Nestled in my art studio this morning, my bare feet wrapped under a blanket, which covers me keeping the chill off. The whir of a small space heater trying to play its part. Chilled raindrops slowly and methodically pinging on the metal roof above me. Looking at my blessings each day, my daily exercise of finding three thing s to be grateful for, I recall the days when painting occurred in a back bedroom with the paint smelling up the whole house, which eventually pushed me into a small corner of the garage.
Countless hours were spent there bundled up in the winters and in t-shirts and shorts in the summers since there was no climate control. Yet my passion to paint overcame any inconvenience. And frankly, I know even those conditions were a luxury compared to most. The dream of one day having a studio of my own, with ample space for my friends to visit and paint models on Wednesday nights, came true about seven years ago when we moved to this very spot.
Within view … a lighthouse and colorful trees painted on fall color week , a nocturne night painting done in Bruggen, a waterfall done in the Adirondacks in one of the same spots many Hudson River School painters painted, a Native American painted in Santa Fe , and a rock scene painted with my friend Joe McGurl.
These and hundreds of paintings are my lifetime memories of trips, painting with friends, painting models, and living the plein air lifestyle.
Unlike tens of thousands of photos, which may someday be lost on discarded hard drives, paintings are much harder to throw away. One can only hope they find good homes with my kids, grandkids, and their grandkids. Speaking of kids, last week I found myself with tears streaming down my cheeks as I searched old photos of my children at different ages so I could could post some old pictures on Facebook in celebration of their sixteenth.
