En Plein Air

Changing Times call for New Approaches to Marketing

2012-01-30T12:51:00.005-05:00

If you make your living as an artist, as I do, you've probably seen a major change in the purchasing habits of Americans since the end of 2008. The last three years have been a challenge, to say the least. I've paid the bills OK, but pulled the belt tighter on dog treats, trips to the country and dinners out. And, the salvation army is getting fewer of my clothes, as I'm hanging onto the fashions a bit longer than usual...overlooking a frayed sleeve or balled sweater in favor of a thicker wallet.

In the past, I've been 99% commissioned as a painter. All of my work is paid for before I paint it. But, I'm getting fewer calls as our sluggish economy drags on with little recovery. So, the other day I decided that I needed to change my strategy. And I asked myself, "Where are the buyers of art going to buy art these days?" And that's when I decided to find out where the best art fairs in the nation were located. It turns out that Scottsdale, Arizona is a really hot art market...and that's not a bad place to be in February. So, I got my stuff together and was juried into the Waterfront Thunderbird Art show in Scottsdale, Arizona...my first art show ever. Then I borrowed a tent and displays and spent a month framing paintings..all the while crossing my fingers that this leap of faith would bring me the sales and exposure I've been hoping for.

Sometimes we have to do these things...to take well planned leaps in the hopes of landing someplace we dream of being. I did it many years ago when I left the comfort of a job and started my own ad agency, then again when I started studying singing and then again when I starting singing professionally. Each time, I felt a sense of joy at the moment of the leap (mixed a little with fear) but never a sense of dread or of wanting to escape current circumstances. I feel that joy now as I prepare for this long trip across country with my paintings in tow. Images of hope and optimism fill the trailer and fuel my heart.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Social Outreach

2012-01-20T16:19:00.003-05:00

This morning I stretched my social net--and took a chance. I find it's always difficult trying something new, particularly when it's public. I posted a video on Kickstart.com of a project that I'm hoping can be funded with donations from my friends, family and as yet unknown patrons of the arts.

The link is:

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/116318509/sunland-school-hands-on-mural-project

I'd love your feedback on it and any support you can offer. At the moment, we only have $1...so I'm feeling a little dejected.

The mural project is for a wonderful school in south Phoenix that is in a Title 1 district. Title 1 is a federal grant program for improving the academic achievement of the disadvantaged. If we get to our goal for funding, the mural will grace the walls of a new art corridor outside the school. These murals make an incredible impression on the kids as you can kind of see on the faces of the students from my past murals. I've done 25 of these in Michigan. This will be the first one in a school district that needs a little assistance in raising the funds.

I'm hoping we reach our goal by February 18th, I'll keep you posted!

Painting Bryce Canyon

2012-01-06T19:30:00.002-05:00

The photo this painting is based on was taken during a semi-cloudy day in Bryce Canyon. Any day there is an extraordinary day. The rock colors are particularly difficult to capture. They change moment by moment as the light moves around them. In this painting I used a series of reds from warm to cool to show the subtle light play. The rocks with the most sun on them are the warmest, including the shadows. That is the most difficult concept to understand. The shadows are actually much warmer than normal. I believe this is due to the bounced light from the red rocks themselves. It's not apparent in the photo, as the camera tends to interpret shadow as a cool tone, but since I was there, I remember the colors vividly.

Using watercolors to depict reds can be challenging. The color rarely dries with the intensity that you intended, and placing a second coat on the painting often takes away the freshness. I found myself using colors directly out of the tubes for this painting. Colors like Scarlet Lake, Opera Rose and Vermilion were placed directly on the image and then I held my breath as they slowly lost some of their intensity. In some cases, I removed a tiny bit of the brilliance by placing a cool tone quickly over the top before it was completely dry, or I removed some of the color with a dry brush after the image had dried. I hope you like the results.

Grey Gray Grey….The Last Day of 2011

2011-12-31T14:44:00.002-05:00

On days like today, it's challenging to be a pleinair painter unless you like to work in charcoal. That's why I'm staying indoors for the 10th day in a row and working on paintings in my studio. Although some artists would tell you that you should be able to find beauty in anything, including a grey landscape, I disagree. It's the reason I don't put parking meters or power lines into my city scapes or landscapes. An artist is not a camera, and we can choose to edit. I choose to ignore the ugliness that city engineers and thoughtless planners construct to blight our landscapes…and I paint around them. I also choose to ignore the grey days and choose instead to focus on making my day brighter.

Many years ago I lived in Arizona where the sun shines 340 days out of the year. I never understood what a gift it is to see a sunrise or sunset until I move back here to the midwest. Thankfully, I've taken about 2000 photographs of the southwest and it's at times like these that I pull them out and flip through them for something to paint. Yesterday I did two small watercolors of Arizona sunsets and it brought the light back into my studio.

I also have another trick on sunless days like today. I have a Verilux light - also called a "Happy Light" that puts out full spectrum lighting. If you sit in front of this light for about four hours, it elevates your mood. Walking through my house, you can see the difference in the light color when you approach the studio. It looks like the sun is shining in that room alone. The real indicator that the light was working was when my sun-seeking cat jumped up on my crowded desk and attempted to lie down in a tiny empty spot in front of the light.

If all else fails to bring me out of my "grey" funk, I jump in the car and drive south until I get past the clouds and I stay there as long as I need to before coming back to the grey mitten. Most of the time, however, I'm fortunate that my "happy light" and a few paintings of sunsets usually succeed in bringing the color back into my life.

Core Beliefs Influence Art

2011-10-25T20:46:00.003-04:00

The painting above is by Bierstadt, an artist from the Hudson Valley School.

Each Saturday that it doesn't rain, I meet a bunch of artists to paint in the outdoors near my home. It's not an incredible landscape we look upon, but sometimes, I get incredible paintings from going there. This past saturday, my painting was just ok, nothing spectacular, just ok. I didn't follow my usual pattern of facing the sun...which may have made the difference. I've written in here before that I am usually the only one facing the sun. Everyone else paints what the sun is illuminating.

But on Saturday, there was one artist facing the sun and his painting was pretty spectacular. It was dark except for one slice of sunlight on a patch of grass illuminating the island. I asked him why he had chosen that particular subject when there was all the fall color to paint. He mentioned the Hudson Valley School and that they had one thing in common: they all painted light from a mysterious source. Then he mentioned that his choice of painting light illuminating the darkness came from his beliefs.

The Hudson Valley School is known for reverent, religious renderings of nature. You do get a sense of their beliefs when you look at the paintings. And yes, there is always a depiction of light coming through darkness. Was this on purpose? Did they intend to give a religious message? Or was the landscape just so beautiful that they wanted to catch the quality of light? I believe that my artist friend was correct. They were painting light from a mysterious source to communicate a message to us. They were asking us to pay attention to this one quality of their landscapes.

