Touched by Louise Nevelson

Watercolor Commission in Progress

In her seventies, Nevelson’s energies were unceasing . . . . she described her creative life to an interviewer. . . “An artist goes to the studio to work. Not when the spirit moves you; you go every day and work–just plain work, physical work–and you keep right on going. The tools are put away at night, and the studio is swept down, and things you want for tomorrow morning are placed out.” And when you return the next day, she added, “Everything is clean, is nice. You are very happy. You start working.”

Richard Lacayo, Last Light: How Six Great Artists Made Old age a Time of Triumph

I’m tired tonight, as I’ve been every night this past week. But I’ve always gone to bed exhilarated by the progress made on this commission. Plein Air on the White River will end tomorrow afternoon after I finish judging the competition that began Wednesday morning. A host of enthusiastic artists have been out painting daily and will turn in all their work tomorrow morning. I’m looking forward to feasting my eyes on all their inspired pieces.

I am hoping to get my body into shape so I can feel the energy Louise Nevelson felt in her seventies. Thanks to some changes in my lifestyle of late, I have started to feel a significant change this week. The nine-hour drive on Monday left me feeling somewhat drained on Tuesday, but the enthusiasm of the plein air artists made the all-day workshop a very engaging and affirming activity. By Wednesday, I was ready to handle any tasks required of me and found time to work on my watercolor commission when the other tasks were completed. The schedule this week was balanced such that I found quality hours daily to take up what I chose, and I’m pleased that I had the interest and energy to work on this assignment. The commission is due on the 22nd, I leave for St. Louis tomorrow, but I’m confident now that when the time comes for me to return to Texas, this piece will be ready for delivery.

I’m grateful to the White River artists for making this event so inspiring. Time spent with these artists has put a spring back into my step.

Thanks for reading.

Working Late on a Commission

“A pessimist? I guess so. I’m not proud of it. At my age don’t you get to be? When I see all those students running around painting–studying like mad–I say, ‘What’s the use? It all ends the same place.’ At fifty you don’t think of the end much, but at eighty you think about it a lot. Find me a philosopher to comfort me in my old age.”

Edward Hopper (interview with Brian O’Doherty published in American Masters: The Voice and the Myth)

Saturday night finds me at my drafting table in Studio Eidolons, where I have spent the entire day, and could well remain the entire tomorrow. I’m working to complete a watercolor commission of a private residence before leaving early Monday for a thrilling week judging, workshopping and demonstrating at the Plein Air on the White River event at Gaston’s White River Resort in Lakeview, Arkansas. All of the above reads as a romance, but in reality, I’m feeling like a grinder, and have felt this all week. But I’m proud of what I do, and grateful for these opportunities.

During drying times in the watercolor process, I have been reading up on Edward Hopper, one of my guiding spirits in painting. I posted his quote from the closing years of his life, and recall the first time I read it when I was in my fifties. I have come to agree with him. And as for seeking counsel and comfort from a philosopher on the aging thing, I have in recent years enjoyed more and more the intimate connection I feel with the likes of artists Edward Hopper, Andrew Wyeth, Robert Motherwell and Mark Rothko. What those aged men shared with interviewers has been left as a veritable gift for myself and others who seek something positive about living out our senior years. I lack one chapter finishing Last Light: How Six Great Artists Made Old Age a Time of Triumph. This book too, is proving a remarkable treasure.

Hopper poked fun at the young artists scurrying about “studying like mad.” I still do that, and love the lifestyle of research. I completed graduate school in 1987, but still feel the urge to research, think and write about the creative process. I’m still hungry. And though I’ve recently turned seventy, I’m picking up some of the “bad” habits from those earlier years in libraries, classrooms and studios–I just brewed a pot of “cowboy coffee” and am drinking it tonight with delight (honestly this is something I rarely do at this age, at this hour).

I frequently come up with one-word descriptions of how I regard myself as artist of the moment, sometimes Explorer, sometimes Scholar, sometimes Grinder. This weekend, it is certainly Grinder. But I like it. Decades ago, I hoped to gain fame as an artist. I don’t know when I stopped hoping for that. All I can say in these senior years is this: I’m grateful to have lived this long and experienced all that comes with living a creative life. When I had my last birthday, I thought “if I could just have ten more years.” I’ll try to stop thinking that thought. I’m just glad to have what I now have, and hope other creatives can feel the same measure of gratitude and joy. There is no life like it, as far as I’m concerned.

