About kevin

Color me as you will, with lines dark and some shrill.

Gravare Su

I have many memories from early childhood. For example, one morning, at six years old, I recall sitting on the toilet and looking at my hands and fingers and thinking I will never be old. This thought may have been inspired by observing my grandmother’s hands. I recall how fresh and strange my hands looked and how time seemed to move so slow. As I got older and a friend of mine lost a family member, I recall that I felt envious. Looking back it sounds insensitive but I must have felt incomplete, not fully manifested without someone close to me dead. The first significant person I lost was my paternal grandmother, Edna.

I mostly recall the severity of how her death effected my father. It wasn’t especially real for me in the way it was for my dad and I would later understand. His grief was astonishing to me. I knew she was dead, but as a seventeen year old, I had so little experience in this aspect of life. Later I often dreamed about her, still alive and very old. In the dreams I had not visited her and forgot about her. She lived in a small trailer and dreaming, suddenly I would visit and greet her with waves of emotion and guilt. I am still afraid of such dreams with her.

As the years have flowed on, I am saddened and astounded by the many losses of friends and relatives that have passed on. I am writing this because I am especially sad by the passing, this year, of my friends, Roland (71) and Greg (55). Roland was a poet and mentor. We both shared our passions with each other of the creative process and often compared our strikingly similar methods. He loved words and language. I met Greg as a volunteer photographer at high school track meets. We would often find ourselves trying to get the same shot at the high jump or pole vault and realized our shared fascination with photography. We soon learned that music was our deeper connection. Greg was so supportive and generous, and combined with his kindness it was so easy to grow in our friendship.

Roland wasn’t in good health and often suffered from exhaustion. Greg was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig disease. Roland passed away suddenly, after being admitted to the hospital for less than a week. I lost contact with Greg less than a year before he died. Our last communication was by text. He explained to me how exhausted he would get from writing, through an iPad with voice recognition, just a few words. I thought about him constantly, praying for him. It was very difficult to imagine what he went through.

My mom also passed away this year. We were estranged, mostly. She was committed to breaking my family apart and I was forced to choose my family over her. At some point I made an emotional disconnect and we never fully reconciled. Although our last exchange included saying we loved each other. Her death did not ignite a similar loss I feel for Greg and Roland. Loosing a mother is likely a once in a lifetime event and I am still understanding what this means for me.

My story really begins way back, when my dad cultivated in me a love for nature and the woods. He taught me how to walk a straight line and never be afraid to be lost. He taught me the names of trees and how to look for animals. He demonstrated how to hunt patiently and without movement. I was sold, hooked and forever became a student of the forest.

Throughout my adult life I have retreated to the woods for rejuvenation and firewood. The woods are an endless source of inspiration. Nature is a master of so much. My painting is deeply connected to observations and the awe that I continuously experience on walks.

I am also prone to the delight, likely through DNA, of cutting firewood. Two of my paternal uncles provided income for their families with a chain saw. My father found other means for a livelihood but still loved cutting firewood and hauling it out on his homemade jitterbug. His enthusiasm was so inspiring that it rubbed off on me. It would seem to be the antithesis of nature bathing, yet a valid way, I have found, to enjoy another side of nature.

My New World, European ancestors were known for selling firewood which would be shipped from Cape Neddick Harbor to points south including Boston. They would work in the woods with crosscut saws and oxen. I expect this would have happened in the winter months when the swamps were frozen and passible by ox carts. They likely stripped as many trees from the land that would have been economically beneficial to them.

This desire to work in the woods isn’t exclusive to my family. There is actually a local culture, nearly exhausted to death now, that loves saws, axes, chains, malls, splitting wedges and tractors. My friend Brad, who passed away two summers ago, and whom I miss very much, shared my enthusiasm and lineage right back to the woods. We admired each others tractors and axes, gadgets for hauling as refined gentlemen might admire a well aged bottle of scotch. There was a camaraderie among many locals, a lust for getting into the woods and taking action.

With the cycling of life and death most of the old timers have expired and are replaced by those from away and who pose no risk of injury to themselves from a chainsaw.