When I sing, it doesn't matter what the subject matter is, I always sing from the same place. I sing from my core. I sing knowing that I am an instrument and the music is coming through me. It's not about me up there on stage, if it was, I wouldn't be able to utter a note. I'm much to self-conscious and nervous to sing in public. But, I can do it when I sing from this core belief.

I have never applied this to my art in a conscious way. Nearly always, I will see the finished painting on the canvas before I ever apply the first brush stroke. So I can talk, joke and just use technical skills to finish the work, without too much effort. Occasionally, and much more recently, I haven't been able to see any painting on the canvas at all! That's when I get nervous and lose confidence in myself. I call it "being connected." I'm not connected when inspiration doesn't come easily. When I can't "see" the painting. A similar feeling comes over me when I can't "hear the music." It's disturbing and I feel very alone at those times, ungrounded almost.

These are very personal things. I don't know if all artists go through them. I have heard music in my head most of my life. Usually it's songs I'm working on, or just classical instrumental works. Sometimes, I'll get a commercial jingle stuck in there and I'll have to consciously think of something more appropriate to get it out of my head. Otherwise, it will loop over and over again and drive me mad. On the visual side, I will see things that need to be captured. I'll slam on my brakes, turn around in the middle of traffic and go back to take a photo. One time I pulled over to watch the sunset so abruptly that a car pulled in behind me on the side of the road. When the woman got out, I started to tell her that I just pulled over to watch the sun set. And she said, "So did I!" And we both turned to watch this amazing flaming orange light fade into the horizon.

It's this state of astonishment that brings me back to what I believe. I was astonished that my artist friend chose to paint a single sliver of light when all around him the trees were aflame with color. But this is based on his belief. A belief that light illuminates the darkness. And in his painting that day, there was much darkness and an astonishing sliver of light.

Painting in Competition

2011-08-31T08:30:00.005-04:00

Recently I won the "People's Choice Award" for a plein air painting done up in Glen Arbor, Michigan. It was a multi-challenging 7-hour experience.

After camping with a dog that had never slept in a tent or outside before, and rising at 6am to slam down a breakfast, pack and be at the Art Center by 7:45am, we headed out to select a site (my dog and I). The sun was peaking briefly in and out of the clouds, but it didn't look promising for a sunlit morning. I headed as fast as possible to the shore of Lake Michigan, to a site that I had explored the night before. The scene I wanted faced west, and there was no sign of sun. I couldn't see a picture in it. Driving back on the dirt road, a rare bit of sunlight caught the inside of a three-trunked birch tree and lit it up with orange. I slammed on the brakes and pulled over to snap a photo. Quickly, I pulled out the easel and started setting up, but the easel leg fell off and everything dropped into the dirt. I couldn't locate the pin that held it all together, so I used a display easel that I had brought as backup (always bring backup equipment!). This left all my paint and supplies on the ground, but it was better than nothing. Still blurry eyed, I raced to catch the light. The dog went to sleep on a mat by my easel (after keeping me up all night, he was tired). About an hour later, I was pretty happy with the birch trunks and sky, even though the sun had disappeared in the first five minutes of painting. I had just started on the fields and farm house when another painter pulled up beside us.

She was a pastel artist, and had decided as I did, that the lake front was not fit to paint that morning. She started a rendering of the farmhouse and field. My dog was not happy with the intrusion and decided to start being a pain. (He's a rescue and only a year and a half old) Thank heavens, the car was right next to me. Since it wasn't hot yet, I put him in the back of the car with the windows down. That stopped the constant threat of his chain knocking over my secondary easel. By lunch, both myself and my new artist friend had finished fairly acceptable paintings, and the light had changed too much to continue anyway. We decided to do a second painting at another location. She asked me where I was headed. I told her that I had spotted a large building by the side of the creek the night before, but couldn't imagine then how I would paint it and that I wanted to go back and check it out for a possible watercolor painting. She decided to come too.

The Grist Mill, as it was called, sat close to the road next to a steep drive. There was no way to get a good view of it on the side of the river next to the road. But across the river, I saw an elevated wooded area that looked like it might provide a distant vista of both the river and the building. We went searching for a way across the river and found one through a private gated community. There was a place to park just next to the wooded area…and the view and setting were perfect…except for the mosquitos. The little blood thirsty beasts had spawned by the thousands on the riverbank and they were hungry. I doused myself with bug spray, but didn't consider that my dog was also a viable target. As I set up the makeshift easel, he appeared greatly distressed, swinging his head from side to side snapping at the air and occasionally dropping to the ground to chew on a part of his body. It became very distracting and the buzzing around him was audible. I took pity on him and closed him in the car with the air running, where he fell promptly asleep. Now I could concentrate on what I was there for…to paint this incredible scene.

I set about to mark off the dimensions of the building using standard practices of vanishing points to determine the slant and location of each window. In a building of this type, if the lines are off, it ruins the whole painting. Not planning ahead enough, I had not brought a straight edge to draw the edges of the building, so I used the edge of a blank canvas, a little awkward but it worked. With the drawing complete, I called over to my friend who had set up across the river to see if she had the time. She said it was 2:30. I had less than two hours to finish the painting as we had to be back at the Art Center to frame our work by 4:30 and it takes time to pack up. I started to panic. Why had I chosen such a difficult subject? And why had I brought such a large frame which had forced me to do such a large watercolor! I didn't have any choice at that point, so I just decided that if it looked bad, or wasn't finished I just wouldn't enter it in the show. With self doubt and self-imposed pressure behind me, it became easier.

I masked off the areas that I wanted to keep bright yellow in the foliage and began to paint the building first with broad washes of light purple on the shadow side and then more details on each window laid in with gum arabic to maintain their darkness. Then I transferred the building into the water upside down and before it dried completely, I sprayed it with water and let it drip. Some of the spray splashed on to the building and I liked the effect, so I gave it a little more water. As it dried, I called over for time again….it was 3:45. Time had flown! I picked the painting up and waved it up and down to speed the drying time so that I could remove the masking. That done, I set in on putting the lines in for the siding and shadows around the windows. Then it started to rain! That's the last thing you want when you are doing a watercolor. It this point, I just let the drops fall on the painting, and to my surprise, the effect looked pretty good. My friend called over that it was 4:15 and that she was leaving. I sighed and looked at the painting. I guess it was done, but it looked cold somehow, the purple shadows seemed too strong. Then I did something that I have never done. I took a wide brush and filled it with a very wet mixture of orange and laid it in over the entire shadowed portion of the building and let it drip where it wanted to. The orange immediately toned down the purple and brought a warmth to the shadows and softened all the strong lines. It was beautiful. It was a blessing to not have the time to contemplate what I had done on an impulse, and how it could have ruined the painting. I packed up the car and drove to the Art Center to frame the two paintings.

During the show, I stood behind a couple who were looking at my watercolor. "I can't believe she did that in 7 hours" the woman said. "Actually, I did it in three." I told her, pointing to the birch painting on another wall, I added, "That was my first painting of the day."

