From 2003 – The Whipper In
This one has only been seen once in a show at the Granary. I think it is providing insulation in our bedroom at the moment. It’s our log cabin living room and, if you’ve been there then you are in a very special group of friends and family. The painting upper left is a reproduction of one I did for the Follansbees of their front yard. Kinda fun to see that again. As of last night, that fireplace is still keeping us warm…
2005 – The Flyer
Boy did I love painting that red. That mail bag was a victim of the major flooding we had a few years ago. Loyal friend Susan Douglas took it home and lovingly cleaned it and I just unearthed it yesterday for a new painting idea. Then I went up to the old studio, which is now my prop room, and found that jacket too. It wasn’t quite right for the new painting, but it was a solid yes for The Flyer.
So… this facebook thing is going around. If I get it correctly, an artist is “challenged” by another artist to post 5 days of paintings on said social media outlet and then to pass along this throw down, as it were, to 5 more artists.
Phyllis Disher Fredericks has called me out. Here is her FB page link, click here
along with her Pinterest link for those who don’t have all that time to waste on FB, click here. Looks like I’m going to have to talk her into a website for the rest of you to see her wonderful world of still lifes and landscapes.
I’m stealing one of my faves to show here but I can’t find the title…Phyllis ?
I’m going to try and do this through the blog here since it posts to FB and that way we can get a twofer out of this. Things are rolling at the easel and, with a week of snow storms rolling in, I want to do nothing but paint paint paint.
I’ll take time out each day to post the three obligatory paintings, and selecting one from each of the fifteen years I’ve been at this, that should fulfill the task.
I’m going to challenge five artists, and remember that they have to have a FB presence or it won’t quite work. Dear Phyllis took a lot of care consulting her artist selections ahead of time to make sure they would like to play along. I do not have her patience, or her kindness of spirit so I’m just going to throw the dice.
Up before the sun
Finn and I were treated to a glorious sunrise
Full of color and promise and hope
Today is the inauguration of Tom and Frances Wolf as governors of our state.
Big day in the neighborhood. They live in the little town over the creek and up the hill.
I can see the smoke rising from her studio when her brushes are flying.
The local firehouse is hosting a pancake breakfast.
The bus for the school band just drove by on
their way to play for the festivities.
I”m deeply proud to know these two human beings
and excited to see what good will come of their tenure.
Parades and balls have been replaced by art exhibitions to honor
the creative heros in our state. Imagine that.
Stay tuned…
Easels everywhere will be humming…
In honor of this, and other inaugurational mornings,
here are the words of Maya, written for Bill’s first,
may the simple hopes rise up to meet us all…
On the Pulse of Morning
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers- desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot…
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours- your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, into
Your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.
It’s not quite this white outside my studio window, but the valley is peaceful and the tracks are there, we just can’t see them right now.
New paintings are varnished and Herself delivered them to the amazing John Corcoran, he won’t mind me showing off his new website… click here . He will do his magic, as he does with every one of my paintings, and make a digital record before it heads back here for framing and then off to the designated gallery, or patron.
The early morning studio delivery wagon has just pulled out of the drive with the final tubes and boxes from our winter workshop.
The teakettle is rattling on its way to boil for the first thermos of darjeeling of the day.
A brand new panel is up on the easel, with sketch ready to transfer. Palette ready for some fresh new paints. Curtain pulled back and the view in the painting above is what I have beside me, and all I need is before me.
An email has just come in from Peggy, her thought for today for the artiste,
“Art should be like a holiday: something to give a man the opportunity to see things differently and to change his point of view.” Paul Klee
It certainly feels like a holiday here, the spirits of solstice are sparkling and the view is open to change.
One more day, or perhaps two, and I’ll be finished with the latest commission.I have spent the last few weeks immersed, I wonder if baptized would be a better word, in the, previously unfamiliar, world of Fly Fishing. Every part of this adventure has been exciting to the senses. Meeting the fisherman, listening to his stories, getting acquainted with the gear, watching Tom Skerritt cast his protestant philosophy in A River Runs Through It, and sitting on the carpet of autumn leaves along the bank of my own Little Conewago Creek and listening.
I’ve had one half of the studio blocked off with the set up and I’m ready now to pack that up and let go of the still part of the term “Still Life” and tease out the last bit of magic I have been waiting to add.
Since this is a commission, that fisherman gets the first peek. But stay tuned, I am eager to share the rest of the story.
For today, here’s a look back on one of my first and favorite commissions, from the doorway in my old treetop studio, which still stands along the creek’s bank, treasures from Walt and Lin’s family and a dusting of mother nature as muse…
Painters’ Notes …
Outward Bound
I can’t imagine a Pennsylvania winter without snow.
The howling winds of a Nor’easter. Ice freezing a path across the lake.
Fields covered in white with their stubble of corn stalks stitching their way over the hills
to the horizon. Wood smoke from chimneys on distant farms. Animal tracks crisply outlined in blue white frosty morning crystal. And a shockingly peaceful quiet in the air.
But here we are. The warmest February to date.
Not enough snow so far this fickle season to take a broom to.
In my studio, leaning against a bookshelf, are the snowshoes that Walt’s father was given
in exchange for a country healing. The wooden skies and boots that Lin and the boys have worn thin,
and a leather strap of sleigh bells which now ring their history proudly each time I open the blue door.
So it was that the other morning, when I finally opened my eyes and the good dog Gulliver
nuzzled my arm awake and I managed to put on the layers of clothing in the same order in which they
had been discarded the night before, and, we two, the pup and myself, came to the cabin door…
and the wind actually blew a stinging swirl of snow in our faces…
that I began again to believe.
It only lasted a few hours.Long enough for the snow to build up on the intricate laces of the snow shoes.
