It's About Time (An Introduction)

​"Art is much less important than life, but what a poor life without it."
​— Jasper Johns, Painter, Sculptor

​It’s been years now since I’ve touched paint to a paintbrush. An outright lie, of course, if you consider the variety of paint that is sold by the gallon to overwhelmed new home-owners, to be slathered (in at least two coats, properly drying in between!) onto fences, walls, railings, chicken coops, and every other surface large enough to catch a photon of light. Oh, there has been paint. The paint of adult life, of necessity, of reality. Not an enemy to creativity—have you seen the paint swatch aisle?—but still, we don’t grow up as children craving to lay down the perfect high-gloss coverage of a new chicken roost, enticing as it may become as an adult. We crave visual stories. We crave art.
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Or at least, I did. Every Christmas and birthday, I wanted art supplies. I was always drawing something, and studying artwork I admired. I didn’t take an art class until college, and even then, they were simply enjoyable electives to fill out a major. I have always felt this sense, though I wasn’t the one to articulate as well as Julia Cameron: “Art is not about thinking something up—it is the opposite, getting something down”.

But whatever divine, spiritual, purity we ascribe to the formation of art, there is in fact, much more to life. However much we chant “art through adversity,” we will not change that art is a physical manifestation of ideas, and it requires space, time, resources, to develop. Not unlike a living creature—and who could deny that great art seems to breathe its own life? And even a plant needs at least a handful of dirt.

The standard progression occurred: pencils to markers to charcoal, ink, and watercolor, and finally, after two decades, I felt worthy to touch the paint of the Renaissance gods. More sincerely, I was jealous of the precision, depth, and nuances that only oil painters seemed to achieve, and finally accepted that I could not reach it with watercolor and gouache. It was a brief, expensive, and unproductive affair that soon gave way to a career change, and a downshift to simple, contained, and intermittent things like pyrography. But the study of art lived on. I practiced classical guitar, studied and performed classical ballet…raised, trained, and raced sled dogs (oh, it’s an art alright)…raised chickens and ducks (you better believe it), so on and so forth--everything is grist to an artist’s mill.

After a decade of the twisting and turning plots of adult life, which were as incredible to experience as they are dull to read about, I am returning home like Frodo to the Shire. Maybe I’m not the same person, but for that I am grateful. Life has beaten into me new perspectives, values, and insights. This month is the first I have touched a canvas in years other than to store it out of sight, and I have never felt more ready. My wandering in the wilderness has led me to see the difference between mastery of technique, and mastery of artistry. I see finally that technique is not the goal of an artist—it’s just a method, a conduit to others’ thoughts, emotions, and imagination.
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But revealing a finished painting is only part of what I enjoy—the real thrill and magic is the living process of creating such an image from a vast, blank nothingness. The inspiration, the hope, the curiosity, the dread. I invite you to enjoy a part of that journey here with monthly updates, including announcements of finished works, previews of works in progress, demonstrations, gallery exhibitions ands awards, and other meaningful information that I haven’t thought of yet. I hope that getting to see beyond the edges of the canvas will help you enjoy my art as much as I enjoy creating it. ​

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