The watercolor had not won any of the three prize ribbons, and I was disappointed. But it had sold, so that was good. After about an hour, I left the reception to take my dog for a short walk and passed by some patrons as they were leaving. They looked at my artist's name tag. "Oh, Katherine Larson!" they said, "We all voted for you for the People's Choice Award. Your painting of the Grist Mill was wonderful!" My spirits lifted, I returned to the reception, and shortly my name was called.

It's a wonderful thing to know that the public likes your work, it increases your confidence. But, an even greater result has come from this experience. I have learned to follow blind instincts and not analyze things too much. Taking chances and working through fear to the other side allows one the freedom to experiment and discover. And learning that was worth the whole experience.

A Personal Voice

2011-07-23T20:30:00.005-04:00

I don't know if all artists go through a reinvention process. I only know that after spending two weeks in the forest alone painting, I came out a different person. Since that time, I have looked at my massive body of work with a mixture of disbelief and disappointment. It's almost as if it didn't come from my hand, but was the work of someone else. Someone who was readily influenced by the demands of clients and was responsive to a public that constantly wanted something other than what they were doing as an artist. Believe me, I have been grateful for the work. And, I have been fortunate to have been able to deliver so many different styles of work for so long. But now, I'm finding that a different voice is speaking to me, a personal one. One that keeps asking: "What do you want to say?" And, I think that's an important question. So, I'm trying to answer it.

Little by little over the past two months, I've made some progress. It's not a verbal process, so it's difficult to express. I've thrown out more paintings the past two months than I've ever discarded in my whole life. And, I've saved a few from disaster by working hours on a tiny canvas in the studio. Something that would have taken me 20 minutes a year ago now takes me 10 hours. What I want to say is right on the tip of my brush...but I just can't seem to get it out.

The painting posted above was done this morning at Kensington. It comes the closest so far to what I want to say. The hard part about all of this is that I don't know how long this reinvention of myself is going to take. It's a process of disassembly, of unlearning, and relearning, of playing and of serious observation. It's wonderful and terribly uncomfortable at the same time...like laughing and crying simultaneously.

What gives me hope is remembering the experience of seeing an exhibit of Degas' work at the DIA. They had x-rayed the works and exposed on separate images the number of times he painted and repainted his masterpieces. In some cases, they said the work was repainted several years after the original work was done. It was shocking to me that a "master" could be so unsure of himself that he had to paint and repaint a work that many times. But, now I find it comforting. Now, when I look about the studio, and I want to repaint parts of paintings that I once loved, I think of Degas. And, I wonder, did he at one point in his life look at his work from earlier years and feel the kind of disappointment and emptiness in them as I feel from mine? I doubt it. But it's still sort of comforting to consider it.

The Destroyer of Worlds

2011-07-05T12:12:00.003-04:00

A few days ago I went to a film entitled: "Midnight in Paris." A line from that film haunted me. The author Hemingway is speaking to the main character, Gill, (also a writer) and he asks Gill if he is afraid to die. Because, Hemingway tells him, if you are afraid to die, you can't be a writer. He goes on to tell him that he must be fearless in all things.

I have been struggling with a mural for the past month and I had finally decided that I just wasn't going to get the effect I wanted with the painting...so I was about to give up and deliver it to the client. Over the weekend, I went Plein air painting with the Michigan Plein Air group...and my frustration with the mural seemed to have transferred to my painting there as well. I was disgusted with my work. At one point, I took the watercolor and dunked the whole thing into the creek. ...It made it better, but I decided to tear it up anyway and start over. I became a destroyer of worlds that day...my own worlds. And, it felt good. Do we have to destroy to create? It turns out that to create something new, that's often the case. Or, at least, part of the old must be changed in order to create something new. Even creating from the void changes the void....

So today, I was drinking a cup of coffee and reading a book while sitting across the room from this mural that I had been struggling with...and I happened to look up at the mural while considering what I was reading. And, to my shock, the mural looked really good! Wow, I thought, maybe I just needed a few days of looking at it for my judgement to get out of the way. So I got up and walked across the room and as I got closer, it got uglier again. Then I realized I didn't have on my glasses. I had been looking at the mural from across the room without my distance glasses on...and it looked great. I had an AH HAH Moment!

Immediately, before I could forget what I saw from across the room without my glasses, I picked up my paintbrush and began a process of what I will call "blurring" of the image. All edges were softened and the shapes took on a blurred, but logical shape. It was no longer necessary to show leaves on trees or ripples in the water...they were there, only subliminally. When we look at the world, it is not a leaf at a time, but we know there are leaves on the trees. We can also only focus on one object at a time, and all others become slightly out of focus. I know this, I just forgot about it in my desire to paint every pretty fall leaf on the trees!

When I get a final photo of the mural, I'll post it here. Right now, I'm in the mood to destroy...at least partially, some of my other paintings.

Peace out.

Artists out of work

2011-02-24T09:01:00.000-05:00

It seems such a shame these days that many artist friends of mine are not working full time in their field. The ability to create visual worlds is a gift, and a relatively rare one I am discovering. But, I have always taken it for granted. And as a result, it's taken me many years to place the appropriate value on my work. Sometimes I'm good at valuing it, other times, not so good. I think it's difficult to put value on one's work until someone else puts a price to it for you. But one thing is universally true for artists, and that is that we live in our own world…the world of our making.

A painting student of mine said she had recently watched a video of Bob Ross yesterday. I'm taking it for granted that everyone who has ever painted or aspired to paint knows who Bob Ross is…if not google him. My student commented on his dialog while he painted, how soft and gentle he was. I have watched Bob paint at least 100 times in my life, and I never grow tired of him. He is in "his own little world" as he paints, and much like a gifted storyteller, he takes you with him on the journey. You can feel the peace in him. I have never seen an episode where he has not used the words, "this is your world, you can paint whatever you feel like."

I feel the same way about the real world that I live in. I can create any reality that I want. I can create a reality where I am working as an artist, or a reality where I'm not. And, I can change my mind about what it is to be artist.

As a child, when I was being taught about all the great artists in history, I noticed that almost all of them were starving or suffering during their lifetimes, but after their death, their paintings sold for millions and I wondered why. I still wonder why. Artists are unique individuals with unique gifts. Every one has a different perspective on the world and most likely, different training and skills…and therefore the expression of the art is distinctly unique. Why then do artists so often falter in their ability to express and value themselves during their lifetimes? I think it is a mindset, a lie that has been taught to artists that we have accepted.

When I was in high school, I did a sculpture of Mozart. It was a beautiful bust of his head and I was very proud of it. I had completed it in two days. The next day, I came back and unwrapped the clay to admire it again and found the face punched in, the imprints of the knuckles clearly visible in the clay. I wept. I did not understand why anyone would want to destroy something so beautiful. Now, after many years, I understand the destroyer.

The statue of David was damaged about 15 years ago by an angry and jealous sculptor who threw a chipping mallet at David's feet and broke off a toe. Everyone seems so shocked at his actions, but I understand them now. He had bought into the lie. The lie that tells us that only a few of us succeed, and that it is difficult to make it in our lifetimes as an artist even with great talent.

