Field, Woodstock, Conn., Oil, 10x20
Out west, it’s a breeze to find a place to paint. The shoulders of the roads are wide and flat. You encounter drainage ditches only rarely. Everywhere you turn, there is accessible land.
Not so in New England. Foliage charts showed northeastern Connecticut as the nearest place to find bright colors. And I found them - but often couldn’t find a place where I could set up to paint them.
On a back road, I saw what looked like an abandoned farm house, fronting a tangled field backed by a line of fiery maples. A couple was walking on the road, and I slowed, the shark-like plein-air painter stalking its prey. The couple turned and looked quizzically at me.
“I’m not a weirdo,” I said, “I’m just a painter.”
They assured me that the house was indeed abandoned. I pulled into the overgrown path, pulled my sweatshirt tight around me, and began to paint.
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