I’ll say Good-night now, and thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

Staying up Much Too Late

Work on a new commission

. . . whereas [Norman] Rockwell was an indefatigable workhorse, [Edward] Hopper was slow, methodical, given to self-doubt, and long periods of reluctance to try a new canvas.

Gordon Theisen, Staying Up Much Too Late: Edward Hopper’s NIGHTHAWKS and the Dark Side of the American Psyche

This is so unlike me, being up at 2 a.m., working on a commission. But it is due by the end of the week, and I’ll travel to Palestine later today to put our Gallery at Redlands back together (after taking much of the furniture out of it for last weekend’s art festival). Saturday will find me back home while Sandi manages the Gallery at Redlands and sponsors our gallery artist Kathy Lamb during the monthly Art Walk.

My sentiments at this hour are reminiscent of years spent in graduate school, and later teaching. Those earlier days frequently found me up all hours of the night working on a lecture or assembling work for an art show or festival or gallery event. I rarely do that now. Tonight is just a matter of sticking with a deadline.

I posted the contrast of artists Norman Rockwell and Edward Hopper above because I have been in both pairs of shoes throughout my life. And right now, I am somehow wearing both pairs of shoes: I am working tirelessly into the night, yet frequently laying down the brush or pencil to cross the studio, read, reflect, journal, blog, and look up from time to time to stare across the room at the emerging painting, hoping to sharpen perspective and decide how to proceed from here. I have reached a conclusion that I do better work when I take frequent breaks to let the painting breathe, and allow myself to take up something else for awhile in order to put fresh eyes back onto the painting and resume the task. Though the hour now is late, I feel that it is one charged with quality.

I wanted to share one of my recent watercolors just framed today. This was the only one I did not take to the Dallas festival last weekend. As it turned out, I sold the other four snow scenes. This is the only one remaining in my portfolio, and I really want to take it to Colorado for the Trinidad Art Fest in July. Hopefully, I will create a few more snow scenes to replace the ones that have recently been purchased.

Time to resume the commission. Thanks for reading.

I create art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

A Quick Word Before Returning to Work . . .

To mean something, anything, art must provide a specific sense of where you are and where you have been, of your particular take on the larger history of which you, willingly or not, form a part.

Gordon Theisen, Staying Up Much Too Late: Edward Hopper’s NIGHTHAWKS and the Dark Side of the American Psyche

I am under a crushing deadline to finish a commission this week. But I feel compelled to share something that resonated with me while reading and journaling early this morning over coffee. The above quote from a book I am now re-reading with delight brought to the surface something simmering within me for months.

I’m still very content with living the life of a creative during these retirement years. Last weekend, while sitting in the Artscape 2024 festival and looking into my booth at my display, it suddenly occurred to me that my watercolors are my autobiography. Everything I paint and display originates from a scene in my life worth remembering, to me. As I thought about current artists and their bodies of work, I realized that there are many who are fixed in one specific subject matter or genre. One may do only still lifes. Another portraiture. Another landscapes, etc. When looking at my own work, the only common denominator is watercolor. All the subjects come from pieces of my past. Frequently, I was asked if all the work was of Texas scenes. My answer: Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, Oklahoma, Missouri and Arkansas–places I’ve visited that left a profound impression on me worth recording in paint.

I’m going to save Gordon Theisen’s quote and pull it out every time I second-guess what I am doing with my art.

Back to work. Thanks for reading.

Back to Work in the Art Festival Afterglow

My Booth in Dallas Artscape 2024

There is more dawn to come. The sun is but a morning star.

Henry David Thoreau

It is now Wednesday morning. I have had several days to recuperate from Artscape 2024 at the Dallas Arboretum. The festival was a spectacular financial success for me, despite severe thunderstorms that continually threatened. Load-In was moved up to Thursday, since Friday was expecting heavy rains throughout the day. With the help of Sandi and another dear friend, we put the tent together Thursday, then I remained on the scene till 8:30 that night, finishing out the interior. Returning Friday in the pouring rain, I managed to stay dry inside my closed tent, hanging all the original work and putting greeting cards, limited edition prints and matted originals in their respective bins and finally labeling everything. By the time 6:00 arrived, the rains had stopped and the VIP crowd showed up for the two-hour opening. Saturday and Sunday also were rain-free during festival hours, but a severe Saturday night storm damaged several booths and by the time the final day opened, there were only 53 artists remaining. Tearing down and loading out witnessed my return home around 9:30 p.m. Monday was spent unloading our two vehicles and putting everything back into storage. Yesterday I tidied my home Studio Eidolons, totally wrecked and ransacked by my preparations for the festival.