Don't accept the lie. The lie comes from a source that is talentless, void of creativity and filled with anger and jealousy. An artist's life can be filled with love, because we create our own worlds….and the world I choose to create is one of optimism and beauty. My paintings never contain parking meters, or power grids, visions of death, pollution or violence. They reflect the best of mankind and nature and this is intentional. You attract that upon which you focus your time and attention. So, if sunrises, sunsets, trees, waterfalls, animals, light and happy people are not to your liking, you probably won't like my work. But it's my world and I can create whatever I want. So far, being an optimist has worked for me.

Biting Problem

2011-02-21T14:44:00.002-05:00

It's true, I expect a lot from my dogs. I expect them to travel with me without complaint or concern for where we are going or what we are doing. I expect them to tell me when they need to go out, but to know that I often won't be able to take them out immediately (like when I'm on the interstate). I expect them to be off schedule, as I often am, and except eating dinner late, going to bed late and often in strange places. In fact, about the only thing a dog with me can count on is that I'll always be there with them and for them. That's always worked in the past with the three dogs that have chosen to spend their lives with me. So, imagine my surprise when my most recent dog started biting me for no reason at all.

The attacks came at odd times. When I asked him to do something he didn't want to do, during playtime, before he went out, after he went out and during his time out. The worst times were during these last three. He would often fly at me at high speeds, slamming his body into me while showing his teeth and snapping. It didn't look much like playing, even if someone had taught him to do it. After less than a week, I had bruises up and down both arms, on my shoulders, calves, ankles, torso and rear...pretty much everywhere. He never broke the skin, but the pain was as bad as having someone pinch me hard with a pair of pliers all over my body.

My friends all told me that I had adopted a "biter" and that I should have him put down. I was less inclined to give up on him. I looked up the problem on the internet and decided that he was a dominate aggressive dog and took the steps suggested on the websites. After a few days of isolation from everyone but me, he got a little better. But the attacks during his trips to "do his business" continued.

He had had loose stools since I had adopted him. The Humane Society said they had done worming on him and that the stools came up negative, so I just assumed it was nerves. But, after three weeks with no improvement, I suspected that there was something else going on. It turned out that he had bacterial infections in the small intestines and was in quite a bit of pain.

It's now been a week and a half since we treated him. The stools are normal, and the biting has stopped....completely. I'm posting this, because I had started to doubt my belief that there are no bad dogs, only bad people. My faith has been restored. He was in pain, and he couldn't tell me, so he bit me to let me know something was wrong. It seems strange, but when you think about it...it's not. People do strange things when they are in pain too. I'm just glad I figured it out before someone decided that he was a "biter" and had him put down.

He's sleeping peacefully at my feet as I write this.

Maestro!

2011-01-26T17:47:00.000-05:00

Death of a friend

2011-01-26T17:30:00.005-05:00

On the eleventh of January, 2011 my beloved Weimaraner, Jacque died of blebs which caused leaking of air from his lungs into his chest cavity. Six of the seven lung lobes were effected with blebs and only 50% of the lung can be removed with successful recovery. Upon his death, I realized yet again how much these loving creatures contribute to my life. Without him, I no longer wandered into the woods to paint. I no longer wished to walk at all. I didn't know what to do first thing in the morning. I had no one to eat with, or to share the couch. I had no one to talk to in the car when an inconsiderate driver cut me off in traffic. When I laughed, he no longer came running wondering if he had done something funny to bring me such joy.

Eight years earlier, my first Weimaraner died of cancer and a swore I would never get another dog. As a stood sobbing at the dog park, woman I barely knew changed my mind when she said: "If you don't get another dog, you don't understand the concept of dog." I looked at her with confusion, and she continued: "Dogs live in the present moment. Your dog would never want you to grieve like this for the past. She would want you to take this incredible love and give it to another dog that needs it as much as you need to give it." Two days later, Jacque came into my life and needed a home. If this woman had not said that to me, I would not have been prepared to accept Jacque, and I would not have had the last 8 incredible years with him.

So I took this wisdom in hand a second time and waited for the right dog. It didn't take long. Five days ago, I was informed that a Weimaraner had been returned to the Humane Society for bad behavior. He was 8 months old and not house broken. I dropped everything and went down to meet him. His name is Maestro and he is my new beloved member of the family. (see post above)

The Power of Place

2010-06-15T15:16:00.008-04:00

Last week I completed this painting in Kensington Metro Park on one of those days when it's so beautiful, you're just happy to be alive to experience it. It's paintings like these that I find most difficult to sell. Not because I am in love with the painting, but because I don't want to part with the sense memories that is brings back every time I see it. It was a quiet day with a slight cool breeze, and so sitting partially in the sun, the temperature was perfect. It was too early for bugs. Jacque, my dog, played along the shore or laid in the grass by my feet, rolling first on one side and then the other to warm his fur in the sun. I have a sense of place when I look at this painting. Something that you don't possess unless you have personally visited a place and spent time there.

I'll never forget going to the Grand Canyon and seeing it for the first time after years of looking at spectacular photos and paintings. Nothing could have prepared me for the experience I had there. I arrived many hours after sunset, and so I could not see anything when I went to the edge of the canyon. I made a decision to be at the edge at sunrise, and so I set my alarm for 5am the following morning. It was very cold pre-dawn the next morning and I knew I'd never make it without coffee. There was a dining hall I had passed the night before and I hoped it was open. To my surprise, there was a line in the cafeteria. I got my coffee and headed for the first overlook, about 15 minutes away. The parking lot was about half full, at 6am! I descended the stairs in the haze of early morning light and I could just make out the opposite side of the canyon. Without sunlight, it looked flat, gray and uninteresting. At the bottom of the staircase, close to 50 people stood on the east side of platform looking towards the brightest part of the sky. Steam rose from their cups and their lips as they whispered quietly to each other in many different languages. Some people stood quietly, alone, as I was with cameras around their necks. We were all waiting for the same thing, and it brought us together in a way people come together to worship.

After about a half hour, the sun broke over the southeast wall of the canyon and its golden light caressed the north face. There was silence except for the clicking of camera shutters all around me. I was awestruck by how quickly the sun moved across the canyon, changing everything in its path. People were crying and hugging each other. My eyes welled up too. A couple from Italy hugged me...total strangers until 10 minutes earlier. They had moved from their place on the railing to let me get a better photo of the lower part of the canyon. All this was done in near silence. People whispered if they spoke at all, so as not to disrupt the experience...the worship.

I still have the photos of that morning in the Grand Canyon, and every time I look at them, I remember that experience. It's often not the beauty of the photo, or the painting that draws me to cherish it. It is the power of the place, the experience that I had there and the time that I spent.

This is what Plein Air painting is all about for me. Capturing the experience and emotion on canvas. That sense of peace, or quiet, or power or worship of a place I want to give to another. That's why I paint.

