How Now?

How Now?
Oil on stretched canvas, 24x48

Call me at 860-442-0246 or email me

if you are interested in buying this painting

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

sold

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.

A Happiness to Come

Beach
Oil on canvas, 11x14, not for sale.

Erika has become my daughter, and I have become her mother. It took years for this to happen, and it was not an easy process or a smooth one. But now, it is one of the joys in my life.

Erika is getting married in May, to Jon Mowrey. He is a wonderful, solid, honest, delightful man, with a sweet daughter, Jenna. They are already family. Peter and I could not be happier. So when Erika asked me if I wanted to make a painting for the invitation, I was thrilled. This is my first attempt - it might, or might not, be my last. I have some time.

Kisses for Baci

Baci
Commission, oil on canvas, 12x12

Baci, according to the woman who hired me to make this painting, means "kisses" in Italian. And Baci gave and received, for years and years.

Baci is dead now, but lived a long and joyful life, according to Samantha. The big dog - an English mastiff - was always with Samantha, and when she and her husband had a child, Baci loved and guarded the baby, as well.

I know, when an animal enters my life, that chances are I will outlive it. I know that my welcome, my warming heart, my open door, let pain and loss in, along with all that love.

I would not trade one moment's awful grief for one moment's pure and loving joy.

Life, Unraveling

Unraveling Life
Oil on canvas, 8x10, $125

A friend caught me at the grocery store this afternoon, dropping sections of the New York Times all over the floor. One slid, then the next, then three more, then she said hello and I dropped the rest. No matter. The paper is not so big any more.

This week, my friend said, had been tough. Her mom has to move to assisted living, her mother-in-law took ill, and her cat died. My friend was philosophical. We all get old, she said, and our parents all get old, and our pets all die, and none of that matters. What does matter is raising our children.

Peter and I have no children of our own - well, no two-legged children - but Erika, Peter's daughter, has become my daughter, too. It's not been an easy road, but the rewards are sweeter than I'd ever anticipated. And they include grandchildren and a son-in-law-to-be and a sweet granddaughter-to-be, and so I am blessed. My brother and sister have children, too, and so there are the blessings of nieces and nephews, as well.

Holidays remind me always of the people I love who are no longer here. I must remind myself to be thankful for the ones who are.

Karen and Henry

Brown Field
Oil on canvas, 11x14

Call me at 860-442-0246 or email me

if you are interested in buying this painting

When I'm painting and it's going well, my mind goes blank. Songs run through it, phrases, and sometimes, near the end of a painting, phrases and words begin to form a title. Otherwise, I paint in a glory of unconscious action. I see, I move, I swirl colors, I put brush or knife to canvas, and when I look up, two hours have passed, and the temperature has changed, and the light has drained from the day.

I love this, this feeling of being and nothingness, as though my body, my brain, my hands were nothing but extensions of art, or of paint, or of God, or the song of the universe. I love that, for a while, I am less than corporeal, at least in my soul. And the best paintings come then.

As I pulled up to the surface near the end of this painting, I began thinking of a title. "Rhapsody in Brown" seemed pretentious. (Really?) "Meet the Browns," amused me, because of a silly TV show which I have never seen, though I have seen the commercials.

Then I thought of naming this painting "Karen & Henry," after the Browns, longtime friends of my parents and two of my favorite people of all time. She is six feet tall and always struck me as glamorous. He is shorter, with Mr. Spock-like ears and one of the driest senses of humor I've ever encountered.

It made me happy to think of them. I still might name this painting after them, but for the time being, it will be "Brown Field."