How to Say It

I live with a painting before it's sent off, the longer the better. I turn it away from view to later return to it, flip it upside down, study, review, only to live with it a week or two more. The last review before delivery usually loops through a process of me pondering a myriad of what-ifs. 

I intensely study ways to unjumble thoughts and impulses. Simply saying what one wants to say is a baffling pursuit. With paint, it can be a rabbit hole.

Early last summer we noticed a particular fawn. Short-legged, a little gawky, she seemed to prefer us to her peers. If we sat on the porch to enjoy the evening, "Lil Bit", as my wife named her, came to visit. Her mother's grunts were useless as "Lil Bit" scampered up unabashedly. With no other deer in-sight, she disregarded chainsaw activity, and burning brush to graze alongside us during chores.

When we took to a hotel during our February ice storm, we left a supplement of corn nearby for the wildlife. Two does and a variety of birds were lost, but Lil Bit appeared unscathed.

If this little doe has anything, she has moxie. Although she is becoming more doe-like and visits less frequently her trailblazing style is infectious.

As I said, painting can be a rabbit hole. I can get so wrapped up in work that I forget the moxie of my past. After a day in the studio, there are times when I just have to let it be, take my wife to an old wooden dance floor and twirl her around to clear my head. 

I'm reminded of the saying this is a marathon, not a sprint. It takes a while to grow as an artist, to settle into the work of delving into design, the aesthetic of the paint, and focus on the subject of western wildlife.