Some Ups, Some Downs

Duffer 1
Oil on canvas, 24x24

Duffer 2

Oil on canvas, 24x24

I've been somewhat slow to post lately, and that's likely to continue for the month or so. I've taken a temporary job as a companion to a friend's parents, both of whom are recovering from dire health calamities.

The wife has had a stroke; she is back home, and doing well, though she needs a watcher/helper who will also work to stimulate her mind and sharpen her acumen. The husband is recovering from pneumonia; he's still in a rehabilitation center, but is coming home soon. I like these people very much, and am pleased to be part of their recovery.

The portrait of Duffer was rejected by the commissioner, and that makes me sad, but I guess that's part of the gig. It's my first rejection - and as it was intended for the daughter of my favorite writer (not counting my brother), I am a little heartbroken. But I love the paintings, and so, it is OK.

I am also conceding defeat, at least temporarily, in the face of strong winter and weak income, and am moving back inside the house. The finishing of the studio will just have to wait. And that's OK. There are plenty of worse things than painting in the basement and doing desk work at the kitchen table. When it warms up, I can readdress the idea of finishing the studio.

On the upside, I have a whole bunch of commissions from the gallery in West Hartford. So while I miss painting during the workweek, my day(s) off will be filled with joy and paint and beautiful dogs.

The show at the Emporium in Mystic, Conn., continues throughout the month. In addition to paintings by me and photographs by Peter, there are works by six other local artists, ranging from really cool found-wood sculptures to beautiful watercolors to fine abstracts. Between the art and the jam-packed fun inventory of the Emporium itself, your holiday gift-giving missions could all be accomplished in this one place, 15 Water Street, Mystic.

Thanks for reading!

Snow in the Valleys

Dusting
Oil on canvas, 11x14, $100

This morning, the dogs and I ran and romped and raced around the yard in the thick, wet snow. They scampered and played like puppies. Kaja rolled and rolled, a look of absolute delight on her face and I had to laugh at her and realize again - with joy - that this was the dog who, three months ago, I thought was at death's door.

There is revival in these cold, short days. The snow falls and blankets the earth, the birds flash gray and red and blue at the feeders, flower bulbs gather energy, trees rest, and we think of gardens and springtime and, at our best, we blossom in these winter whites.

The opening of the group show at the Emporium in Mystic, Conn., was fun and crowded. There were visitors aplenty, fine snacks and punch and a real feeling of holiday. One of my paintings sold, and while I could have wished for more, I am thankful for that one, and for the feeling of celebration and community that came with the evening.

The show will be up through the end of the month. There are paintings and sculptures and photographs in every price range - and what better gift than something made by a neighbor or a friend?

Thank you for reading.

Snow in the Mountains

First Snow, Mohonk Mountain Road
Oil on canvas, 8x10, $150 (includes red frame)

As Saturday afternoon waxed into Saturday evening in New York, the first snow of the year spun down from the sky and fell, flakes huge and sticky in the 33-degree dusk, and then, overnight, piled on limbs and lawns and the soft branches of fir trees.

In the morning, clouds and sky and snow and fields laced together in a swirl of white, and I painted wildly, working quickly in the cold and the wind, to capture what the sunlight would destroy.

I know that, soon enough, I will be tired of snow and winter and the broad reaches of white - but now, I am hungry for them, for the way they uncomplicate everything, and tie it all together.

Thank you for reading!

Moon Light, Moon Bright

Duffer
Oil on canvas, 24x24. Commission

This season is too hard for me, some days. I have to remind myself, again and again, to focus on whatever good I can find, and pull myself and my heart away from the painful, the insoluble, the incomprehensible.

The moon is big and bright and full this Monday evening, and so there is some solace in knowing that this low, cold, coldhearted day is the final step before the lowest low. Tuesday, sunset comes as early as it will all year, and so, there will be hope and deliverance and a reason to look forward again.

How Now?

How Now?
Oil on stretched canvas, 24x48, $650

I'm becoming increasingly interested in the question of when a painting is finished. I think that this painting could have been called "finished" at a certain point yesterday, when I had painted the cows and the mud, the far-off mountains and trees, and everything else was just sketched in.

No red barn, no red feeding cage, no big green bush. I'd sketched these in, just outlined them, but they weren't painted in.

I should have taken a photo of the painting at that point, but it was raining, and so, shooting a photograph would have meant stopping for the day. And while I had the idea that the painting could have been called "finished" at that point, I didn't have the courage to make that call.

Don't get me wrong - I love this painting the way it is. I never know how a painting will look on your computer, but in real life, this painting is rich with color and depth. The cows are luxuriously colorful, with blues and reds and purples. The wet ground shimmers with color and reflections, and the big old barn stands in deep red shambles behind the bovines.

But still - the point of the painting, for me, is the cows. And so the rest, while fun and rich and adding to the portraiture, is all secondary.

Next time, I'll stop at that point and at least take a photo. I'd like to know what you all think.

A Heartening Fact

Islands in the Stream

Oil on canvas, 9x12, $100

The rain and the early dusk make it more difficult to photograph my paintings.

In fact, when you really think about it, the rain and the early dusk make everything more difficult. I guess I should be thankful that it's not snowing, though somehow, a cold rain feels colder than snow.

So, in the cold rain, I slip out and set my paintings down under trees with no leaves to shelter from the rain, or from the glare of the day, and I shoot quickly, and cross my fingers.

I'm working on some very big paintings, and there's just no taking them out in the rain to photograph them. I'm not willing to chance it.

But here is an interesting and cheery fact to contemplate. Sunset begins getting later much sooner than you might think. Here in Gales Ferry, Dec. 2 - just days from now - is the earliest sunset time. It will set at the same time for a week or so, then begin to set later.

Yes, the shortest day of the year is still Dec. 21 - but that's because the dawn continues to come later. Go here and put in your information, and you'll see.

Sunrise, Sunset

Swiftly Fly the Years
Oil on canvas panel, 11x14, $200

Today, we give thanks, for our families, for the harvest, for the past that brought us to this doorway to tomorrow.

Today, I give thanks for the parents who brought me into this world, and raised me to believe in the good in people, and the best in myself.

I give thanks for a mother who adored me without question or demand, and for a father and stepmother who still welcome me into their lives, with smiles and hugs and decades of loving me.

I give thanks for a brother and a sister who share the joys and the sorrows of this adventure, and who share their lives and their children with me.

I give thanks for a husband who cherishes me, and is willing to live this quiet, animal-filled life with me.

I give thanks for the friends who have walked with me all along the way, and shared their secrets and their strengths, their ideas and their hopes, their fears and their beliefs, and have helped form my own.

I give thanks for the fog and the snow, the sunshine and the wind, the forces of nature that color and spin and turn through this world of God-given beauty.

I give thanks for the eyes that let me see, the hands that let me paint, the heart that gives me the courage to try.

I give thanks for all of you, who have told me that you love my paintings, who have bought them, who have believed in me and helped me believe in myself.