#161 The Gulch

The intervale on the lower part of our property is one long field stretching north to south along the Carrabassett River.  It's broken up by a garden or two, a small orchard and a gulch that we think houses all form of beast, behemouth, demon, devil, dragon, freak, giant, leviathon, hellion, mammoth, miscreation, mutant, ogre, savage, werewolf and vampire not to mention those yet to be discovered and named.

It also serves as a frog and duck pond in the spring when the annual flood arrives, a pump track for Harry and Cam, and mosquito nursery during the summer, an organic catch-all for anything you got going on during fall cleanup, and a safety spin-out for sledding runaways during the winter.

I keep thinking it would make a great cemented pond for swimming, with a pretty little bridge to serve as a shortcut to the river during the summer. It could double as an hockey pond with lights in the winter.

But as I stated above, we're sure there's a yet to be discover species waiting for the last bit of glacier below us to recede. We'll leave it alone, watch and wait. You never know what'll appear these days.

The Gulch • 8" x 8" gouache framed to 12" x 12" • $200

#160 An Island Place

It's Earth Day. I didn't have an opportunity to do a special painting this year, so I'm posting a sketch I did last summer. It's an island place we passed one afternoon while on our little sailboat "Claudia." When I see scenes like this, I document them - they will probably disappear into the water like so many islands and their peoples around the world are now.

I've gotten over the anger and frustration around the lack of control over those who don't understand the value of places like this, not to mention the fact that they represent real people, their homes and their livelihoods. I simply feel sad for them because in the end, all of us will suffer equally - it won't matter how much power and money you have. The playing field will have finally been leveled.

An Island Place • 8" x 8" gouache framed to 12" x 12"• $200

#159 More Like It

Okay, this has been a decent week here in Maine - the weather is acting more like spring. All we need is a sprinkling of sails out there.

Keep your fingers crossed for more like it.

More Like It • 8" x 8" gouache framed to 12" x 12" • $200

SOLD - Spring Cairn

I painted a winter scene for today's blog, but it ended up bumming me out because quite frankly, I just don't want to see a winter landscape inside when there's still too much of it outside. So... I decided to paint a cairn.

There's something very comforting about a pile of rocks. I called this Spring Cairn because as I was painting it, I imagined the beach where I frequently build them. I'm also hoping it will mark the beginning of real spring here in Maine. What have I got to loose - what's the risk? Who knows - it may actually work.  I'm desperate.

Spring Cairn • 8" x 8" watercolor framed to 12" x 12" • $200

SOLD - Snow Night

When I was a kid, lots of snow meant no school. The "snow day" represented a whole lot of time messing around creating and destroying a whole lot of stuff. Wars and sliding would leave no mark unless someone misfired on another's eye, got busted up on or by an invented sliding apparatus, or caught a chill from being in clothing not built for kids hyped up on primal adrenaline for hours on end.

To celebrate the memories of all of those snow days of the past, here's a poem by Billy Collins I found and love. After a lifetime of thinking all fun stops when the sun goes down, this painting is an appreciation for the other side of the snow day (which needless to say I did not have as a child), the snow night.

Snow Day

By Billy Collins

Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,   

its white flag waving over everything,

the landscape vanished,

not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,   

and beyond these windows

the government buildings smothered,

schools and libraries buried, the post office lost   

under the noiseless drift,

the paths of trains softly blocked,

the world fallen under this falling.

In a while, I will put on some boots

and step out like someone walking in water,   

and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,   

and I will shake a laden branch

sending a cold shower down on us both.

But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,   

a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.   

I will make a pot of tea

and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,   

as glad as anyone to hear the news

that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,   

the Ding-Dong School, closed.

the All Aboard Children’s School, closed,   

the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,

along with—some will be delighted to hear—

the Toadstool School, the Little School,

Little Sparrows Nursery School,

Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School   

the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,

and—clap your hands—the Peanuts Play School.

So this is where the children hide all day,

These are the nests where they letter and draw,   

where they put on their bright miniature jackets,   

all darting and climbing and sliding,

all but the few girls whispering by the fence.

And now I am listening hard

in the grandiose silence of the snow,

trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,   

what riot is afoot,

which small queen is about to be brought down.

The Snowy Night • 8" x 8" gouache framed to 12" x 12" • $200

#156 Spring Equinox

Spring in the northern hemisphere begins when the sun moves north of the Equator, which is usually on March 21, though it could be March 20 or 22 some years. It's when the length of day and night are equal.

In Maine however, spring begins when it damn well pleases, so it's an especially tricky time of year. We can very easily walk in to the deep end of desperation if we don't have our wits about us. And after this winter, many of our wits are still stuck under three feet of snow and ice.

No need to debate global climate change or harken back to those Ozzie and Harriet springs of the past, both of which make it all seem worse. All we have to do is acknowledge that we are experiencing a very typical mind body split. We mentally know that spring arrives this week - the planets don't lie, and that our bodies are telling us we are still very much in winter - and we know our bodies don't lie. Simply accepting this concept will save what you have left of your sanity.

Spring Equinox • 8" x 8" watercolor framed to 12" x 12" • $200

SOLD - Full Moon Faerie Dust

Cross country skiing through the countryside during a full moon in Maine is special. Moisture particles drift through the air shimmering like faerie dust when they catch the light. It's so quiet that you begin to wonder if you are still among the living.

And then a single twig snapping somewhere in the dark reminds you that things of an other-wordly nature are always lurking about out there at that late hour - prompting a fleeting moment in time when nature's most magical aligns with its most terrifying.

Full Moon Fairy Dust • 8"x8" watercolor framed to 12"x12" • $200