Today I break ground on a new watercolor commission with a weekend deadline. Friday I return to Gallery at Redlands for only a day, with Sandi staying into Saturday to host gallery artist Kathy Lamb for Palestine’s monthly Art Walk. I will be back at home, packing and loading for a Monday departure for Arkansas, where I am honored to judge the Plein Air on the White River event in addition to conducting a workshop and a pair of watercolor demos. Turning 70 on April 20, I definitely feel the aging as I write this and think of what lies ahead. Despite the physical sagging, I can honestly testify that my spirit is exhilarated and grateful for these experiences. I never wished to sit for weeks in a rocking chair, watching television once I retired seven years ago. A gallery was offered to me, and I still regard that as one of the greatest gifts in my life span.

I experience exhilaration, not only for next week’s Arkansas encounter (I have enjoyed these dear artist friends on three previous occasions), but two more art festivals that have popped up: Artscape at the Dallas Arboretum will offer an additional festival over Father’s Day weekend due to weather cancellations last week. And I have also been accepted into Colorado’s Trinidad Art Fest 2024 July 13-14. I have also been invited to conduct a two-day watercolor workshop in October at the Woman’s Club in Fort Worth. I also hope to be included in the Edom Art Festival in October. I have already applied, but am awaiting a response. In addition to all this, two more watercolor commissions have just been offered. So I suppose I’m staying quite busy for a 70-year-old retiree. But I don’t feel overworked, and do appreciate the long leisurely spaces between appointments. I’m certainly not living the grinding life I knew when employed forty-plus hours per week.

This morning I also enjoy the lingering afterglow of last weekend’s festival. On Friday and Saturday, my booth was never empty of patrons, and I’m still stunned at the volume of sales. I have never before sold so many framed original watercolors at any single event. It was fortunate that I brought along a large selection of extras, because I worked hard at filling all the gaps in the display. As welcome as the sales were, I still cannot say enough about the thrill I experienced with the ongoing conversations. I always thrive on discussions with art-loving individuals. There is never a question or comment that annoys me; I love to hear others’ views on the art experience. And this year, the crowds certainly did not let me down. There was never a lonely moment.

I have no experience in starting Facebook groups, but this morning I’m giving it a shot. I’ve titled it David Tripp Artists’s Cafe. It’s a public group that anyone can join, and my hope is to generate conversations about any aspect of art. My inspiration for this was spawned by the number of artists’s cafes I’ve read about in art history. The French Impressionists had their Cafe Guerbois. Picasso had his Els Quatre Gats, Hemingway held court at Les Deux Magots, The Ash Can School gathered at Robert Henri’s studio at 806 Walnut Street in Philadelphia, Alfred Stieglitz was a magnet at 291 5th Avenue in New York City, and the Abstract Expressionists (or New York School) met at the Cedar Tavern in Greenwich Village. I have always loved gathering in cafes or taverns with like-minded creatives, and now hope I could generate such conversations on Facebook. If any of you are interested and unable to find the group, please reach out to me. I’d love to welcome you.

Gotta get back to the task. Thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

Finding Water on a Saturday Morning

Gallery at Redlands Lobby Window

For the past few weeks, I’ve been reading and following the basic program of Julia Cameron’s book Finding Water: The Art of Perseverence. I’ve never had trouble persevering in making art, and seldom feel “blocked” as far as creativity is concerned. But during Sandi’s recent illness, I’ve stopped my basic activities in the studio, and now that she is stronger, I find it difficult to get back into the saddle. Of course, I cannot feel the motivation to begin a new painting, because in less than a week I’ll be setting up my booth at the Dallas Arboretum for Artscape 24.

The forecast now hints that we’ll be soaking in rain throughout that weekend, and we are certainly soaked today, Saturday. So, I guess I can safely say I have found water, thanks Julia. But honestly, I don’t care if the festival rains; I’ve been through that many times, I have an excellent Trim Line Canopy tent that will keep out the water, and all I can do is hope the rain doesn’t chase the patrons away. If it does, I’ll have a couple of days of solitude to read inside the dry confines of my booth, sip coffee, and admire my display. Maybe I’ll even attempt some watercolor sketching on my easel. I’m leaning forward in anticipation of a splendid festival experience, sorry that I missed this one last year. I’ve been looking over my inventory, trying to decide what to include in this year’s display, and am leaning toward the one below:

Arkansas Repose. Framed Watercolor. 26 x 29″

I photographed this truck in Arkansas a few years back when I was en route to their Plein Air on the White River event. I’m happy to return this year as a juror, and will do a workshop during the week the event runs its course. I will of course take part in the plein air activity that I’ve missed in recent years. The Waxahachie plein air competition opened yesterday and will run through May. I’m looking forward to participating in that event as well, having already enrolled in it.

