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As I sip my first cup of coffee for the morning, and sit at my computer and write, I am drawn to reflect on the past year with gratitude.

Gratitude is a powerful emotion. It has little to do with the actual circumstances of life, but everything to do with our chosen perspective of those circumstances. Sometimes it is easy to be grateful; many times it is difficult. To be grateful means you have to look at life through a filter of positive thinking. Feeling sorry for oneself doesn't fit through the filter. Neither does envy. Or hanging on to past grievances. Or the desire to change someone.

In this quiet moment, when I ask myself to be thankful, some thoughts come quickly. I am thankful for the talent I have been given. I am thankful that I recognize that gift. I am thankful that I nurture that gift with the support and blessing of my family. And I am thankful that people like you connect enough with my work to purchase it.

It is that connection, more than the financial benefit, that gives me the strength, the courage, the resolve to keep creating. Would I still paint if not a single work sold? Yes - because painting is a form of expression for me - something inside that rolls and kicks and grows and wants out. Much like an unborn child is nurtured and grows in the darkness of its own creation, then needs to be born into the light of this world. But just as that baby is born with a need to communicate, so each painting needs to communicate - and when it finds its soul mate, the person who purchases it - that is a satisfying and wondrous thing. Communication - connection - creativity.

The house is stirring now; I hear my grandson's little footsteps on the floor above me. Time now to go and start the day; lots still to do to prepare. But as I dive into the hectic pace of Holiday preparation, I begin with a prayer of gratitude.

Thank you ... Namaste

Back in 2008, a tornado swept through our neighborhood, and I created a painting of the dark, swirling clouds. I used that as an under painting for this piece, which captures some of the same ominous and unsettling feelings.

In this piece, I was concerned mostly about creating a harmonic tension between dark and light - the bird underneath could be a companion to the white bird, or perhaps merely a shadow. In either case, they are closely related and joined for this part of the journey.  The fields of gold could be actual fields, water or even clouds - I've left that up to the viewer to interpret in a way that is meaningful.

It has been said that this piece has a spiritual feel - perhaps it does. This is certainly a painting that came out of the "zone" - that intuitive and creative space that could be likened to meditation. The brush strokes are energetic; the colors, muted. It feels almost like a dream; a place where the conscious mind and the unconscious mind meet and form visual and emotional impressions.

This is the time of the year I start “taking stock” of where I am at in life. How close am I to accomplishing my goals for the year? What things went according to plan? And what was changed subtlety – or dramatically – by the surprises that life threw in my path?

The most dramatic unplanned event of the year happened during the summer when my daughter and 16 month old grandson moved in with Dave and I. Lots of change to our routine – I wouldn’t be truthful if I said it was all seamless and smooth sailing. But whatever inconvenience occurs is offset by the joy that Kolby brings into our lives. I know it is a cliché, but it is true: the world is a wondrous place seen through the eyes of a child. Navigating through the tall grass in our horse pasture, discovering butterflies and grasshoppers; marveling at the huge flocks of black birds covering the sky overhead; finding the moon each night, wondering at it’s changing shape and location; dancing to the music on a silly commercial; “wowing” at the Christmas lights outside… all the things that we may ignore are rediscovered and given their proper attention. For life is miraculous, and love is all - encompassing, and we are, in our essence, joyous beings.

As an artist, life’s events have a way of showing up in my artwork. We are essentially students, soaking up what we experience and then sharing with others, through our art, what we have learned. At the beginning of the year, I decided to spend 52 days creating one painting a day. That was a wonderful experience – since the works were small, I didn’t have the “space” to get too fussy – and since I was committed to a painting each day, I didn’t belabor – I was on to the next painting.

The experience of daily painting helped me in March, when I was asked to be a “quick-draw” artist at the Western Spirit Art Show in Cheyenne, WY. With Quick Draw, you have to complete a painting, start to finish, in 45 minutes. In front of hundreds of people. And then the painting is live-auctioned. I wrote about the experience in a previous blog.

After I finished the 50 or so daily paintings, I got a commission from the Ritz Carlton in Vail, Colorado, to create four wildlife paintings, which they had made into prints for 32 rooms. Working on a commission is a bit nerve-wracking, especially when you are under a tight deadline. Always, in the back of your head, you’re wondering, “are they gonna like it?” It takes a lot of will-power not to let thoughts of approval mess with the process.

