Did we enter a time warp?
Just saying the year “2025” sounds unreal, like a year someone would live in if they were in a science fiction novel. I’m not denying the true date, but here we are. And, well, it still feels pretty weird to me.
I’ll start off by introducing my latest, “Causes and Conditions”. You could be led to some Buddhist thoughts by this title. (Yes, absolutely, go for it. Get back to me.) It did take some energy and layers of a gritty substance left to dry and then scraped over with a credit card. I was listening to some amazing rock music created by my dear friend James when I started this and photographed it for him to use on an album cover, so that might also explain the journey this piece took (I added the white swirls during a later stage). Or, if you’re feeling particularly right-brain dominant (I always do!) you could just see how it makes you feel.
Maybe this is what 2025 feels like. I don’t know. We’ll see.
“Causes and Conditions”, Acrylic, 24 × 24 inches, $850.
Human / Nature
I recently had the opportunity to show six paintings at Beaverton City Hall. I painted these two specifically for this group show entitled “Visionaries: Encountering Nature”.
I often think about our relationship with the green world outside our windows. If we feel separate from this otherworldly place called “Nature” it’s just an illusion. Feeling that closeness, that relationship, goes beyond just escaping our homes and camping, hiking, or sitting in a tree for awhile (although it sure does help).
What is nature? Who are we, in it? What is it, to us?
“Church”, Acrylic, 20 × 16 inches, $550.
“Home”, Acrylic, 20 by 20 inches, $625.
Little
When I first saw
the piece of forest that is my backyard
I stood in awe
little me, a bright dot on a vastness of green
surrounded by tall firs that swallowed miles
I took deep gulps of fresh air into my lungs
In disbelief, this was my home now
newly born of wonder.
Every day I dove into it
and swam, coursing through verdant seas
witnessing sky, sketching oak trees-
madrones, uncountable,
kneeling down with a thousand ferns
in sunshadows, we prayed.
Months later, I knew the pathways-
walked them all, breathing hard,
legs aching to conquer each direction
I even captured them on a map
the largest moss-covered sentinels, noted, named,
hazel halls cooled in summer, glowed in fall
became skeletal in winter. You know,
maybe hundreds of ferns, realistically, covered this slope
astride that now-familiar gang
of snowberries, confettiing September.
Every morning, walking and noting true distance:
less than a mile across now.
In winter the neighbors’ frosted roofs became
visible, which made perfect sense.
the edge came sooner than I expected,
in any direction, joggers passed
on their way between streets
a stroller on the trail
a beer can against a fence
a rest, though my legs didn’t ache.
black cat across the neighbor’s gate
down the hill, a poodle barked,
a few feet of ivy between it and me.
wasn’t that young oak there, striving to grow,
or was that further up at the bend? I turned,
heading up the path to take cover.
but the largest madrone had fallen,
letting the calm sunlight creep
I counted the others
fewer steps now to the border
where trees gave way to power lines
back again up the hill to the old park
where someone had planted daffodils
I couldn’t pace far enough away -
once a wild place, now tamed.
Sunrise spilled down the woodland room
boxed in from sill to sill.
automatic steps within its boundary
like passing from toothbrush to coffeepot, I
closed my eyes, recalling ferns I had once knelt beside
leaned in, hearing birds chatting, undaunted by their new size
every yellow thread of trillium and bee lined in microns, not miles.
I stretched out my hand to contain this grove
on the platform of my palm.
I could pass each fir through a needle
stitching them down carefully in my memory.
Those velvet mosses still shine like emeralds,
this place an ornate broach of memory gifted to me,
lucky little me.
Me, reading “Little” to a small audience.
‘Till next time, hang in there, everyone.
