Recent days have been amazing. I have no words to describe the immense display of colors nature has been expressing. My camera can not reach to the heights of wonderment that apparently can only be seen by one’s eyes. My humble paint brush, no matter how charged— cannot convey what is before me, in the woods, with French easel and over zealous ambition.
It is beyond me to just let it lie, unnoticed. So I go out with paint, canvas and brush and try to mix some semblance of what I am seeing, convincing myself that I can do it. As I paint a warm feeling of love for nature overcomes me and I don’t feel that any of this is important, that I will just respond to the love of nature that I feel, and everything will be OK.
Soon the colors will all be on the ground, composting into a nutritious meal for next year’s vegetation. As the days become cooler, there will be only trunks and branches of dark shades, stark against the late fall and winter cold gray sky. So I am working in earnest and won’t give up on the idea of capturing the beauty of fall that is all around me, today.
On my 63rd birthday, Sandra and I drove to Rockport, Massachusetts, where my mother grew up and I spent time as a child, in the summer’s, with my grandparents, William and Josephine McNamara. My grandfather was a longshoreman. He off loaded cargo from the fishing boats that arrived fully loaded into Rockport and Gloucester Harbors. He was very muscular and told me it was from offloading wooden barrels, upon his shoulders, from the boats all day. My grandmother was a housewife who also baked goods for a nearby grocery store. I feel amazed to have such vivid memories of being with them as a young child, watching Gunsmoke while sitting on my grandfather’s lap and being escorted downtown by my grandmother, with a destination of Tuck’s drugstore to be let loose in the candy section.
Now, I have so many memories but miss my grandparents love and guidance that made Rockport so special to me in the first place. They lie at rest in the Beach Grove Cemetery at the end of Pleasant Street, two streets from the home they built and raised their family in.
Kevin, Wife Sand
As Sandra and I arrived in Rockport, to my great surprise, suddenly a car passed us with two most familiar faces, my daughter and her boyfriend! I was excluded from planning this and very happy. We went to lunch, we drove them around to the more significant family landmarks and needing to be at work, they soon whisked themselves back north.
We brought our bikes and a saw, parked at the Rockport High School and pedelled to the cemetery. We pruned some arborvite bushes that were encapsulating William’s, Josephine’s and my uncle Richard’s headstone. From there we pretty much coasted downtown and to the parking lot across from Motif Number One. There was a cool southerly breeze making our visit very enjoyable. We pedaled around Bearskin Neck and past the Benjamin Tarr house, my 7th great grandfather. In Rockport my family roots go back as far as my paternal family goes back in York. Rockport has always felt like a second home to me.
Kevin and Sandra Freeman at Motif Number One, Rockport, MAFisherman’s Memorial in Gloucester, MA
With bikes back on the car rack, we drove around Cape Anne and to our next destination, the Fisherman’s Memorial in Gloucester. My great grandfather, Edward McNamara is memorialized on one of the bronze plaques. He lost his life in 1910 when he fell off the deck of the Schooner M. Madeline. He is one of the 5368 souls lost at sea and memorialized here. My grandfather, William, was born in 1909, sharing only about 17 months of life with his father, Edward.With each year, I find family history more and more compelling. The more I learn, the more the unkown opens up.
Fisherman’s Memorial in Gloucester, MAFisherman’s Memorial in Gloucester, MAMy great grandfather, Edward McNamara
At first I painted—in the bathtub, maybe I was two or younger. My sister had not been born. My mother gave me a tray of finger paint. Delight swelled within me and I was suddenly non-verbal. I was also euphoric. As I splashed the paint on the tiled wall, images appeared, it was so sudden and natural. I couldn’t contain my exuberance and after enough time, thought by mother, she grabbed me under my arms and hoisted me out of the tub, onto my feet. To no avail, I tried to resist and resume my first delve into creativity but it was stopped—until my next bath.
I have never stopped loving paint and the action required to manipulate its potential. Though I often acquiesce to its stand alone beauty, yes, I am happy to submit myself in veneration with no action. Often, my palette provides visual awe, as does a walk among the trees and I realize the gift of vision is my greatest enabler. When I allow my eyes to wander, as a free spirit, the magnificence before me dazzles me into inspiration. I have found over the years, there is no way I can convey my love, awe and admiration for what lies before me in nature. But I have found submission to nature draws me closer and as I calm myself, my inspiration leads me with hope that I can express some aspect of the beauty of being alive.
I don’t understand any of this. It is not rational and I practice going to a place of the unknown and digging for the pleasure of digging and the prospect of what I might find. And even when nothing is revealed, the beauty of the dig is my reward. My gratitude is endless.
