The Edge of the Dark

The Edge of the Dark

Oil on canvas, 20x60, $1,200

Call me at 860-442-0246 or email me

if you are interested in buying this painting

I drove along the reservoir near dusk the other night. The water had not quite frozen over, though it was close. The land, in fingers of blue and purple, crept back into a haze on the far horizon. Wind blew over the ice and it seemed that the land might never be warm again.

I've showed this painting to three people whose opinions I trust. One said it made her feel cold and sad. One liked it - but, given the chance to try it at home, declined. The other loved it, and is thinking of buying it, but has not committed yet.

It is a big painting, and it is stark, but it has colors and hope, too. Here's a detail of the bluff on the right of the painting:

I get tired of winter, I do. And as I grow older, I get tired of it more quickly. But I will never tire of the way the big, broad swaths of snow magnify reactions and response and emotions. A glorious sunrise seems ever more glorious over a snow-covered field, a desolate dusk even more lonely over a frozen reservoir.

I Haven't the Foggiest

Reservoir Fog
Oil on canvas, 6x12

Call me at 860-442-0246 or email me

if you are interested in buying this painting

Every morning for a while now, I've gotten up early, taken the dogs out and looked for fog in the back field. Every day, it's been there, and so I've packed up and hit the road, determined to learn to paint fog.

Today, I stopped at the Groton Reservoir, a mile or so from our house. The morning was silent and windless. A skim of pollen spread on the water along the far shore. Otherwise, nothing disturbed the surface.

Fog lay thick along the trees. It seemed to outline their tops, and then, farther away, to gather near the ground.

Fog really is a cloud at ground level. This kind of humid-day summer fog comes when the land cools at night. Condensation is produced by the difference in temperature between the air and the cooler ground, and this condensation is what makes the fog.

All of this makes me think of my father, who, when we were kids and would ask him something, would often say, "I haven't the foggiest."

As I was standing there painting and thinking, I heard a couple heading toward the little parking lot. They'd been out walking, and they were talking, the sound carrying clearly in the still air.

Well, the wife was talking, and loudly, and with a Brooklyn accent, about the military-industrial complex. It's been a long time since I've heard that phrase.

Here is a really cool photograph I found while I was researching fog.