Oil on canvas titled Gravare Su

Gravare Su, 2018, Oil on Canvas, 18″ x 24″

It is only in the last year, however, that I find a deep melancholy when I saunter upon the foliage carpet of the forest floor. I am continuously reminded of my father and ancestors who once walked these same woods where I now live and left their presence by their long, labor intensive stonewalls. It was my aunt who owned this land, now my home and brought me here, when I was very young and paid me to help her refresh boundary lines and monuments.

Last summer, I was walking nearby by my home on Gulf Hill. I found a path which I knew led to an old cellar hole. As I made the choice to follow the path, I also remembered there were old rose bushes, honeysuckle and apple trees around this spot which is now nowhere but once hosted civilization. I was immediately reminded of my friend Roland’s poem, Old Roses. I was very sad thinking about this. Roland died the previous February. Greg had passed away only a few weeks prior. I felt helpless with my grief as I approached the old cellar hole. These feelings were new to me and I didn’t wish to suppress them. I moved forward with a very heavy heart bearing witness to the subject of the poem. The loss of Greg and Roland commingled in my heart. I prayed for their spirits to soar and was grateful for their release from mortal pain.

On this particular day, I had come to the woods with expectations. I thought that a nice long walk would bring me closer to a feel good state. They almost always had. The trees, ledges and even bird chatter had other ideas and I submitted. I called forth the anguish and sadness. I was overwhelmed at the old rose bushes, the loss of Roland and more recently Greg. I couldn’t step back.

I was very sad for days. Was this grieving? I thought it must be, a sort of do it yourself version. I didn’t have a plan other than let the feelings rise and be aware of the validity. I then noticed the woods weren’t calling to me the way they always had. When I thought about going for a walk I instinctively reacted against it and realized I now associated my sense of loss with the place I loved most.

I drive by Roland’s home daily. I am always reminded of him, of his hearty cheer and enthusiasm for conversation. Greg was gone far to soon for me and in such a brutal way. His disease was the opposite side of nature from what I experience on my walks. Both natures co-exist, both a grand mystery, experienced. I no longer drop in on Roland, nor am I invited. His home now has tenants. The same place with different cars in the driveway. I imagine Greg soaring though the universe, free of pain, as his family and friends miss him so deeply.

I have always had empathy for my elders who had lost loved ones. I could see the pain and anguish they were feeling. Now, it seems inevitable that I have moved into the ranks of elder and will either live longer than my remaining friends or pre-decease them. There is only certainty of more sadness. The deeper the connection, the greater the love, the greater the loss. If this is the way of nature, I am grateful to have such great and wonderful people in my life to cause this much anguish.

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Why I cannot vote for Janet Mills for Governor of Maine

A previous Attorney General of the State of Maine, created an opinion, called the, “Schneider Opinion,” against the Penobscot Nation that would withdraw their sustenance rights for fishing in the waters of the Penobscot River. The Penobscot Nation filed a lawsuit against then Attorney General Schneider and others who were claiming their fishing rights in the river no longer existed. Janet Mills, as a subsequent Attorney General, has defended this lawsuit in the First Circuit Court.

I cannot understand how that the State of Maine can be forthright and challenged the sovereignty of Maine’s Native People. Although this issue is multifaceted and cannot be explained by me, in its entirety, I can only conclude that this action is against a group of people and for this reason it is racist. The basic objective is to deny a culture the right to continue a practice of consuming salmon and further diminish their already frail existence.

It is further egregious that Janet Mills is also fighting against the EPA to raise the legal toxin levels in the river.

Democrats are happy to vote for Mills as they downplay these racists acts which she has perpetrated on their behalf.

I find this situation unconscionable and cannot vote for anyone who is perpetrating racism.

Obituary – Mary (McNamara) Freeman

Mary Freeman

Mary Mable (McNamara) Freeman

Mary (McNamara) Freeman died on July 3, 2018. Born in Franklin, New Hampshire in 1935, she was the daughter of the late William and Josephine McNamara. Mary grew up in Rockport, Massachusetts. She attended Rockport High School and nursing school in Beverly, MA. She married Haven Freeman in 1953 and moved to York, Maine. The couple had two children, Kevin and Karen. She worked as a nurse at The Harbor Home and Mark Wentworth Home, among others, before retiring.


