the grimaces
the slowing gait
and the grabbing of handrails.
Behind those eyes
wincing with pain
is the story
of the woman …
who was always
the first to swim out into the lake
and the last to climb out in the fall
the tired back
that carried four crying babies
generations of grandbabies
hundreds of heaving laundry baskets
bushels of peaches
loads of firewood
and sacks of birdseed
for her feathered familiars.
I have to confess that she does not like this painting.
Fussed at me every single day it was on the easel.
Can’t you paint my eyes open at least ?
I get it. But I kept on painting.
Because I love that woman
and all the things that strong defiant spine
has been able to do
and the weights she has been able to carry
mostly for others
and because…
just at the edges
of this portrait of aging
is a hint of that truth I was talking about.
Always under the surface
and here just at the edges of her tensing lips
is the whisper of a smile
that reveals the fierce grace
and determined devotion
of her love.
She doesn’t need to like this one
because I do.
Postscript… (9.11.2026)
A few days ago I heard of the passing of Wendell Berry.
This painting had been titled for a while before that
but I sat in the library this week rereading his poetry
and remembering the decades of lessons he shared about
what it means to be a decent kind and loving human.
If you haven’t read it, make your way to his poem, The Peace of Wild Things.
If you have…read it again.
