Home Originals Collections FAQ Contact

Welcome!


FOR THIS RIVER

IF NOT FOR THIS
THE RIVER FILLING OUR FOOTPRINTS WITH STARS,
OUR CLEVER HEADS BENDING TO DRINK THE MOON
AND SHYPOKE STALKING FROGS AMONG THE LILYPADS.

IF NOT FOR THIS,
AND KNOWING WE ARE JUST PASSING THROUGH
AS SURELY AS THE LIGHT ON THE RIVER PASSES THROUGH US.
EVEN OUR DENSE, DETERMINED BONES FINALLY SURRENDER
TO THAT LIGHT
Privileged with some natural talent and a desire to create, I jumped into the art world when the time was right. And there I remain.

My mother and her father were artists. Their love and encouragement have greatly influenced my life.

Remember the little boy in the story, building constructions from sea grass and driftwood so he could hear the wind music? That is how one goes about it.

First comes the sounding in the soul that is experienced alone. Then the desire to express those moments in some form to connect to the world. If there were only sticks and mud at hand I would be creating something of that.

I am inspired by the lives of birds and can use crow as an example of inspiration, process, technique, application, failure and achievement. Years ago I rescued a fledgling, barely able to stand on his wobbly legs.

I have the tools of my craft to coax crow out when I need him- good brushes, fine paper and watercolors. His feathers reflect the full spectrum- hues of color we can see and much more we cannot yet recognize.

There is a stiffness if I define every measured feather. There is the light that plays with darkness, I approach the vital, living soul of crow already knowing I will fail to reveal all that he is.

I miss his warbles- underwater sounds and creaky, rusty gate croaking before he learned to master crow language. I miss his intense, present intelligence, affection and dusty feather smell. I want to free us both as his image begins to emerge from my mind, my hands and onto the paper. Within the washes of color his presence takes form.

I need his eyes and the intimacy of that gaze to carry me through the process. If I accomplish painting his eyes alive, maybe I can perfect his feet- that little knob under each toe that I have come to love and hate, and the difficulty of replicating the scales on his legs and toes that require me to focus and not focus all at once.

Somehow the art of painting crow must be carried out swiftly, lightly, while still paying attention to every detail. I call this squeezing time. He's laughing at me now.

I taught him to fly, leaving him screaming on a tree branch- running across the field calling him like a dog. I taught him to hunt for himself in August. Crawling on the ground catching grasshoppers while he hopped and begged, I stuffed them in his mouth.

I want to capture his crowness- the delicate curve of the crown of his head and the light reflections on that formidable beak- the way he rushed low, zigzagging across the ground chasing cats, dogs, chickens, geese, horses, goats and children.

By September other crows had come to the cabin watching his antics from the fir trees. By October he was gone. Crows suffer without their kin and it was time for him to be among them.