My Field of Dreams

A stillness in the studio, a blank canvas. No exhibitions coming, no commission. The desire to create is the only thing there. Free to use colors that bring joy to my soul. Like a child again, the canvas is my playground. I start with a wash of colors. The mix of color running down my canvas sets my mind to work. A tree of yellow, a stream of blue, flowers maybe. A line here, a bold brush stroke and a sense of something pushing its way forward.

Clearly a landscape is forming. Spring, fall, or summer are still free to appear. Realism is a force that grips me. The abstract in me must be subdued as I sit back to take in the colors settling in place. Making sense of things is instilled in me. It was part of my upbringing. Mom planting flowers for the months of the growing season may have something to do with it. How I do not know. Even explaining my process to myself becomes part of the process. I only know today it is a landscape of open fields I am bringing forward. A horizon line sets me in the Midwest and visions of the country I love.

Wiping the canvas clean of color above my horizon line an unexpected storm appears. For the next week or so I will have the joy of seeing what comes next. How far I take this painting depends on what pushes forward from my mind to replace my field of dreams.

Small Town Cafes, Real American Landscapes

Renting a beat-up Ford station wagon from a trusting gentleman, I began my first on-the-spot painting trip. Driving up the Westside Highway along the Hudson River, looking for any sign that I was on the right way to color. Connecticut, to the right, seemed like a good place to start learning about painting landscapes. So to the right it was. Leaving behind the grey colors of New York City, the first red oak growing in the median said I had a lot to look forward to.

Heavy autumn traffic was part of the learning. For me, the quiet back roads were going to be part of my art. Yellow maples surrounding tombstones drew me in and I parked the rented car. Setting up next to the last resting place of Alfred Abrums, I began teaching myself the art of landscape painting. Painting the figure was so much easier - painting figures was how I learned to paint. Talking with models was my way of relaxing when painting. Alfred was who I relaxed with that day. The shapes and lines I began with slowly started to make sense. Not a great painting, not even a good one, just one Alfred liked. Talking for Alfred, I learned we were pleased with what we had learned. Packing up for the day, he convinced me to keep up my efforts - should the next one not show improvement, toss that one. With that, I left Alfred to his blanket of yellow maple leaves.

“No vacancies” weren't in my plans, but autumn does that in New England. Plan trips better, I learned.. Sleeping in the car wash at a gas station also was not in my plan, but it sure saved me money which allowed me to eat at a little cafe.

Sitting at the end of the counter, I did my first sketch of a story. My subject told me he makes sleds. The kind pulled by draft horses in the winter, and he told me how he makes them and the people who buy them. I listened as I drew and sipped on my coke. My sketch of the sled maker was far more interesting than my painting of the maple tree and tombstones. Every painting trip is now well planned around small town cafes.

A few hundred sketchbooks with stories fill my nights now. Hot cocoa, a warm blanket, and I'm set for the night.