2010-06-09T21:31:00.004-04:00

A fews days ago, I created this video as a tribute to my constant companions over the years. Although I created it to be viewed on a full screen TV, and not as a .mov file, you can get the general sentiment of the film.

My dogs have always gone with me on my journeys. In the early days of auditioning and singing around the country, my dog Elsa would even go into the dressing rooms with me in the bowels of theaters around the country. She would sing with me when I was warming up. She loved to sing, but only to my voice. Once when I was singing a Verdi Requiem on stage for the Illinois Symphony, I came to the final movement that starts with the soprano voice singing "Requiem" rising out of total silence. Somewhere off in the distance, I heard Elsa starting to howl. I looked in despair to the stage manager and saw a flurry of activity off stage. Fortunately, I was told that the audience had not heard it, however the chorus and I certainly had. Since Elsa had never done anything like that before, I can only guess that the speaker had been left on in my dressing room and when she heard my voice, she joined right in.

This film features my current dog, Jacque who did his best to deliver everything I asked for and more. Although, he doesn't sing. I hope you enjoy his acting skills.

Working with Students

2010-05-07T10:46:00.004-04:00

Recently I was asked to do a mural for the celebration of the 175th Anniversary of Stockbridge and the surrounding areas. This mural was done over 5 days in the Heritage Elementary School in Stockbridge. I worked with several hundred 5th graders over a period of 4 days, and then finished the final details on the mural.

It is always an amazing experience to work with students. I find that young adults have no fear and with a little instruction, can paint in exactly the style that is required. Of course, it helps if you have a strong vision for the mural, but you also have to let go of any expectations. Sometimes wonderful things can happen, like running paint that creates branches or an unexpected large flower added by a student.

In meeting with a young artist the other day, I was struck by her enthusiasm and energy. Her ideas were big, and at the time, all I could think about was how much work it would take to make them happen. Then, I remembered a conversation I had had with an older artist about 10 years ago. He had taken on several interns from the University of Michigan who were helping him with his projects. He asked me why I didn't have interns working with me to create my large murals. I laughed at him and said that it would take longer to train them and correct their work than it would to just create it myself. He smiled and reminded me gently that someday I might not have the same energy level, and that working with the next generation passed the skills on to them.

Today, I understand the wisdom of his advice. We are losing skills every year as a nation, and as artisans. The old ways of doing things are going away, and the newer "better" ways are taking over. In some cases, such as in information distribution, the new ways are better, but in others, like illustration and painting, using the computer is limiting and in some cases the technology drives the design to the point that many artist's works look similar to each other. We have a responsibility as "masters" of our trades, to pass our knowledge on so that it isn't lost in our fast-pace digital world. For my part, I am finding working with students rewarding and inspirational. I hope others will follow my fellow artist's advice.

Singing Flowers

2010-01-20T10:00:00.003-05:00

After posting this latest watercolor on my Facebook page, one of my friends commented "Move over, Georgia!" Although I prefer to think of my flowers as singers rather than sex organs, I appreciated the compliment.

Painting flowers in plen-air is a wonderful experience. I did my first one this summer in a friends garden. ("Stairway to Heaven-Blue Iris" is currently on display at the Ed Gray Gallery in Calumet, Michigan.) What amazed me so much was the movement of the flowers even on the calmest of days. Whenever I picked out a flower to photograph, it would start swaying gently back and forth. This was not my imagination, as I am a steady handed photographer and there was not even the slightest breeze. I believe the flowers were responding to my intense admiration of them.

After taking several photos for later reference and possible studio paintings, I selected one in the field and began painting. As I painted, everything became very quiet. I started to see things in the flowers. Joy. Love. Light. Life...the patterns of the tiny veins in the petals looked so much like the veins in my hands and wrists. And I wondered, if these flowers could speak, what would they say. As time passed that afternoon, I decided that they were not speaking, but singing....wordless songs of joy intoned on the vowel "Ah...."

Messages from the Other Side

2010-01-14T18:15:00.004-05:00

Every now and then, I revisit some of the writings I made during my stay in the Porcupine Mountains. This extended time alone in the woods served as a wake up call for me not only as an artist, but as a human being. I was an artist in residency for two weeks and rarely left the woods for anything except the bare necessities.

However, after a week and a half in the woods, I suddenly longed for contact with the outside world. I needed to get back in touch, and I kept hearing the nagging voice of responsibility directing me to check my phone messages. " I rummaged through the stuff on my passenger seat in the car and located my cell phone. But, it didn't even display a reception bar. Instead, It said sadly "searching for service." And it kept displaying that same message no matter where I drove. In fact, I started to feel a little sorry for it, because I knew it would never find the service it was seeking.

My last link to the civilized world had been in a little town called Ontonagon. A town that was proud to announce that the most exciting thing to happen to it in the last 40 years was the addition of a Pamida store. In Ontonagon, I got two bars on my cell phone and I sat in the parking lot of the Pamida to check my messages.

The first time I checked messages I felt like a child playing hooky from the rest of the world. I felt guilty hearing my client's responsible work related messages and urgent pleas for my services. I had to call them back and leave messages that I was unavailable for a few days. In most cases, I didn't want to tell them where I was or what I was doing. Being in the wilderness seemed so much less important than what they were trying to accomplish. In one case, I even told them I was in the U.P. working on a project, although what I was actually doing felt very far removed from any work I had ever known.

But all feelings of guilt had vanished by the time I got around to checking messages the second time. I listened in detached amusement to the urgency in their voices. One client had called me six times. The first message was in a normal tone, the second time it was slightly more agitated, the second to last message demanded to know where I was and why I hadn't responded, and the last message sounded genuinely worried since it had been four days and I had not answered any of her messages. I called her back first and immediately felt the stress in her voice.

U.P. natives each have a particular way of describing the culture on the other side of Lake Michigan. One said there should be a sign for those leaving the U.P. crossing over the Macinaw Bridge saying: Ye Who Enter Here, Abandon All Hope. Another said that when he crosses over the bridge he waits to see how long it will take before he gets the bird flipped at him for driving too slow. The only birds you see in the U.P. are the flying kind. Another woman said she descends into a depression every time she has to cross over.

It was the stress in these messages from the other side of the bridge that surprised me the most. Everyone seemed to be in such urgent need. I couldn't understand the urgency. None of these things were necessary for survival. None of these messages were about life or death. Everything they called me about in a panic could have waited until I had returned.

Their messages reminded me of my own insane inflexibility when it came to deadlines and appointments. Once on a trip to Italy, I became very agitated when the bus driver made me late to a meeting. He had simply pulled the bus over at an unscheduled stop next to a cafe and gone in for an espresso and a cigarette. I watched in amazement and agitation as all the other passengers got off the bus and went into the cafe with him. Some of them even had pastries with their coffees. After about fifteen minutes in the hot bus, I reluctantly stepped outside to wait, grumbling and cursing them under my breath. Stupid Italians, I thought. How could anybody get anything done in this country if they couldn't even keep a simple bus schedule. When I arrived late to my meeting I was very upset and tried to explain what happened. But, it made no difference to the Italian I was meeting. Oh good, he said, I'm glad you got to have an espresso on the journey. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I had been too upset about being late to our meeting to go in and enjoy a cup of coffee.