By the end of the summer, with new members of our household settling in, my painting time was curtailed. But I had two plein-air events to paint for. Again, a bit stressful – deadlines and a minimum number of paintings to complete.  But, during one painting trip in Medicine Bow National Park, I discovered the use of the palette knife as a painting tool. The resulting painting was an “aha” moment for me.

After that, given my shortened painting time, I decided to experiment a bit with palette knife and acrylic paints – the combination cut down my clean up time to almost nothing. (Oil paints and brushes take a while to clean up after a painting session.)  One of the things I discovered with acrylic paints is their quick drying time – within 10 minutes or so, the paint is dry and you can layer over with more paint. This is very freeing – with oils, the dry time can be any where from 24 hours to two weeks, depending on the colors used and the thickness of the paint. And what I discovered in this experimentation, is that I love what happens when you layer paint and allow the bottom layers to show through in places. It creates an energy, a spontaneity, a freshness.

And then came the day when I had no more new canvas to paint on. So I looked around my studio at the growing mound of paintings that were never finished, never resolved – or that I just felt weren’t “saying” what I wanted to say. And they became the under paintings for the work I am doing now.

In so many ways, this new work feels “right.” I am back using oils again, mostly because the under paintings are in oil, and you can’t paint acrylic over oil. And I am back to using brushes, having learned how to make bold passages by using the palette knife. But, perhaps most importantly, I am painting with the joy and abandon of a child, letting the paint drip, staying away from being too literal, too critical, too “grown up.”

These paintings, while in some ways are very child-like, are shaped by my vision of the world and our place in it. The older I get, the more I look to my childhood for clues to my true nature.  

Embattled and warn-torn she returned;

But emboldened, like a warrior

Who has survived the last battle

To live another day.

Or not. It doesn’t matter. What matters

Is the doing, the living, the loving.

Perhaps love is the catalyst for all

That is ugly and wrong and hateful.

And everything has an opposite.

For balance.

Where is the middle ground then?

Here, in the space between love and hate.

The no man's land of give and take.

The pendulum swings

through overlapping territories.

Continuing my exploration of using old paintings as underpaintings for new ones. What I'm really liking is the freedom I feel when working on these pieces. The underpainting sometimes shows through quite a bit; other times, like with this piece, only bits of the old painting show through, mostly on the head of the wolf and in the dark areas of the background.

One of the things that using my old paintings as underpaintings does is force me to work in oil again. (Because most of my older work is in oil, and you can't paint acrylic over oil). As much as I love the immediacy of acrylic, I still love the buttery texture and natural color of oils. I am applying what I learned with acrylics to the oils - and that is bold, fearless strokes. With acrylics, my mindset was - well, if I don't like it, it'll be dry in a little while and I can paint over. With oils, the drying time is much longer, but I still am thinking in terms of, put down a stroke and leave it alone. No fear!

It seems lately I am attracted to darker, more "earthy" colors: burnt sienna, yellow ochre, burnt umber... mixing them with cads (orange and red) and ultramarine blue. Even using a little black. I guess you would say I'm using a more somber palette. 

My grandson (who at 19 months old is very observant and interested in my paintings) doesn't like this one so much. He prefers brighter, prismatic colors. But for me, the earthiness is both comforting and challenging.

I had no idea when I started this painting on its new journey where we'd end up - just threw on some color and waited for the subject to emerge. Once I saw the wolf's head, the rest of the painting just fell in to place. Having read Robert Genn's advice on how not to overwork a painting, I listened carefully and let my inner voice let me know when the painting was done. Since my tendency is to want to overwork - and my desire is to have the work be fresh, confident and energetic - timing is critical.

For me, I think overworking comes from over-thinking and lack of confidence. When I'm confident, the paint fairly flies off my brush and my arm moves like an impassioned conductor. Even if I'm lost, each stroke is bold. No worries. I know I can find my way. 

When I'm not confident, my brushstrokes are like little dabs, blending, worrying too much about detail while losing sight of the big picture. Afraid to let a bold stroke make a statement. I can't tell you how many wonderful, fresh, passionate paintings lie covered up by fear. Maybe fear that my painting won't be understood, so then I start getting too literal, too attached, and the spirit dies. In redeeming these paintings, maybe I'm seeking a bit of redemption for myself.