York Public Library Talk

York Public Library – Kevin S. Freeman Paintings

I like being in my studio, mostly. I like being alone for hours to move paint around on a rectangle. When I look around, at the world in general, I know that I am very privileged. The daily news continuously reminds us of the horrors others endure without end. Humanity has a very dark side. Other than being informed, I have been spared. How could this be?

So, I paint with my heart as much as I can. I paint with my soul. I often wish these were the only two brushes I had. But they are not enough. They cannot express, as a duo, the depth of expression I reach for. Hence I complicate things with intellect, gesture, contrast and ego. Occasionally, I have small breakthroughs but understand I am mostly a singularity. Nonetheless, I am encouraged by the possibility of invention, making something from nothing, in a process that allows me great freedom of spirit.

This show has given me the opportunity to share with others the results of my attempts of expression. Of what it means to be alive, with two hands and a few tubes of paint. It all seems so petty in a way. The world, my small world, is such a miracle laden marvel in spite of the darkness. Nature is far beyond my comprehension. Shifting, shimmering light creates splendid forms as bird calls and breezes drift my spirit into awe.

The following video was recorded by my son, Nathaniel Noton-Freeman at the York Public Library on May 16, 2017. This was at the opening of Kevin Freeman Paintings. You can find the text of the talk below.

Kevin Freeman Paintings will be on view for the rest of June 2017. Find hours here: York Public Library.

Thanks to everyone for coming tonight!

I would especially like to thank Janice Plourde for inviting me to have this show and for her help in putting it all together.

And thank you Anastasia Martens for helping install the work. Your keen eye is much appreciated.

And thank you to my wife Sandra, for helping to get all this work together and helping with the installation and encouraging me in life and my dreams.

And thanks to the art committee and the York Public Library staff for being so helpful and friendly.

I created this slideshow to include drawings and photos and some additional paintings which are a very integral to my process.

I don’t spend much time talking about art. Mostly, I just paint and draw and grab my camera when going out for a walk.

But as my art school friends will attest, back in the day we had plenty to talk about. Art, artists, art history, critics, critiques, instructors motives, fellow students…it all consumed us. One of my favorite quotes, discovered back then and still is was from the art historian Kenneth Clarke, “Modern art is a vast and expensive joke.”

My roommates and I loved how this contradicted the serious assumptions of art which was espoused by our instructors.

Even before the ties of academia had been cut I had no problem dispelling the theories and dogmas that were imposed upon me.

Through it all, I have felt that art is a celebration of the individual, first. Each artist creates according to their own inspiration and necessities.

For me, the most significant aspect of being a painter is that I have an opportunity to express my uniqueness. We don’t come into this world with a manual listing our uniquenesses. As humans, we carry many similarities, physically and behaviorally. As children we mostly try to hide our differences and are terrified at not being like everyone else.

Successfully expressing my being on a two dimensional surface with color can be complicated and on the other hand it can be so simple. And what does success mean anyways? Ego, insecurity and self doubt all coalesce with confidence and audacity, and a desire to portray myself in my truest form.  And through this practice I have arrived exactly here, at the York Public Library.

This is the first time my paintings have been seen in such a public venue for which I am excited and very grateful.

The loftiest idea I have is that I might create something that others recognize as valid to them, and with all humbleness, that my efforts may benefit their lives in a good way. But I am at the mercy of the powers of the universe and my imagination.

The process of painting becomes melded with my spirituality. It occasionally becomes entirely vital to my life and from it, I am left with a deeper understanding of what it means to be alive. Whether pretty or ugly, and whether others desire it or discard it I am making an honest attempt at being me.

The process of painting, for me, means cultivating an open mind, clearing thoughts away and being at one with a pallet full of paint. This process is a practice like mediation. I strive for mindfulness and the grace of irony while completely intrigued at the process and potential.

I often begin a painting by embracing the unknown. I am so compelled by making a new discovery that I will risk everything. The bigger the risk the bigger the gain. But what am I trying to gain? As I stumble along through life I so stumble along in paint. Dreaming of the ultimate combination of form and color. Reaching out with each loaded brush full of paint as if finally, this mark will do the trick.

