Our winter snows of 2018 inundated the land. Underneath the - at times - 30 inches of collected snow drifting across the land, rested the soil and seeds and roots of all the plants that grow feverishly in the spring and summer at our place. Yet, the winter palette eased my eyes and settled the chaotic nature that growth perpetuates.
The cold, that extreme chill that exists below the 0 degrees Fahrenheit mark, creates its own pace. Any task that breezes by on a summer day is compounded by a multitude of steps. Going outside to feed horses requires long underwear, coveralls, scarves, hats, and double gloves. Slogging through the knee-deep snow towing a sled laden with hay creates its own sense of "presence". One must slow down, take each step, and appreciate that step, rather than anxiously view the 25 still needed to get to the gate.
And breath. Breath is frosty, icy, and cutting. Not only does the depth of the snow create a mindfulness to actual place and time, but the inability to draw a deep breath brings up awareness to simple tasks. The horses stand with their heads down, conserving energy and drawing warmth up from deep inside them. The big snows leave them with heaping blankets of snowflakes that would alternately drip, drip, drip from their sides under the angled sun and then freeze as icicles as thick as dreams during the night.
The cold, that extreme chill that exists below the 0 degrees Fahrenheit mark, creates its own pace. Any task that breezes by on a summer day is compounded by a multitude of steps. Going outside to feed horses requires long underwear, coveralls, scarves, hats, and double gloves. Slogging through the knee-deep snow towing a sled laden with hay creates its own sense of "presence". One must slow down, take each step, and appreciate that step, rather than anxiously view the 25 still needed to get to the gate.
And breath. Breath is frosty, icy, and cutting. Not only does the depth of the snow create a mindfulness to actual place and time, but the inability to draw a deep breath brings up awareness to simple tasks. The horses stand with their heads down, conserving energy and drawing warmth up from deep inside them. The big snows leave them with heaping blankets of snowflakes that would alternately drip, drip, drip from their sides under the angled sun and then freeze as icicles as thick as dreams during the night.
And, in that slowness of movement and stillness of sound that only winter brings, rise and fall the plants of last season. Their dormant memory stand as the flakes settle around. When the winds gust, some bend and some others break to rest on the surface of white. That winter, marking the drive to our house, stood three stately burgundy plants. Perhaps it was the coverage of everything else, perhaps it was the rich color so contrasted against the whites and blues and yellows, or perhaps it was that they were there, every day, as I turned towards home; whatever it was, they began to stand out.
In the year to follow and curious to know more about this behemoth, I watched as more of these plants grew in the moist, disturbed-soil areas. Starting out green and short and maturing to that tall, maroon plant, they become great bearers of seeds, big clusters of future life. These seeds are as hardy as the plant, coated in a casing that let them float like boats on the water and be carried around on the animals that brush through them. As such, they propagate with such abandon. Groups of them project from the ground, and as the year grows on, the stalks thicken with ridges and twists and massive sweeping leaves. And just when they've reached their epic height, the daylight hours start to wane. They, too, begin to regress.
The plant starts to cure, the green leaves which had long ago started to color with red, lose their flexibility and become all sorts of frayed and holy. Their stems become hardy canes, taking the brunt of the chaotic winds that blow through the area.
The plant starts to cure, the green leaves which had long ago started to color with red, lose their flexibility and become all sorts of frayed and holy. Their stems become hardy canes, taking the brunt of the chaotic winds that blow through the area.
Layers. Memories of soil and ground. Snow. Monochromatic landscapes. Plants either rising through all the changes or slowly being covered by the changes. And horses. Always horses.
This painting came about slowly. One of the most difficult questions to answer is "How long does it take to make a painting?" Do I answer in hours spent holding the paintbrush or palette knife? Do I consider the time spent training? The stares and glances and moments spent in front of the work as I determine what the next step is? The constancy of my thoughts about it as I walk my dogs? As in anything that holds great heart, time spent on it becomes "always". The answer can truly be 50 hours, one month, two years, or 41 years, as the case may be. This one? It took ... a while.
This painting came about slowly. One of the most difficult questions to answer is "How long does it take to make a painting?" Do I answer in hours spent holding the paintbrush or palette knife? Do I consider the time spent training? The stares and glances and moments spent in front of the work as I determine what the next step is? The constancy of my thoughts about it as I walk my dogs? As in anything that holds great heart, time spent on it becomes "always". The answer can truly be 50 hours, one month, two years, or 41 years, as the case may be. This one? It took ... a while.
