I’m spoiled. In twenty thirteen the muse sang loud and clear, guiding my hand at every turn. Twenty fourteen . . . not so much. Even though my research has unearthed many new splendors, those moments aren’t being easily translated into paint. I seem to be trying to cram everything into one thing, and it just isn’t working. So I turn to blue. Washes of Anthraquinone, layer on layer, scraping down in between, obscuring the too much, revealing the just enough. A hole in the ice.
On the trail, a wealth of inspiration for my studio aspirations lay directly underfoot. In camp, bathed in the tranquil glow of the setting sun, a mind-bending palette of earth, fire, and sky, the silence punctuated by the songs of Lucy’s Warbler.