Confidence and insecurity alternate frequently as I search deeper into my being. I try to find a way in. Into myself and into the painting. I grasp at any hint, relinquishing thoughts, scolding myself for being rational, scraping off something that would otherwise be just right and finally imagining the painting an extension of my existence and painting out everything that is not real to me.

My spiritual appetite has always been significant. I became a lay student of theosophy and developed a strong attraction to Buddhism. Naively, at first I tried to shake away my ego. I imagined living in a remote cell as a hermit or in a monastery, somewhere in Tibet. There I would surely cut to the chase and become enlightened. Well, that hasn’t happened.

I read books of timeless wisdom such as the EChing and the Tao Te Ching.

In Chapter 2, line 6 of the Tao Te Ching, Lao Tzu says, “Therefore the sage keeps to the deed that consists of taking no action and practices the teaching that uses no words.”

NO ACTION how can this be, what does it mean. How can you be alive and take no actions??

I love Loa Tzu… he is such a prankster, yet he gives us insights to the way. He tells us if we search for enlightenment we will never find it. But if we don’t search, it is ours.

I aspired to adopt this philosophy into life and painting. The Tao is packed with ironies.

Here is another great one…

Again by Loa Tzu…

Rid yourself of desires in order to observe their secrets;

But always allow yourself to have desires in order to observe their manifestations.

I interpreted all this to mean that if I could be in harmony with myself, I would be also with the universe. I would have no causal effect but exist in divine ubiquity. Nothing positive, nothing negative, perhaps perfection or enlightenment. I practiced this in the studio and still do.

I am inspired by nature. Actually, awe inspired. Have you ever tried looking at the world as a flat plane? Have you ever gone into the woods and forgot that you are looking at objects? At trees, rocks, foliage, branches, moss? And just look at the light…let your mind go.

Everything will flatten out into a two dimensional plane. Forget about the objects, just let go. Everything becomes colors. It is awesome. And when you use this method of perception in painting everything becomes color relationships. Everything is dependent on everything else.

You need to remember to switch your brain back when you begin walking as this two dimensional vision will provide no depth perception.

This way of looking at things is amazing. Everyplace is a great masterpiece just waiting to be painted. Large and ambitious paintings. Nature and observation is so inspiring and it was pretty much the foundation for painting until Jackson Pollack famously said, “I am nature.”

Until he said this people mostly painted external stimuli. Pollack came along and said, I am changing all that. And he did. In the 20th century painting changed forever.

I love this. A huge door opened for the self and its relevance. At the same time a new technique was born for applying paint. Just throw it.

Some of my paintings are inspired by looking inside, others looking outside. I truly love the landscape. Others by emotional impulses such as tragedy. One of the paintings in this show, called “Friends Forever,” was a meditation on gratitude for the many friends I have. It just kind of created itself, as I watched.

I am so grateful for the many friendships I still have from art school. My friends and I shared an experience and can relate to each other in a very unique way. And through this group, which has grown to include many others I am continuously inspired and encouraged.

Creativity led by the imagination is available to us all. We each have different approaches and different results and I believe that is what makes art, at any level, so compelling.

Again, thank you all for coming and for the wonderful support. If anyone has questions I will try to answer.




Kevin S. Freeman Paintings – at York Public Library


Kevin S. Freeman paintings at the York Public Library

About a month ago I was contacted by Janice Plourde from the York Public Library and asked if I would like to have a show. After a day of thinking about it and not being able to think of any reason not to, I agreed. As I began to put together a body of work I began to really like the idea. A library is not a gallery or museum but the York Public Library is many things. Not only does the library loan books but it has many rooms to serve the town including Selectmen, Planning Board and numerous committees. They have visiting authors, historians, movie night and exhibits of artists among other things. It is a very busy place.

So my selection process of paintings began. I decided to focus on the last several years as there seemed to be a continuity. A lot of my creative time includes drawings and watercolors which I excluded because I didn’t have time to make worthy presentations. I scrambled to make as many frames as possible. I am not a frame maker. This became very apparent but did I really need to prove it to myself? Yup, and unless I was going to drop off about 50 paintings to a frame shop this was my destiny.

