First Snow

The first snow is a delight to an artist. White snow with blue shadows. Streams flowing over green moss-covered rocks. Red and yellow leaves hang here and there adding warmth to the scene. Gold grass stands tall. Color hides here and there, waiting for the artists willing to look.

High above, the breeze hums through grey branches. Below, water tickles the fallen limbs waiting for that trip to the next waiting rock. Sounds of winter lift our spirits and thick wool socks and rubber boots keep the cold from pink toes. Bright red stocking caps pulled down over our ears - an orange vest saying we are not that trophy buck. Finding a place worthy of our efforts is a challenge. Getting to that perfect place, knees buckle asking if this is the perfect spot. Two more steps and the scene is perfect. Unfolding the legs of the French easel and adjusting them to fit the ground beneath the blanket of snow. The little things to paint on the spot never show up in the finished painting, just the beauty of the scene will make it to the canvas.

The paint stiffens and noses begins to run as the painting begins to excite the artist. Brush strokes take on the rhythm of the flowing water, gentle blue shadows rise and fall over the blanket of powder fine snow telling us there are age old granite boulders waiting for a new cover of green moss beneath this virgin white. Spring will bring us back to capture the scene with fresh eyes. Till then, it is that white, clean look that brings us to stand in the cold and fight the stiffening of the paints. With the heater warming my toes, my reward still fastened to the french easel, I sip hot chocolate at home, energizing me for next day's trip.

Art Replenishes Our Souls

Every Sunday night mom would sit down at the piano and play for us, no radio allowed and we had no TV back then. Mom would hang her apron up, close the cupboard doors, and walk to the den where a stand-up piano stood waiting. From the piano bench she would select a few sheets of music and set them on the music holder. I would press a key or two then mom would begin to play. Every now and then she sang along with the playing. Laying on the floor next to the piano I colored in my coloring book. Mom always ended the evening with the same tune, then it was time for me to go to bed. As I picked up my crayons mom would begin her sewing or needle work. A kiss goodnight to both mom and dad and up the stairs I went. These were the times that shape my artwork. I see such stories in other artists works, the first was in the works of Norman Rockwell.

We can live without art, but we need art to remind us we are human and in need of others. A young man drives his art, a 1970 Pontiac painted black with chrome wire wheels and sky blue lights lighting up the street beneath as he passes. Another artist arranges forgotten objects in a shadow box for us to remember and see the beauty in everyday things. We can live without seeing these objects or seeing this car, but we connect with ourselves for a moment, we are a part of something. A ballet dancer performs alone in a quiet street somewhere in Italy, people lean out windows to watch as a saxaphone begins to play. Spirits are lifted. Art comes in many forms, we need the arts like we need food. Food replenishes the body, and art replenishes our souls.