Kevin Freeman—I think this was taken around the time I was introduced to paint
My love for drawing in the woods was established during my first two years at art school. I loved drawing class and especially loved going outside to draw. I also loved drawing from the model. Actually, I love all drawing and still do. At art school, one of my fondest memories was drawing with black and white gauche. It was much like painting with the oil paint we were training with but much less laborious.
The creative process, for me, has a mind of its own. I don’t know where I will end up next and I don’t think it matters. One of my favorite things to do is make images on two dimensional surfaces, no matter what things may look like. As I have always drawn in the woods, I haven’t always painted in the woods. About 30 years ago, I bought a French easel. It was a remarkable investment at the time. Though recently, when full of paint and supplies it proves to be quite heavy on long jaunts through the woods. None-the-less, I am finding myself unable to resist afternoon plein air painting sessions in the woods. The light, this time of year, early fall, is impossible not to love. Combined with the beauty of the woods, in late afternoon and a pallet of paint I am helpless and find myself enthralled to be standing in the woods, among the majesty of nature with brush and panel.
Kevin Freeman applying paint to a canvas in Maine woodland
As I begin to compose the picture I really have no idea what will happen. I find it almost too challenging to think I can make a facsimile of what I am seeing in front of me. But, as I muster my nerve, I pursue what I could consider impossible and begin work. Three quarters of the time spent is laying down colors, making adjustments and feeling like I have taken on too much as I wonder if I have just wasted my time. Occasionally the answer is yes! Time wasted! What keeps bringing me back, however, is when something begins to take shape and I see a reflection of nature being created right before my eyes. Somehow through my emotions, through my body and through my hands the paint flows from the tip of the brush and I begin to feel excited and hopeful and in love with the process. Toward the conclusion of the painting. there is always a balancing act. The painting wants to appear fresh and vibrant and it is so easy to overwork, to suffocate the vitality of the colors. At this point it is incumbent on me to stop at exactly the right place with only intuition as my guide. I cannot trust my eyes because they go to my head before my heart. It is only later back in the studio, after a brief time of not looking at the painting I can reevaluate the it—look at it with fresh eyes. And likely make a few final adjustments.
Almost final painting but back to the studio for another look and a few likely touch ups.
By far my favorite way to create images is to submerse myself into the unknown. This may sound easy, but to be in a state of willing and unchartered mindset requires practice and an ability to make small gains to such a state of mind. I am not entirely proficient at reaching a state of unknown but indulge myself in the idea. Especially when I am outside, in the landscape with a sketchpad. I especially enjoy choosing a drawing tool that seems too impossible to make a pretty picture with, rather, I select a tool that makes me have to work at expressing what I am observing, no matter the results.
Toward the Garden, stick on paper, August 2026
The above drawing is a good example of drawing with a tool that feels impossible. My natural instinct it to create a drawing that is like a photograph. And sometimes I love very much to render an image that relies on my skills. Mostly, however, I prefer to have to invent the drawing and work to make it come together. At some point during the process, I usually become excited about the image that develops in front of me—especially when using a stick and India ink.
Black Birch, stick and ink, August 2026
When drawing in the woods, I find it difficult to comprehend the magnificent views that nature seems to throw at me. I realize that my ability to take it all in is a dream and that to not be overwhelmed, I need to focus on one view. To get started, I often think of looking through a view finder on a camera with about a 50mm lens. This helps me begin making marks on a blank sheet of paper and allows me to focus on what is reasonable for me to compose. I find drawing in the woods very much like fishing in a small stream. You never know what you are going to catch and some days you go home empty handed. But nonetheless, there is a beauty in the process and that is what keeps bringing me back.
The tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao The name that can be named is not the eternal Name.
The Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu
I have been an admirer of the Tao Te Ching since I discovered it in my early twenties. I have loved the seeming contradictory nature of it. As I practice drawing it has been a guiding influence on the way I think about the universe and my place in it. I don’t look too far beyond for inspiration but prefer to be close to the place I feel most grounded. Good fortune has brought me to where I live and love. I have been granted much space to explore the Maine woodland and familiarize myself with its ever evolving majesty.
Occasionally, I think, Oh, maybe I should go further away to explore new vistas to incorporate into my artwork. But I am so compelled to stay close, to what may seem familiar but on second look becomes the miracle of mindfulness. I think the Tao has opened my mind to the possibilities of discovery as I apply ink to paper or paint to canvas. And also, words to pages, another of my great loves.