Here is what I just found in the Julia Cameron book that I’m enjoying at present:

Ours is a youth-oriented culture. We are trained by television and the media to focus on those who are young. Our pop stars are youngsters. Their fortunes are immense and their futures bright. We do not read much or hear much about life in the arts for older people. We do not have many role models for doing what we must do–and that is persevere.

I understand what Julia is saying, but that sentiment does not fit mine in the least. I know the media parades the youth pop stars, but thanks to YouTube as well as published books, those of us who wish it are able to pull up the examples of the older generation and draw inspiration from their mature works. For the last couple of decades, I have drunk deeply from the wells of Edward Hopper, Andrew Wyeth, Robert Motherwell in their final decades of life and productivity, and have been profoundly inspired by them. I have also pored over the biographies and writings of William Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens and Larry McMurtry during their senior years, and their words still stir me daily. I have no doubt that my own work will not fall off as long as my health holds out (incidentally, I’m turning seventy this very day).

Thanks for reading. This Saturday, though soaked, is turning out to be an inspiring day for me.

Saturday Gallery Musings

Bright & Early Coffee. Framed Watercolor in Gallery at Redlands. 22.5h x 23.5w”

Missing was the thing Jim had found in Marx and Veblen and Adam Smith and Darwin–the dignified sound of a great, calm bell tolling the morning of a new age . . instead, the slow complaining of a door loose on its hinges.

William Carlos Williams, Paterson

I laughed out loud when I read the above passage this morning. I’ve been working my way through WCW’s epic poem and have only put ninety-six pages behind me so far. But the words posted above resonated with me because they paint in bold relief what I feel about today’s culture. I am a confessed YouTube junkie, but I find it a continual chore to slog through all the contemporary claptrap commentary in search of a decent lecture or documentary on the work of someone creative, someone who has something of lasting value to say. Lately I’ve found amazing material on William Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens, e. e. cummings, and Jack Kerouac to name a few. But I frequently wade through pages of crap for several minutes in search of something of value to view or give attention to when I’m out for a long walk.

It is Saturday, and Sandi and I are back in our Palestine Gallery at Redlands for the day. New work has been put up, including the painting that opens this blog. I just got it back from the framer and am delighted at its overall look. I was driving through May, Texas over ten years ago, when I stopped and took a photo of the Bright & Early Coffee billboard, peeking through the darkened shadow cast by the roof of an abandoned filling station. Ghost signs have been my passion for years, though I feel that I don’t paint them enough. I have a thick file of photos I have taken, all of them crying out for reproduction and recall of an era disappearing from our view.

Map of Artscape 2024 at the Dallas Arboretum, April 27-28

I am delighted to announce my participation in Artscape 2024 at the Dallas Arboretum April 27-28. I have been assigned booth #28, in the exact center of the event (I marked the spot on the map). I’m also proud to display a number of new framed pieces not yet appearing to the public. Preparations for the booth display are already underway, and I cannot overstate my excitement. At the same time, I feel the sadness of last year’s memory–the day before the festival opened, I received news of Dad’s critical condition in the hospital. I canceled the event and traveled to St. Louis to be with him. He managed to hold on until he passed in August, never able to return home. Still, I see the April date as the anniversary of his downturn.

Now that I’ve finally filed my tax returns, I’m thrilled to return to making art and sitting the gallery.

Thanks for reading.

Back in the Gallery Again

We had to rise at 5:00 this morning if we hoped to be showered, dressed, fed, and arrive at our Palestine gallery by 9:00. Fortunately for me, I managed to squeeze out a little time to read and settle down before commencing our two-hour road trip.

Seated at my drafting table, I peered out the window into a dark, pre-dawn suburban landscape and decided to open a couple of books for some quiet, leisurely reading. How amazing, the conversation springing up between these two disparate authors . . .

The twenty-first century is full of people who are full of themselves. A half-hour’s trawl through the online ocean of blogs, tweets, tubes, spaces, faces, pages, and pods brings up thousands of individuals fascinated by their own personalities and shouting for attention.

