I treat my landscapes more like portraits than snapshots
of a place. Portraits contain both subject and observer,
and good portraits show some evidence of that relationship.
The places that interest me already seem to contain some piece
of me, and I feel compelled to explore that resonance.
I revisit them many times in my mind before I commit them
to a painting. For this reason I could never be a plein-aire
painter. We all see the world through the colored glass
of our particular experience, and it is important for me to
tell the part of the story that sometimes needs time to form.
I've noticed that I return over and over to certain themes,
abstract forms, and compositions. I'm not sure why.
There is something about the line between atmosphere and earth,
about the interaction between the tops of trees and air that
attracts my eye. I am drawn to sky reflected in
water on the ground, cold and dusk, the patterns of melting
snow on a hillside, and the incredible loneliness I feel when
night overtakes wild winter land.
There are certain images; unusual symbols that keep popping
up in the work; a little red boat, a lone tree, water and
the house. The house and boat are simple structures,
but filled with meanings and personal feelings on so many
levels.
Then there are the patterns made by our presence, the
trails and shapes we leave as part of some relationship to
a place, and that pattern's intersection with other shapes
and sky. When these interactions coincide, there is
truly nothing else I can do but try to bring the elements
together on a canvas and tell the story of that moment as
best I can.
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