I don’t give up. When I place those first marks on the canvas, it becomes a living breathing thing and I’m willing to fight, fight, fight to bring it to realization. My personal best is twelve years. Being honest, it was a battle of attrition and I can’t say which one of us came out on top. Lately I’ve been spoiled. I’m painting up a storm and it’s like swimming . . . stroke, breath, stroke, breath . . . every mark gliding the work effortlessly forward . . . until now. So I strap on the gloves, throw my best punches, and still . . . with the new canvas . . . not so much. So this week’s image is “The Boxer”. . . homage to the esthetic of just keeping after it.
Its been raining. One of those weather patterns bringing days worth of constant precipitation. I welcome it warily, a gift to my garden, but often accompanied by destruction. Here at the studio, no whirling winds ripping limbs free or roofs from homes, just rain, rain and more rain. So a more benign drama. The over saturated soil gives up a Honey Mesquite, as it slowly bows down and blocks the street. This is a tree I’ve watched mature for over a decade, artfully trimmed to resemble life-sized bonsai . . . but it belongs to a neighbor, and rescue isn’t in the plan. Guided by expedience, help comes with saw and clipper performing a temporary fix, and the next afternoon it’s gone. Walking Molly in the interim between the grooming and removal, I took a few snapshots . . . this is the painting derived from those images.
We took the New Hance down and in, across the Escalante Route, then up and out the Tanner . . . a week of backpacking in the Grand Canyon. A perfect combination; research for the new paintings, spa days for the spirit, and a good stout back-country adventure. I’ve an affinity for broken, and misshapen trees, stones fused with incongruous markings and found in fantastical placements, and the bloom of flora when all logic would dictate the opposite. Here a Utah Juniper remnant, tangled with stones.