Sarah Bakewell, How to Live, or A Life of Montaigne

In Manhattan, my apartment is one set of lights amid millions. In the galaxy, Manhattan is just a sprinkling of lights on something known as planet Earth. . . . Seated at my writing desk, looking out at the glittering lights, I strive for a sense of optimism, a feeling that as small as I am, what I am doing still matters in the scheme of things.

Julia Cameron, Finding Water: The Art of Perseverance

From the time I began posting on social media, years ago, I was conscious of the tension between self-absorption and self-abegnation. It hasn’t gotten any easier; I still find myself second-guessing what I write before sending it up the flagpole for others to read. I was happy to read this pair of writers during this morning’s darkness. I thought about their statements nearly the entire two-hour drive down here.

As soon as we hit the gallery, I had to shift into high gear and get my work back up on the walls and easels. Recent festivals and workshops resulted in me removing most of my work from this venue, and I decided it was time for me to emerge once again in the Palestine community. Below are most of the watercolors I hung today, and plan to keep in place for a few weeks . . .

“Tasting the Winter Mist”

“Utah Bison Tranquility”

“Fishing Solitude”

“Snow-Bound”

“Lubbock Caboose at Rest”

“Snow Bison”

“Crosby’s Dream”

Today is the April Art Walk for Palestine, sponsored by the Dogwood Art Council. Gallery traffic has been heavier than normal, which is a good thing. It also makes it difficult to blog (smiling).

Thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

Finding Water

My 16 x 20″ watercolor done on Good Friday

“What if” and “if only” are poison for any artist.

Julia Cameron, Finding Water: The Art of Perseverance

February 23 was my last blog post. I’m not sure if I’ve ever before gone for over a month without sending out a word. I won’t go into detail. When I feel I have nothing to contribute, I don’t blog. It’s been an unusually long dry season. Looking up from my drafting table now I drink in the beautiful light, color, and repose of “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood” (my description of the idyllic view across my suburb), and I feel some of that creative eros coming back. And I embrace Julia Cameron’s words. Regret is indeed poisonous for anyone wishing to pursue creative exploits. I have had far too much regret throughout my past, and this morning I am letting it melt away.

I’ve posted above my latest watercolor. It was an honor to be selected among five artists to participate in a Good Friday service titled “Art in Motion.” The three-hour service was held at Trinity Grace Church in Mansfield, Texas. As music played in the sanctuary and worshipers came and went throughout the afternoon, five us us created art depicting our idea of Good Friday. I wanted to see if I could capture the impression of the site of the crucifixion. “Golgotha” is translated “place of the skull” and popular legend says the hollowed out places on the side of the bluff resemble eye sockets of the human skull. I was hoping to capture a darkened, stormy atmosphere in the composition and still find a way to work effective color into the grasses and rocky textures. The experience was a good one for me as my creative work has been largely absent the past month.

I now lean forward in anticipation of significant art activity on the horizon. Artscape 2024 at the Dallas Arboretum will be Saturday and Sunday, April 27-28. I am turning handsprings with delight to discover that my corner booth #28 will be in the exact center of the festival. In former years when I was at one end or the other, I often wondered about how many people actually walk the entire length of the festival grounds. Now, I smile at the thought that most of the crowd travels at least half-way! I have created many new pieces that have not yet hit the public, so I’m looking forward to bringing these out for vewing.

I have also decided this year to return to the Paint Historic Waxahachie event. It’s been a few years since I’ve done this, and I’m really looking forward to the plein air painting experience once again. I’ll be making trips to Ellis County in April as the competition gets underway, but the main event will be May 17-26. I have really missed the richness of this gathering. The total immersion I feel when kicking out a dozen or more watercolors stirs the emotions in ways I cannot adequately describe. I’m grateful for this opportunity.

And then . . . I’ve been asked to judge the Plein Air on the White River competition in Cotter, Arkansas May 6-11. Not only will I have the pleasure of judging high-quality plein air work; I’ll also lead a workshop of about 15 enthusiastic participants. I also intend to do plenty of painting in that colorful town as the week runs its course. The artists in Cotter, Mountain Home, and the surrounding communities in that part of Arkansas have been such an enrichment to me over the years. I have been honored to judge some of their events as well as conduct workshops and perform demos in their midst. I always leave there with a warmth of friendship that encourages me to continue in this work.

