Coldness of the Sun, oil on canvas 2023

I live in a place where Winter begins in late October and doesn't end until sometime in late April or, like this year, early May. As much as I love hiking, riding my bicycle, swimming, log hours of daylight, and being able to draw outdoors without getting frostbite, I also enjoy the Winter. It is peaceful and somber and, although the climate can certainly test one's mettle, it's breathtakingly beautiful. Life goes on beneath the blanket of snow and ice. I took up snowshoeing two years ago and I enjoy it immensely. Because the days are so short in Winter, I have often found myself trekking around the wilderness as the sun is setting. As the already frigid temperature drops and the light disappears, I am immersed in an ominous darkness that I find remarkably calming.

This composition and color arrangement, although not of a specific place, was inspired by my many snowshoe excursions. I wasn't conscious of it whilst working, but I see now that I was trying to convey the feeling of quiet optimism that I get from the Winters where I live.

How I Need You When You're Gone, oil on canvas 2023

I have a fondness for emotionally charged, saturated colors in my work. Paintings by the Fauvists and German Expressionists, Van Gogh, and the Northern California Colorists of the early twentieth century like August Gay and Seldon Gile always resonated with me. I like the directness of a strong color and I relish the challenge of finding interesting ways of establishing relationships, either harmonious or discordant, between two or more strong colors. But I also love the subtlety of these almost "non" colors and near-greys that are seemingly drained of vitality. Working with these colors presents different challenges because their lack of saturation makes them very similar. They tend to look the like the same grey on the palette but once they start to interact with each other on the canvas, their subtle differences assert themselves and the take on characteristics of green, violet, orange, etc.. These colors are also effective for conveying emotions, but in a quieter way. This painting has a sadness that I like very much. I struggled with this painting for several weeks, as I tried to get the sense of space that I wanted. Those dull oranges showed up in the final hour and pulled it all together.

Now and Then, oil on canvas, 2023

My first encounter with a Mark Rothko painting was at the Museum of Modern Art in NY when I was in college. I may have heard his name before, but I was not familiar with his work at all. As soon as I saw the painting, I was overcome with a profound sense of peace and my eyes teared up. I could not have explained with words what was going on in that painting, but as stood in front of it, I understood exactly what the artist was doing. It was a life-changing experience and the first time (of many yet to come) that I was moved to tears while looking at a work of art. I have shown slides and pictures of Rothko paintings to many students and tried to explain, with limited success, his work to them, but there is no substitute for standing directly in the presence of the paintings. When you stand directly in front of a work of art, you are in the same place relative to the work that the artist was in when they created it and you see the actual surface and the materials that the artist touched with their hands and their tools and the size of the art relative to you is the same as it was to the artist. Great works of art emit their own energy and when you stand in front of one, in an almost symbiotic relationship, you share in that energy. Rothko certainly knew this and creating that experience for the viewer was principal in his intent when creating his paintings. The same can be said about the difference between experiencing a live musical performance compared to listening to a recording. Reproductions of art are certainly important and essential learning tools and they allow us to see art from all over the world, but I believe that it is important to see as much art in person as possible.

I have mixed feelings about posting images of my own work on the internet. On one hand, I want people to see my work and to be able to get an idea of what I do, but when someone looks at a postage stamp-sized digital image of one of my paintings, they are not really looking at the painting. The surface texture and scale of each mark that I made is completely lost, even though the composition, value relationships and color harmony may be faithfully represented. But I live in northern Maine and if I want people to see my work at all, it's a sacrifice that I must make.

If You Ever Change Your Mind, oil on canvas 2023

(Private Collection)
People often make a distinction between "Realistic" art and "Abstract" art. Arguably, every work of art is an abstraction. The artist extracts characteristics from their subject and transforms them into something else. Oftentimes, the difference between Realistic (Objective) art and Abstract (Subjective) art has to do with the amount of information (often refered to as "detail") the artist conveys. If the artist's primary concern is the conveyance of information (e.g. an illustration for a medical procedural or a portrait commission), they must collect as many facts as neccessary from their subject and transform those facts into visual form, leaving little room for interpretation on the part of the viewer. On the other hand, the artist may be less concerned with delivering facts and may, therefore, be more free to use their imagination, culling what they may from the subject and asking the viewer, in turn, to use their imagination, as well.

Just a Moment, oil on canvas 2023

(Private Collection)
The impetus for most of what I do is usually nothing more than an impulse. I don't imagine or think about a picture before I start working. I usually begin with a color and then a line or a shape without considering it, but once I make that first mark, once I violate the sanctity of the blank page or canvas, I'm engaged. There is now something to react to and every subsequent choice that I make is a reaction to all of the previous ones. To an outside observer, it may appear that I am simply working intuitively, yet each decision that I make is informed by decades of experience and study. In many ways, the process is similar to a conversation wherein one person says something, the other person responds, the first person responds to that, and so on. Both people engaged in the conversation are working towards a resolution, following their thoughts and feelings while also attempting to follow the thoughts and feelings of the other. If the interlocutors are both fluent in the same language, the conversation will flow continuously to it's natural conclusion, even if this means working through some disagreements. Painting and drawing, for me anyway, are very similar to this. Having fluency in the language of visual form and the technique that allows me to turn my ideas into visual form, are both necessary in order for me to engage in the process. This is not to suggest that the process is easy. On the contrary, I often run into roadblocks. Something happens in the work, and I find myself at a loss for how to respond. Struggle ensues and I either figure it out or I don't. These challenges do not just keep me interested in the work; they are the reason that I do it. I certainly struggle less than when I was younger, but it is still challenging. If I ever found drawing and painting to be easy, I would likely stop doing it.