The realism of a grayling imparts abstraction where air and water collide.
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“…in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise…”
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I don't want to paint every blade of grass. I don't want to paint very much of the moose, either, come to think of it…
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We could have been walking through a sheep paddock. The late September snow from a few days earlier was trampled to gravel and dust in a hundred-foot swath from one horizon to the other…
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Twice a year I live in the company of cranes. Twice a year I hear their bugled calls and twice a year I look up and wonder what the arrival of the pterodactyls would have looked and sounded like to the terrestrials…
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I watched my 3- and 5-year old sons duck into the studio from the backyard while I chatted with a neighbor. Normally I'd have a moment of pause to think of the unattended ruffians going into, say, a foam-padded room with floor drains, never mind an art studio…
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There's a nebulous relationship between appropriate detail, foundational form, the interplay of hard and soft edges and a myriad of other variables that each contribute to whether a piece feels “real.”
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As I progress through a piece of artwork I am aware of a fleeting sliver of gray area that exists in the realm between not-quite-finished and overworked…
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