I made mostly floater type frames from white pine. As the install date got closer I used some lattice which I painted to frame the three larger (60″ x 48″) paintings. I am a skeptic of framing paintings but cannot resist in some situations. At one level, I like the painting to hold its own, be self sufficient and proud as a singularity. At other times there is nothing as magical as a frame. Somehow they just contain contents like nothing else.

The install date came upon me like the sun bursting out through clouds. I began driving carloads of paintings to the library and leaning them against the walls on a Saturday. I counted around 80, assuming I had enough, happy there were plenty more, just in case. On Monday morning, my wife Sandra and I met art committee chair Janice Plourde and committee member Anastasia Martens to begin putting up the paintings.

There are some prime spaces near the front doors and foyer. They were very suitable for the largest paintings I had with the exception of a large open wall toward the back. For this space I intended a (9′ x4′) triptych. As Sandra busied herself cataloging the paintings Janice, Anastasia and I began putting up the paintings. Their enthusiasm was energizing. We put up and took down and moved paintings around for about 3 hours. At the end, everything felt just right. I was so grateful to have so much help. Thank you Sandra, Janice and Anastasia!

Kevin S. Freeman Paintings

Kevin S. Freeman paintings at the York Public Library

Pricing the paintings was not necessary. The library has no requirements to sell nor do they receive a commission. Ultimately, however, I really would like my paintings to find homes -other than my own. We began the arduous process of putting a price on a painting. This part of the process seems so surreal. My process is spiritual and giving. Selling a painting is similar to the religious aspect of spirituality.  I do not like religion in general because of it’s necessity of money. Things become murky. I am not sure about my true intentions. Some of my paintings ring a clear chord, directly to my soul. How can you put a price on this? This is not simple to justify and I am still conflicted. None the less, we put prices on many of the paintings.

The show is up for the months of May and June. There will be an opening on Tuesday, May 16, 5-6:30. All 52 paintings are labeled. Although titles are few, each painting has a number.  Please leave a comment below, I would love to hear from you!




Don Stone

As my high school years came to a close it wasn’t obvious what I would do for the rest of my life. I was able to draw and really enjoyed it. I graduated a half year early from York High School and moved from my parents home to an apartment in Ogunquit, Maine. I worked part time at the Old Village Inn for Fred and Alf and spent the winter painting and getting a feel for what it was like to live without the influence of my parents.

Sometime in the spring I ventured down Shore Road in Ogunquit with my mother to numerous galleries. She suggested I go to art school. This trip was meant to present me with what the life of an artist would be like.

The most significant stop was at the gallery of Don Stone. Don was a painter of landscape and still lives. He was very proficient and I was taken by his skills and personality. After a short discussion he found I was in consideration of attending Portland School of Art (MECA) and that I was a local who was connected to the community.

Monhegan Island oil painting White Head

This was painted before I attended Maine College of Art in 1980. I was the guest of Don Stone at his home on Monhegan Island, off the Maine coast.

He asked if it would be possible for me to take him to places that he could paint and could I get permission to go into some old barns or persons properties of who I might know. I jumped at the chance. Throughout the summer of 1978 Don set up his watercolors next to me in barns, under apple trees and on the Marginal Way. I had never tried to paint outside and could barely stumble along. However, as I watched over Don’s shoulder I was mesmerized.

After I left Don’s studio, that day, with my mother, I visited another studio. I remember walking into a kitchen/gallery and there was an older gentleman sitting at a table, his wife at the stove. He was eating spaghetti with only a scant amount of sauce. He scolded me when I told him I might like to become a painter. He asked how would I like to be like him when I was old? Never enough to eat, always cold. I kept my thoughts to myself. Although I truly felt sorry for him I knew I would never be like him.

Don was so supportive of my work. Always offering suggestions in a gentle and kind way but mostly leading by example. His depictions of waves and surf were daunting. He liked to take me up into his studio and show me setups he was working on. One was of a mannequin in a yellow oil slicker. He said he was painting a cover for a magazine and the subject was fisherman.

His egg tempera paintings were finely detailed and composed by a method he called “big shapes.” He gave me some audio tapes on his methods of painting and I listened intently. As our connection deepened he invited me to a workshop he hosted annually on Monhegan Island, off the coast of Maine. The dates conflicted with my first days of art school. I would miss the first week. I remember awkwardly calling the registrar Eudolia Gross and asking if it would be ok if I did not attend the first week of school, I was so excited!