For the winter light to reflect its solemn rainbow across the skies…
and for just a touch of warmer light
to remind me that this collection of objects
represents the folding in of two branches
of a great family tree
in testimony to their respect
for nature and heritage.
Ah dear readers, I am back.
The month of honeymooning was grand. The outpouring of kindness, generosity and celebratory enthusiasm stunned us both. It will take a month of sundays to write all the thank you notes and we are humbled and still smiling with the fun of it all.
Along with all the festivities, came a much welcomed block of time in which to creatively…rest.
There have been lots of times in my life, when I have been forced to take time off from the easel. There were years of interruptions and detours until I stepped off the “I’m going to be and artist” track and began to lift the brushes full time. Since the end of 2001 I have been going full tilt with the aim of making a living out of those brushes and as every self employed person understands, your success is measured in direct proportion to your willingness to show up.
There is, of course, a hell of a lot more than a good attendance record to making a living as an artist, and the balance of persistence, talent and sheer luck is best left to the muses to manage. The support of fantastic gallery owners, the investment of patrons, and a healthy dose of shameless self promotion help to keep the paints and canvas in stock, but what about the creative factor.
I get asked a lot at shows, “How do you come up with ideas to paint ?”
My usual answer is that I have more ideas than I have days left in which to work, and yep that is definitely true. I have never experienced the artist’s equivalent of a “writer’s block”…(insert painting just for the fun of it here )
But, after a decade plus of intense focus with short controlled bursts of weeding and one or two actual days “off”, I found myself, at the end of this summer, in an entirely new place…sheer creative exhaustion. It sounds bloody narcissistic, and it definitely feels that way. Polly would have sharply admonished me to, “shake yourself together !”. Boy howdie did I try that…right up until the wheels of the plane lifted and we were airborne and headed to Albuquerque.
The ensuing month off, far away from the studio, provided a slow unpeeling of layers. Bathing in the breathtaking kindness of true friends, bathing in an actual hot tub, bathing in beauty…hard core color and light…surrounded by new vistas and familiar landmarks, my eyes eventually eased.
It took more time than I imagined, to crawl up and out of that groove, but long about the three week mark the light bulb grew brighter. I remember the morning, when the amber light of the vineyard sunrise angled its way through the pall. I could actually breathe more easily. That crisp October air cleaned out the last of the cobwebs. Finn saddled up in the back of the car. Herself put the camera in her lap. I sharpened the pencil and readied the sketchbook, and off we went…
When I have been away from the studio, on one or another of those “detours”, there has always come a moment, a jolting grip at the core, a stunning urgency in which I simply can’t wait to get back.
Today, after I get home from taking Finn to see her doc about some clean teeth, there is nothing, for miles and miles, between me and the easel. The first panel is up, sketch is on, I laid the fresh paint on the panel minutes ago, audiobook fired up, thermos of hot tea next to the cup…and I am ready.
I’ll keep you posted as the winter progresses but know that, for now, I’m back.
we are leaving…
for the Land of Enchantment…
for a reunion with dear friends,
a show opening
AND honeymoon,
all wrapped up in one.
The laundry is done…
and folded…
and the packing has begun. My artist’s eye is excited to experience new colors on the horizon, and my hard working fingers are looking forward to letting the brushes cool down for a bit.
A personal word of thanks to all who have sent such kind words to acknowledge our wedding announcement. It is just that sort of support which has brought us all forward and I have a deeper appreciation of the meaning of friendship because of you.
Working quite late in the studio tonight, but I’m at this computer rather than at the easel. There’s a lot of “business” stuff to this full time artist deal and it allows me to stretch some other creative muscles. Tonight, it’s writing.
No, not this blog, Painter’s Notes. If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you will have found your way to this logo,
It appears at the bottom left of each of the large format image pages, which are found when you click on a thumbnail in the Portfolio section of my website. The logo takes you to the little journal writing that I do for each painting. Long story, written up somewhere in the archives here, but for now, let’s just say that once I got started…I wasn’t allowed to stop.
I am not a writer, and the “I have to do the Painter’s Notes” task does tend to be put off until it can wait no longer. Tonight is that night. At least for the five new paintings that are going out to Santa Fe. Well, they have already arrived, ahead of our flight next week out to the land of enchantment.
As I begin, it puts a smile on my face to see the images of The Bogcutter and The Smock side by side…
Our son Jon, and his daughter Zoe.
Jon originally posed for this painting almost 5 years ago. Zoe is 4. She was just a twinkle in Papa’s eye when he hefted the bogcutter on his shoulders and let me sketch away. I’m so grateful now, for the reference photos I took way back then. Everybody changes over a five year time span, but I, unknowingly, caught him just before his life was to shift forever.
That painting sat on the back burner while I gathered up the courage to attempt an honest portrayal of someone I loved. Man it took guts, for me at least. The nudge of that AAC article was the extra shove I needed. That, and watching the passage of time move into warp speed.
The portrait of Zoe was a much more serendipitous affair. She simply wanted to paint next to her Mima. And when I got up to fetch her some clean water…it was all about the raking afternoon light. I wondered if a then 3 year old, would understand the concept of modeling. She loved trying out the new word and was so serious about her craft that the camera, clicking away behind her to capture the fleeting light in her hair, was no distraction. She was a natural at taking direction and held that dear little hand still so I could record the shadow on the dimple.
OK, now it’s later and I may not make it much longer tonight.
But, it’s a start. I’ll let you know when to click on that logo.
thereby flooding my humble website with new viewers…I throwdown this sneak peak at a brand new painting…
Tools of the Trade – 24 x 20
There are lots of clues in this painting to the other works which will be on exhibit in just a few days at the Sugarman Peterson Gallery in Santa Fe. In the meantime, I’ve got some shipping and handling to do…and a fair amount of shavings to sweep up.