Life doesn't give you a guarantee you'll be around even for the next ten minutes. There's an old saying: If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans for tomorrow. We only have this moment, now, and no more. So, I'm going to enjoy that cup of coffee from now on and maybe even a pastry, even if it makes me late, because the bus could crash a mile down the road. This isn't crazy or lazy, or irresponsible--it's real, and it's about truly living in the moment. The forest taught me what the Italians couldn't. There's no tomorrow in the forest, there's no time at all. Stand next to a 300 year old Hemlock and watch the second hand tick away on your watch. After a few times around the dial, maybe you'll understand, and then you'll hear the forest laughing.

Visitor in the Wilderness

2009-10-25T11:36:00.006-04:00

The day after the great storm, I decided to take a lightly traveled path into the Porcupine Mountains to see if there might be anything of interest to paint there. It was called "Lost Creek Trail", which should have given me some hint of what was to come. Arriving at the path, I saw no other cars in the parking lot, so I knew I would be completely alone on the path. This was nothing new for me, as I relish the opportunity to be alone in nature. I often sing at these times, as I know I won't be disturbing anyone, and I can "let loose" as I do in the concert hall, and the sound in the woods, or over lakes is fantastic.

About a half hour into the walk, I heard water rushing off to my right and decided to leave the path to investigate. It sounded like a waterfall. A little bit of background for those who don't venture off path in virgin woods very often: the ground is not solid, it feels hollow underfoot, because of thousands of years of dead trees falling and decaying one upon another without compaction. As a result, you feel as though you are stepping on a sponge filled with holes, covered by leaves.

I placed my walking stick into the ground carefully at each step until I arrived at the edge of a cliff. Below me stretched a narrow, long sunlit valley with a lively creek running through it. Water cascaded from the hillside and the ground beneath me felt slightly squishy and unsteady, like a soggy bread crust. I stepped back from the edge slightly and felt compelled to remember this moment in song. I looked around carefully to make sure I was alone. No one was there.

I chose a soprano solo from Bach's Magnificate. It sings well in the open air, each note traveling in purest clarity. The forest becomes still when I sing, as if every creature is listening. The sun broke through in the middle of the aria and yellow leaves sparkled like jewels. I finished and felt the silence around me slowly filling again with movement. I turned to head back to the path I had left behind.

The forest was dense and dark compared to the sunlit valley. I felt as though I was being watched, and my flesh began to tingle with a strange electrical current. My dog let out a low growl and the hair on his back stood up. He backed up away from the path, moving back towards the cliff. I looked hard into the darkness in front of me, attempting to readjust my eyes. I saw a solid shape, with red eyes. At first I thought it was "Big Foot"! It looked huge, and my dog had never reacted that way to anything. Without waiting to see exactly what it was, I started moving away from the path and followed instead the line of the cliff. I walked as fast as I could, still being cautious about the unsteady ground. Never once looking back, I soon found a path that I had seen on the map which crossed the stream and the valley leading to a Yurt. This lead to an old logging trail not indicated on the map. I took it, figuring it had to lead to the road eventually. My dog growled again in the general direction of the first sighting and I wasted no time in jogging out.

Safe on the road, I searched my memory of the sighting, and decided that it must have been a black bear.

Later, I decided...if Bach's Magnificate attracted bears, I would have to remember to take it off my list of woodland songs.

Storm in September

2009-10-17T18:23:00.005-04:00

Photos taken the day after the two-day storm.

The end of September, I called a small resort in the U.P. to make arrangements to rent cabin on the shore of Lake Superior. I asked the owner what I might be able to expect for weather, as I was a painter and required at least some sunshine to do my work. The owner was a bit put off by my inquiry and told me that he couldn't guarantee the weather conditions. I assured him that I was coming anyway, but was hoping to get the best week up there for color, etc. I also asked for a cabin as close to the water as possible. He said, "all you can see from your window is Lake Superior!" So I reserved the cabin.

The drive up was great, the fall color was beautiful. I had high hopes for the week ahead. I stopped several times to take photos, so I was running a bit later than anticipated. Just as I arrived at my destination, dark clouds rolled in and the winds kicked up. People were running around frantically bringing in lawn chairs and shutting windows. The owner took me the cabin I had rented and true to his word, it was about 10 feet from the shore. "We usually close this cabin before weather like this comes in..." he said, "But that normally doesn't happen until November."

That night, deafening winds and waves crashed against the tiny cabin. The cover flew off my wall heater during the night and blew out the pilot light. I couldn't relight it. That evening, the Houghton airport reported a record low of 27 degrees.

For two days, the storm ripped against the shoreline. The wind was so strong, it could blow you over. Wind gusts reached speeds of over 60 miles an hour. Now and then, I peeked out my front window at the grey spray and amazing waves. My cabin and car was covered with a colored mosaic of shredded leaves and twigs. Even my dog wouldn't leave the cabin for more than what was absolutely necessary.

On the third day, the temperature was still in the 40's, but I ventured out as the wind was bearable. At noon, the sun broke through, and there was a festive spirit in the air. People everywhere were sharing their experiences of the last two days, some had been in tents, or backpacking when it started. Some had trees come down around them. One tree flattened a car at a hotel in Copper Harbor. Fortunately, no one was injured. My host offered to reduce my rate for the last couple of days because I had not been able to paint outside, but I told him I wouldn't have missed it for the world. It was like spending two days at the base of Niagra Falls! I truly feel blessed to have experienced the power and wonder of Lake Superior first hand.

And, then we had sun for the next two days!

Mosquitoes in the Woods

2009-09-16T13:19:00.004-04:00

The Continuing Memoirs of

My Artist in Residency in the U.P.

I'm sure everyone at one time or another has been bothered by mosquitoes, so I wasn't too concerned when I read about them in the Porcupine Mountains guidebook. But it turns out that in the U.P., common repellents actually attract the little spear carrying devils inviting them to the blood feast ahead.

When I'm painting, I'm a stationary target for mosquitoes. While hiking, I can stay a little ahead of the nasty monsters and it's harder for them to get a good needle pierce in before I detect it. But sitting quietly, distracted by my work, they can land lightly and insert their blood sucking device without notice, and a substantial amount of blood can be let before I discover them.

On my second day in the woods, I had found a great spot to paint next to a creek. I knew the mosquitoes were bad, but I had applied a fair amount of extra strength repellent, so I wasn't too concerned. After about a half hour, I had given so much blood I was in danger of becoming anemic. There were (and I'm not exaggerating) about two hundred mosquitoes on and around me as I painted. The high-pitched whining sound they gave off as a group was deafening. They were bitting through my pants, my shirt and my hat, even through my thick wool socks. I tried to ignore them. I reached back at one point to scratch a bite on my backside and discovered that my entire backside was one big bite! That was it for me. I had to do something or abandon my painting- or, possibly leave the woods for good.