Eudolia agreed that I could go and I was Don’s guest for two weeks on Mohegan Island. We left Ogunquit and drove together up route one in his Subaru. It was packed with all sorts of painting supplies. We stopped in Thomaston for coffee…he seemed to know everyone. It was a bright September post summer day. I recall getting on the mail boat from Tenents Harbor in short sleeves, bearing against the wind on the front deck as we headed into the broad ocean and cold Atlantic sea spray.

Mailboat to Monhegan Island

Mailboat to Monhegan Island (2007)

Upon landing there was an old truck and a happy Islander waiting for Don. We threw our stuff onto a makeshift platform on the back of the truck and watched it rumble up the gravel hill to someplace unknown to me. Don was greeted by many people and I was enthralled to be in such a mystical place.

Don told me of his friends, the fisherman and how he painted them and how we were invited to a party where it was likely we would see Jamie Wyeth. We walked up the hill and if my memory serves me his home was about in the center of the island. Gray shingles, large. He told me a painter named Shoemaker had lived there previously. We got settled in and soon went down to the general store. Don ordered a cup of coffee and practically poured a cup of sugar into it. We sat at a table with many others. He joked about not liking his coffee sweet, that’s why he would never stir it.

Kevin Freeman watercolor, Monhegan Island, Maine

This is a watercolor painted in 1979 near the Stanley family bait shack. Over the years a mouse brazenly nibbled into the left side.

Don picked up some other food items and a case of Budweiser beer. He carried the beer up the hill and back to his home on his shoulder, I carried the smaller bags. At the house we sat back, relaxed and talked while sipping on cold beer. I was 18. We would be joined by Don’s wife Linda in a few days and then the workshop would begin. The next morning Don took me out to explore the south side of the island. We set up our easels and painted. And then we went back to the fishing village and painted more.

Monhegan was amazing. I loved everything about it. That afternoon Don told me we needed more beer. More beer? I had drank only one or two, how could this be, I couldn’t imagine! Don explained to me he really enjoyed beer and that his indulgence was at the expense of no one. This explanation seemed practical to someone with little experience in this regard.

Kevin Freeman at Monhegan Island

Standing with Don’s wife, Linda, while checking out the painting prospects.

Kevin Freeman on Monhegan Island, drawing

Making sure the world is plumb 🙂

The workshop guests began arriving and Don greeted many of them down at the dock as they got off the mailboat. They all stayed at the Monhegan Inn. Daily, as a group, we all headed off, following Don to his favorite locations. The group of men and women were mostly retired or soon to be. They were very friendly and everyone shared the awe of being on Mohegan. We would paint until one or two in the afternoon and then re- assemble on the porch of the Mohegan Inn for a critique around five-ish. There were cocktails and lots of suggestions but mostly people were bidding on the watercolor paintings Don had done during the day.

The island adventure was epic for me. Don was so kind and generous and so full of knowledge about the island and he was such an able painter. So many people admired him including me.

Don sold all his watercolors during the workshop. Mine were in a portfolio which I gathered up and sailed back to the main land with Linda’s mom. She drove me to Ogunquit and took me out to lunch at Barnacle Billy’s. Within a day or two I began art school.

At Portland School of Art we started by painting the contents of an open box turned facing us. We arranged objects within the box and were allowed to make our impressions with a pallet knife only. It was so different than the glamour that Don had offered. He would suggest always mixing a little sienna under the eves, people like it better, he would say with a smile. I was so grateful to Don for taking me to Monhegan.

Don Stone

Me standing beside Don Stone in his Monhegan Island, Maine studio, August 6, 2007

Throughout art school I would drop in on Don. He had an old Martin guitar that he would pull from the attic for me to play. He was a banjo player. I would strum a few chords with him in his living room as Linda busied herself making us snacks. My path was diverging from his. When he asked what I was doing it was hard for me to explain. One day as we sat there discussing the philosophy of art and life he suggested I never do what he did. He told me he sold out and that his paintings would never go beyond a certain place.