We’ll leave for Palestine early in the morning. The Dogwood Arts Council’s monthly Art Walk will enrich the city throughout the day. Artists and musicians will be sharing their skills in businesses all over downtown. Our Gallery at Redlands will feature my art work for this month, and the brunch served at the Queen Street Grille across the lobby from our Gallery will draw multitudes beyond number. We’re looking forward to a good day filled with the felicity of art.

I’m convinced that my fallow ground has been broken up, and I intend to blog from The Gallery at Redlands sometime tomorrow. In the meantime, I thank you for reading, and look forward to sharing a special word tomorrow.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

A Profound Gift Received while Convalescing

Caprock Canyon. Quitaque, Texas

Saturday does not find me in The Gallery at Redlands, or anywhere in Palestine. Sickness knocked me down several days ago, and I am thankfully climbing out of it, though still in bed this morning with much happier thoughts of late. Reading from my old journals led me to pull some photos from the file and repost something I scribbled out in the journal with genuine gratitude:

5:56 a.m. Tuesday morning, March 13, 2018

Yesterday we journeyed 2 hours to the canyon, taking the dog. At Quitaque, we found a cool Mobil gas station. Population 411 in Brisco County.

We journeyed to Caprock Canyon State Park, saw plenty of bison & mule deer, and I got in some painting. Amazing colors, there. Sandi took a picture of me at my easel. As I painted, she & Patches walked a trail. We may go back there to camp.

I’ll try to record what happened as I painted. Drinking in the horizon, I spread water across the sky & quickly spread Cerulean & Antwerp Blue in a light wash. The climate dried it rapidly. With a Mirado Classic pencil I laid in 2 or 3 action lines to follow the horizon & diverging terrain, accenting 2 or 3 bluffs, then went to wok, dotting the horizon with my modified “ugly” brush (one I cut with an X-acto knife, creating a ragged edge of bristle for foliage). Mostly I blended Alizarin Crimson with Winsor Green & a touch of Transparent Yellow to get a near-black silhouette of horizon tree line. Then I worked my way down the canyon ridge, laying wet wash of Cadmium Red & Transparent Yellow & dried patches of Quinacridone Gold & Winsor Blue for some varied green earth tones. When it suited me, I drew with my pencil into the wet washes to cut the lines of striations in the rock. When dry, I mixed a Winsor Green/Alizarin Crimson to create black & used a liner brush for sharp shadows & creases of rock striations. I also scumbled varying washes of reds & oranges over the bluffs, then laid in Winsor Violet & Transparent Yellow for deep shadows behind the red bluffs.

It was a rewarding time, drinking in the dynamics of the shadowed canyon walls I viewed from a distance. I want to go back when I can stay longer . . .

Now . . . Heidegger!

“To be old means: to stop in time at that place where the unique thought of a thought train has swung into its joint.”

Now, at age 63, with only twice-a-week classes to teach, my thoughts are able to slow down & subjects are given time to swing into alignment. It’s because I no longer have to submit papers by a deadline or prepare multiple subjects to teach. There is time to stop and ponder, ruminate, drink it in. Chew on it. Return to it. Re-examine it. Re-word it. Re-arrange the categories.

The logos gathers together. It is the ligature, the religion, that soothes me, mends me, calms me.

Yesterday the strife was there, as I met the earth with my world, and sought to make art emerge from that nexus, that arena of conflict. And as I wrestled with the horizon, I felt that I was living out my purpose, doing what I had prepared 63 years to do. Stand there at Ithaca, and embrace my home. . . . I was home on this earth.

The child is indeed father to the man. As a child, I saw myself standing, surveying the landscape, and capturing it on a flat plane. My eye penetrating, my hand moving, my thoughts flowing, and the world and I belonged together.

I could have just as easily been flyfishing in a moving stream, my eyes surveying the surface, looking for the seams that held the waters together. Finding the seams. The ligatures. The connections where parts are joined together to form harmonies.

Harmonious searching. Wanting all of it to fit together. Now I return to my landscape, seeking a composition, a framwork, an armature. What is it that makes the eye wish to look further?

I do not echo the sentiments of Wordsworth. At 63 I still know the splendor of childhood and feel more awake and alive than ever before. It is just that I am slower and (I hope) calmer in these years.

Thanks for reading. I’m grateful for this morning’s opportunity to re-read my old journals. I recall well the experience of plein air painting in Caprock Canyon State Park. I just don’t remember scribbling all this out in my journal! I’m glad I did.