I had purchased a spray from a wilderness supply store before my trip to the U.P. The sales person said was great for spraying on clothing as a repellent. Since they were biting through my clothes, I figured it was time to apply it. I sprayed the stuff all over me, literally soaking my pants, heavy wool socks, hat and shirt with it. As a result, I got a lot of it on my skin as well. After I finished spraying, I noticed that there were no mosquitoes buzzing around me anymore. Good, I thought. Then, I sat down to read the directions. The directions said: "for clothing spray only. Do not allow contact with the skin. If contact with the skin is made, wash the contaminated area well with soap and water for fifteen to twenty minutes, then call poison control immediately." Well, the contact with my skin was pretty much full body...and I didn't have any way to wash even my hands for fifteen or twenty minutes. The creek was only a few inches deep, and ice cold. So, I asked out loud to the forest: how bad could it be? Maybe they just put these warnings on the bottle because they are legally required to. (I had to hope this at least.) What were my options? I decided to ignore the warning and sat down again to paint, in my spray soaked clothing. I watched as the first mosquito landed on my thigh and fell over dead on the spot! Good Lord, what had I done? Poisoned myself in the middle of the forest?

Deciding that I couldn't completely ignore the warning any longer, I stripped off my wet clothing and hung it up to dry, near me...as a warning to the little pests that I was dangerous. Then, I washed off as best I could under the circumstances. But I'm sure it wasn't sufficient as no mosquitoes came near me after that, even in my alternate set of clothes.

The following day, I drove a half an hour into the nearest town to call a friend of mine. Repellent in hand, I read the active ingredients to her while she looked them up on the internet. "Have you had any seizures yet?" she asked. I wasn't sure if I would know if I had had one or not, so I said no. "Well, any trouble breathing?" Not unless I'm going up a hill I thought, but I had trouble with that before the spray, so I said no. "Well, then I guess you'll just have to worry about whether there are any long term effects." What were those, I asked her. "It doesn't say." She said.

I'm happy to report that I'm still OK. But, to any of you who want to try the clothing spray, I would reccommend following the application directions. I would have to say that one long-term effect was that not a single mosquito touched my arms, legs or neck for the next two weeks, but they did still bite my ankles if they were exposed.

Ticks in the Tent

2009-08-31T09:13:00.001-04:00

The Continuing Memoirs

of My Artist in Residency in the U.P.

Little Carp River, Porcupine Wilderness, Michigan's U.P.

When I arrived at the Porcupine Wilderness Visitors Center, I was presented with a book about surviving in the forest. The book described, in detail, a long list of parasites and pests, including the effects of their bites, what they look like and how to get them off you once they "latch on." However, in most cases, the book described what little you could do for relief once you are bitten. I'm not sure if the book was intended as a helpful guide, or as a deterrent to those considering the U.P. as a possible retirement location. One U.P. born resident of Ontonagon told me he thanks God every day for the black fly, because it alone keeps 95% of the people away who might have made their home there.

If you want to read about the black fly, there are many descriptions of it in books and on the web. I'll just tell you that it strikes terror into the hearts of even those brave souls who live there. One native told me that she was bitten once at the corner of her eye and it caused her entire eye to swell and turn purple. The same woman had another bite inside her ear...you can imagine the pain in that! You can't see the black fly, you only know that it's visited you after it's bitten you. I got my first bite, and thank God, my only bite on the first day--behind my ear. The lingering effects of that bite remained with me until after my return two weeks later. There's no way to describe a Black Fly bite, you just have to experience one. So, I'll save you the gruesome details and hope you never have the displeasure.

What I found most amusing during my stay was the descriptions by U.P. natives of the clothing they wear during black fly season to avoid getting bitten. These oddly garbed creatures must be somewhat frightening to visitors, possibly even laughable, until they themselves are bitten. Residents described their protective gear as ranging from full body netted suits, three layers of clothing with netted head gear, helmets with nets and flip-down glass face-plates, elbow high gloves, high boots (the black flies like to bite ankles), and netted hats (flies also like bitting behind the ears). One resident said she is basically blind and deaf after doning all her gear to work in her garden in the spring.

Fortunately, the black flies depart the end of spring, but they are followed by a whole slew of other flying and crawling creatures who move in for the summer. My personal favorite is the tick. Wood ticks are the most common kind in the U.P. and although they don't carry the dreaded lyme disease, they are still pretty disgusting. The only thing satisfying about a wood tick is hearing them pop while squishing them. My third night in the tent, I turned on a flashlight to check the time and found the first tick on my arm. It hadn't "hooked on" yet, so I brushed it off with a shiver and decided I better check my dog next to me for more. To my dismay, there were three on him. But, fortunately none had hooked on, so I picked each one off carefully and killed them as the book had described. I swear the little creatures know you are coming to get them because they try frantically to dig in just as you are picking them off. Their little legs flail about wildly before death by squishing. I know this sounds cold, cruel, and disgusting but once you're in the same situation, you'll find yourself squishing them too. In all, there were eight ticks in my tent that night. I won't go into details on where I found the other four. One of my U.P. friends had told me that they crawl around sometimes for a few days looking for just the right spot to hook on, so you usually have plenty of time to find them before they do any damage. Fortunately, she was right.

The next morning, I looked around my tent to find the spot where the ticks had "dropped in" to visit. I discovered a tiny hole between the top seams in the dome. During the rainstorm it had popped open to let in anything that happened to walk by. In the morning light, I could see the undersides of several ticks walking over the lighted dome of my shelter. I quickly took a piece of paper toweling and blocked the hole. No more univited guests dropped in after that.

One Woman's Adventures in the U.P.

2009-08-29T18:43:00.001-04:00

Mid-winter last year, I received an email that I had been choosen as one of the Artist's in Residence for the Porcupine Mountains in Michigan's Upper Pennisula. The award came as a surprise. Although I had applied for it, I never really expected to be chosen. So getting it put me a little off balance. Two weeks all alone in 40,000 acres of wilderness...I wasn't too sure I was ready for it.

I have spent some time in a tent, so it wasn't the logistics that were concerning me. It was leaving the comforts of home and all things familiar and putting my clients and work on hold that worried me the most. In retrospect, it was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. I began my journey with the intent of interpreting nature and putting it into a visual context. I ended with nature's quiet observance giving me a reflection of myself...a reflection that I wasn't too sure I liked.

I'm sure you've seen a film or two where the action is going at full speed and then suddenly it's slowed down to very slow motion and you can see every detail. That's what happened to me after driving the eleven hours that it takes to arrive at the Porcupine Mountains. I called it decompression at the time, but it's more like being slowed down from the daily pace you are accustomed to experiencing at every moment in the "civilized world" to a painfully reduced speed. A pace that feels almost like you aren't moving forward at all until you adjust to it. Then, it feels right; like something that you've known all your life, but had forgotten. At regular speed, you can't see this. You can't see the dizzying, crazy, car wreck speed that we all travel just to keep pace. You can't see that we're all hurrying, all rushing about in a panic. It just seems normal to us, this frantic speed. Talk is excellerated, thoughts race forward, voice levels are elevated. We can't take the time to really listen to one another, because there is no time. Everyone and everything is moving too fast, we might miss something--like the beginning of a movie, dinner reservations, our place in line, our leading position on the highway. We want no one in front of us holding us back, slowing us down.