At the time I was reading Van Gogh’s letters to Theo and was learning the difficulties some had pursuing a creative life. But Don had 3 homes, beautiful paintings, and a large group of admirers. Still, his words resonated with me. And they have stuck with me.

Don brought me into his world and opened the door for me. He shared with me the superficial and the real. I left Don’s world as my other influences coaxed me to larger aspirations. His kind mentoring was an inspiration and left an indelible impression on me.

Don passed away on March 12, 2015. He was 85 years old. Rest in Peace, Don and thank you.





Studio Retreat

This winter is a vivid reminder of winters when I was growing up in York, Maine. An endless accumulation of snow. Of course as a kid it meant skiing and snowmobiling. As an adult with a very long driveway and partly low pitched roof it means something else. Although I am a huge admirer of nature I will concede this much snow is a challenge.

Only today have I got back outdoors on snowshoes. The snow is more settled now and I only sink down about 8-10 inches. Previously, I would go down to my knees and my snowshoes would act like a shovel requiring me to lift not only my legs but the snow, kick it aside and place my foot back down into the powder for more. There seemed to be about 2-3 feet of snow in the woods today.

deer, white tail, birds, sunflower

White tail deer at the bird feeder

I was happy to be outside. We have four deer who stay close to the house. They have been raiding the bird feeder and nibbling the branches of our dear rhododendrons as well as burning bush and whatever else will provide calories. On today’s walk I was especially interested in where the deer were congregating. It is difficult for them to get through the snow so they are moving as little as possible, using mostly the same paths.


Photo of the Josias River with snow, tree and branch

With the frigid temperatures hovering below 10°F my studio has been like a freezer. Although it is very small I am yet to insulate the walls and ceiling. I bought some insulation last summer but painted rather than installed. Necessity has dictated that I move into the house. So I have modified my pursuits to drawing. I love to work with ink and pads. Currently I am using 11″x 14″ paper and Higgins Ink.


Drawings in progress on kitchen table on a cold winter day

I have been working in isolation and posting some drawings on Facebook. My interest is to find something that feels true. As I work I try to eliminate encumbrances or ideas. My goal is to always get closer to the pureness of my existence. Obviously the constraints are paper, pen and my all to active brain. But in spite of the obstacles I have a fascination that my aspirations are achievable.

The Idea of a Creative Life

Way back, since I was a little kid, I wanted to be creative. I remember watching a movie on Thomas Alva Edison when I was about 8. I was so inspired, after the movie I ran down into our basement where my dad had a long work bench and many tools. There I stood, trembling with inspiration, not having the slightest idea of what to do.

Now, here I sit at my kitchen table on a cold January morning trying not to drink my coffee too quickly so I don’t have to get up and pour more. My head is full of wonder. Full of great mysterious questions as I see the birds dart across the window and land concisely on the bird feeder.

The snow has laid down gently over the landscape like a slightly wrinkled sheet upon which blue shadows move with clock like precision. Time has brought me here. I have made decisions along the way. I am grateful to have had choices. Creativity is my calling, making something with meaning from something else.

Someplace along the way I developed this notion to look deeper inside, celebrate my uniqueness. When I drag a loaded brush across the canvas it is me that is being dragged by my own hand into a place where I want to be. At it’s best, this place is always unknown to me and yet familiar.

My quest has always been to go to the heart of the matter. Often I am compelled to discard idiosyncrasies, dogmas and disavow acquired skills. My heart is full of joy that I bring back to the studio after long walks in the woods. Nature is my mentor and I pray that we always walk hand in hand.

I cannot imagine a life without cadmium yellow, the ever present white rectangle, a new brush every so often and one or two friends with open eyes and open heart. To paint, for me, is to unfold greater mysteries and share.

Stick Pile Down by the River

I am very curious about sticks and the way they fall off trees and how they decay. I hoped to make this pile as natural looking as possible, with no preconceived ideas. I am looking forward to watching this pile evolve and finally decay back into the earth.

The below photo was taken a few weeks after the above video was created.

stick pile in woods

Stick Pile, January 5, 2015

Stick piles after Blizzard Juno

Stick piles after Blizzard Juno

Stick pile after Blizzard Juno

Stick pile after Blizzard Juno