Woods Drawing with Stonewall, stick, pen and ink, on paper, 6″x8″
Yesterday afternoon, during a break from drawing, I walked down to the Josias River, that is in my backyard. The river flows straight to Ogunquit and into Perkins Cove and then the Atlantic Ocean. This time of year the river is characteristically low compared to the spring. I cannot quite walk across to the other side without getting my shoes wet. The best way to cross would be to take my shoes off and feel the cool water on my feet. At the deepest places it is only up to my knees.
Woods Drawing, Stick, Pen, Brush and Ink on Paper, 6″x8″
Here are a few photos that show the sparkling quality of light down there.
The river is such a magical display of nature. Always sharing a deep maternal aspect of something that I cannot easily express. Certainly photos can help by when all of the senses are converging it becomes all the more amazing.
The garden is boasting of abundance and the art muses are dashing generosity here and there. The weather is a delight, including the bellowing thunder earlier, today. I have been able to get into my painting studio and do what I love most—dabble with oil paints. It requires a fan and open doors so I don’t become delirious with toxic fumes. Even so, I am grateful to try my hand at the possibility of creativity.
Stone Wall, Stick and Ink Drawing on Strathmore paper, 6″x8″
Yesterday, I was able to dash off the above drawing. There is an old stonewall not far from my home. I have always admired it and have loved to imagine my ancestors placing stones in a row and one on top of another. The oxen standing at attention, submitting the most demanding adjustments of the largest stones—all for me to admire and enjoy centuries later.
Growing up in York, Maine (A few miles from Ogunquit) and having a mother who was from Rockport, Massachusetts, certainly had an influence on decisions about my future as an adult. I loved to visit the artist community at Bearskin Neck on visits to my Grandparents home on Summer Street Court. With my mom, we stopped in many of the galleries as well as candy shops, such as Tucks, where she worked growing up. But the galleries really peaked my curiosity and inspired me to try things that were way out of my skill set and perhaps talent limits. I recall going into Paul Strisik’s Gallery and seeing a painting of a sheep or goat on a hillside with a large sky and full moon. It looked so natural. I remember going home and trying it. Wow, was I surprised at how little I could do.
Regardless, I was compelled to keep trying. In Ogunquit, I dropped into Don Stone’s Gallery one day and we become quick friends. He invited me to go out painting with him in the landscape. He asked me for suggestions where the locals might be friendly and perhaps I could set things up with them before we arrived. I did a few of these arrangements. We also painted on the Marginal Way and often he invited me back to his home where we would play some music. He played the banjo and let me play his 1957 Martin that he kept in the attic. I was thrilled. Don had a very large garage. The ground level served as a frame shop for his tremendous output of paintings. The top level was his painting studio, where he introduced me to egg tempera, which I have never tried.
Don invited to to Monhegan Island for one of his workshops. I stayed at his studio/home that was the old Shoemaker studio. These two weeks were also the first two weeks of my enrollment to the Portland School of Art (MECA). I was thrilled to be on monhegan with watercolors and oil paints. I barely knew anything about my decided vocation but the future was wide open.
White Head, Monhegan Island, 1979 (painted as guest of Don Stone on a workshop)
I have dallied in plein air painting over the years, but art school opened my mind up to vast concepts and I was completely intrigued by Modernism. Deep in my heart, those days with Don have always called to me back. I have always drawn outside but not allowed myself the opportunity of what may happen when I bring my French easel rather than a pad of paper. During this summer, I have followed my ambitions and begun to indulge my curiosity, if just a little. I have become very excited to go outside and view my beloved property as perhaps a painter would. You see, it is not so exciting when you mix the colors, mostly grays and muted tones, except greens, they can be vibrant, but once you start placing the shapes and colors I become transformed into a higher frequency of my being. It is quite a magical experience.
Lush Woods, Oil on Canvas, 14″x11″ August 2026Off Trail, Oil on Linen, 11″x14″
I was born in 1960. My home has been in Cape Neddick, Maine for my entire life. My childhood involved lots of time in the woods, playing with the neighborhood kids, exploring and hunting. My father introduced me to the wonder of nature very early in my life and he cultivated that love, giving me a deep appreciation of the benefits of being in the woods.
When I was about 8 years old, I was swinging on the playground swings at the York Beach Grammar School, where I attended grades 3,4,6,6. After recess, our teacher instructed us to draw something, anything. I recalled a grove of birch trees that I had just been swinging among. I proceeded to draw the birch trees and was astounded that I could create something that felt so much like what I had just seen. I was already hooked on art but this was a new moment of creativity for me, and I was so excited.