I taught myself to slow down and focus on a square inch at a time. To take the time that it takes to see and create detail. I have memories of 5:30 a.m. mornings spent under a lamp while the winter nights refused to give up to the morning light. I remember the smallest brush I have and learning how to steady my hand. The curly leaves rested against my painting as I recalled teachers of the past saying "paint what you SEE, not what you THINK you see." And always retraining myself to slow, study the now, and not push into the future.
After I had made the layers and the plant, the painting waited. They do. I go on to others that have time deadlines or that have clarity as to how to finish them. I had work to do and music business and other life, and so it waited. There comes to be a bit of revealing, or rather, discovering, what some paintings ought to be. This one refused to give up its secret. I knew it wasn't done. I just didn't know how to finish it.
There are such tender parts in this painting, were the plant appears to disappear again, where it weaves in and out of the layers, and I wanted to retain that lack of certainty. I wanted it to stand on its own, but not completely. In life, its a hardy fellow, but it still needs diversity to survive. In the painting, it did as well.
I spent some time recalling that winter, the horses, present but drawn into themselves. Heads down, their backs rolling under the depths of snow. And, the ever-present revelations and hidden bits of the world.
And then, it came. After whatever time had needed to pass and ideas had floated through my mind, it came. I understood what I needed to finish this piece. I looked back through my photos of years past and found it. What of today will lead to an answer tomorrow?
There are such tender parts in this painting, were the plant appears to disappear again, where it weaves in and out of the layers, and I wanted to retain that lack of certainty. I wanted it to stand on its own, but not completely. In life, its a hardy fellow, but it still needs diversity to survive. In the painting, it did as well.
I spent some time recalling that winter, the horses, present but drawn into themselves. Heads down, their backs rolling under the depths of snow. And, the ever-present revelations and hidden bits of the world.
And then, it came. After whatever time had needed to pass and ideas had floated through my mind, it came. I understood what I needed to finish this piece. I looked back through my photos of years past and found it. What of today will lead to an answer tomorrow?
And so, we come to the now: this painting that originated from a record winter of 2018, of days that touched -20 degrees Fahrenheit, snow that hid the ground until April, plants that somehow had the fiber and intensity to stay in that harshness, and the horse. This visual record of ...
thoughts,
seasons,
plant and horse,
weather,
movements of my hand,
the paint,
the brushes and palette knives,
the canvas;
...well, it is in the Yellowstone Art Museum (YAM) for their 52 Annual Art Auction. This is dear to me in many parts, but most of which are my stories of going with my grandma to see her friend that worked as a YAM docent. I walked those hallways hung with art, both before and after their renovation and their change from the Yellowstone Art Center to the Yellowstone Art Museum, enthralled with a space of art and for art. As a student, I spent many days through the years viewing and studying the variety of exhibits throughout the years. I was part of a team that built an ice block sculpture one year for the auction, and I helped teach a Saturday kids art class. Memories through the layers of time.
Last night, January 24, was the opening of the show. I participated in the Quick Draw/Quick Finish event, and I will also attend the Artist Meet and Greet on March 6. The pieces will hang until March 7, at which point they will sell during the live and silent auctions. More information can be found at https://www.artmuseum.org/exhibition/yellowstone-art-auction-52/. I would like to say that they take phone bids, and I reckon this could be accommodated.
thoughts,
seasons,
plant and horse,
weather,
movements of my hand,
the paint,
the brushes and palette knives,
the canvas;
...well, it is in the Yellowstone Art Museum (YAM) for their 52 Annual Art Auction. This is dear to me in many parts, but most of which are my stories of going with my grandma to see her friend that worked as a YAM docent. I walked those hallways hung with art, both before and after their renovation and their change from the Yellowstone Art Center to the Yellowstone Art Museum, enthralled with a space of art and for art. As a student, I spent many days through the years viewing and studying the variety of exhibits throughout the years. I was part of a team that built an ice block sculpture one year for the auction, and I helped teach a Saturday kids art class. Memories through the layers of time.
Last night, January 24, was the opening of the show. I participated in the Quick Draw/Quick Finish event, and I will also attend the Artist Meet and Greet on March 6. The pieces will hang until March 7, at which point they will sell during the live and silent auctions. More information can be found at https://www.artmuseum.org/exhibition/yellowstone-art-auction-52/. I would like to say that they take phone bids, and I reckon this could be accommodated.
I'll leave you with details shots of the final piece, as well as the whole view. May you rise and find beauty when the cold descends.
"Appear; Rumex Crispus", available through the Yellowstone Art Museum in the 52nd Annual Art Auction, original acrylic on canvas, 48 x 24
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