In the first few days of "slow motion," I thought, well this is temporary, I'll go back to my regular pace once I return home. But, soon I found myself driving 35 in a 55 zone, where just two days earlier I had been traveling 65. Then, to my surprise, I started taking detours from my scheduled route and often ended my day at a competely different destination than I had planned. I missed meals, because I wasn't hungry. I went to bed somedays at 5:30 at night because I was tired. Other days, I was up at 5:30 in the morning, because I was done sleeping. I turned off the car radio upon arriving at the mountains, and I never turned it on again. Well, that's not exactly true, I turned it on for about 15 seconds during my drive home, and it sounded strange to me- like someone talking into a tin can- so I turned it off again.

Although you don't feel the frantic pace we live in everyday, you definitely feel the slow-down when it starts loosening you. It's both painful and welcome, like muscles relaxing after a long period of tension. There's an ache with the loosening, but there is also relief.

I'm not really sure what causes this slow-down. Maybe, it's reducing your standard of living to what you can carry on your back. Maybe it's being made aware of everything we do to alter nature like heating and pumping water; artificially lighting the dark; preserving food with ice; making fires to keep warm and prepare food; making shelters in order to sleep and spraying on toxic mixes of chemicals to ward off insects and parisites. Maybe the slow-down is a result of finally being forced to live within nature's pace. To rise and set with the sun; to walk through the forest with one's own true stride; to accept and adapt to whatever weather presents itself; to know that you are amongst other creatures...wild creatures who aren't on leashes or in cages; and to finally release the fantasy that you are in control.

Spending time in the wilderness by yourself is a singular experience. There is nothing to compare with it. There isn't another person to give back a familiar reflection. To say to you, yes you are you...you are still who you were yesterday. I recognize you, I know who you are.

You are a stranger to the woods. And you soon become a stranger to yourself. Muscles are challenged, the body transforms and adapts to the loss of comforts. Temperatures can fluctuate up to 50 degrees in the course of a day. This is normal for the forest, but I was never aware of it in my temperature controlled home and car. Hunger or thirst can come upon you at anytime. The body pays no heed to your scheduled lunch hour, or dinner time, or the fact that you only brought one liter of water on your hike. You learn to listen to your body...to really listen. It becomes your number one ally upon which you rely for travel as well as survival. And it helps you find what you need to revive yourself--thimble berries, wild raspberries or a natural spring.

Your mind also transforms and adapts to the loss of distractions and negative resources available to it in regular life. With no one around to blame for a difficult circumstance in which you may find yourself, you have two choices: 1. put up with the self-incriminating, negative voice in your head, or 2. put your brain to work finding a way out of your circumstances. Fortunately, it didn't take long for me to see the futility in pursuing the negative talk. And, it was as if the brain rewired itself instantaneously into my new "positive assistant" and has remained in this role ever since.

But probably the greatest transformation has been the loss of fear. The first few days, I felt as though the forest was watching me, studying me and my feeble attempts to appear "at home." It knew I was petrified of the dark. And, you have never experienced dark until you've been in an old-growth forest. The first night, I awoke in the middle of the night and felt the urge to go, but I just told myself it could wait until it was light. I laid there in pain for four hours waiting for daylight. I had a tremedous fear of something coming upon me that I couldn't see. But, after my second night in the tent, that all changed.

The light and sound show started about 10pm and lasted most of the night. The tent was buffeted about by wind and a torrent of rain. Lightening split the sky with frightening brilliance, followed closely behind by deafening thunder that actually shook the earth below me. As my father had taught me as a child, I counted the seconds between the flash and thunder. Flash...one thousand one, one thousand two, bang. Flash...One thousand--Bang! Crrraaash! The earth shook below me in the tent. I knew a tree had been hit close to where I was. I held my breath, waiting for the next flash. It came, but was followed several seconds later with a quieter rumble. The downpour slowed down to a light rain a few minutes later. Then there was just the sound of drops falling from the tree tops. It was pitch black outside, except for an occasional flash of lightening, but I put on my rain slicker and went fearlessly out into the night. For me, fear of darkness was simply a matter of degrees. The frighteningly close lightening strike had lowered the "darkness" fear factor by several degrees. Since that night, I no longer fear the dark.

The forest has changed the way I look at, appreciate and understand things. I am in awe of running water from a faucet. I don't think I'll ever be able to take a truly hot shower again, because I've come to love the way cold water is actually warmed by my own body's heat as it pours over me. I'll never be able to listen to the radio, the television, my cell phone or a recording without hearing the "fake" tinny, mechanical sound that they all make. The buzz of a refrigerator, computer, or any other home appliance is unbelievably loud, (and I never heard them at all before). It's hard for me to drive above 55 now. I don't like watches, clocks or air-conditioning. I think batteries are a miracle. I can see under a moon rise, now as easily as a sunrise. I know exactly how long it takes a block of ice to melt in a cooler. And, I think that chocolate is highly under-rated as a food group.

I'll add more to this subject in the coming weeks and post some of the paintings I did while in the U.P.

Welcome

2009-08-29T10:14:00.001-04:00

In Pursuit of Beauty is more about beauty finding me than the other way around. Or rather, more accurately, opening my eyes to finally see that which has always been around me.

Recently, I took up pleinair painting which is the art of sitting in the open air and painting that which is around you during which you experience changing light, changing weather conditions, and exposure to all elements, including other beings who may be in the area with you. Impressionists may have been most responsible for promoting this art to the respected pursuit that it is today, and most pleinair painters paint in some form of Impressionism or another. However, I am still struggling not with the style but rather more with the conditions.

Since living here in Michigan, I have taken up with a group who call themselves the "Pleinair Painters of Michigan." They meet every Saturday morning at 8:00 at the Nature Center in Kensington Metro Park off of I-96, and from there they journey together to a place of their choosing to paint in the open air for a few hours. They meet every Saturday, even if it's -12 degrees, as long as it's sunny. If it rains, no one shows. Now, when I say I've taken up with them, that doesn't mean I've managed to paint with them more than two or three times since January (my first outing). Either it's rained on the Saturday that I'm available, I'm not available, or I've overslept (it's Saturday...give me a break). Or even sadder yet, it rains until about 10am and then it's beautiful...like today. Then, I have to decide, do I have the moxie to get up and go out on my own on this beautiful day and paint, or skip it because the group isn't going to be there with me and it's chilly and damp. Well, you know my choice. I'm here writing a blog about it.

And that my friends, is what it's all about. That's why beauty sometimes has to come in pursuit of me; its golden light spilling over the window sills into my office and astonishing me.