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.
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.
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″
