Purple Strands

 

Layers

12" X 9"

Watercolor

Here’s another cloud day... 

Often, there are layers upon layers of clouds— each lit in different ways. This cloud memory: a bright backdrop, overlaid with dark strands of purple clouds, the foreground glowing green from recent rains. 

Coming to Colorado from a place where clouds are rare—rain even more so—this has been a visual delight. Every time it rains, we do a happy dance. With this painting, I wanted to use simplified shapes to create a more graphic result.

Rain Curtain

  

Rain Curtain

Watercolor

9" X 12"

 

I could probably paint the skies of Colorado the rest of my days and never duplicate my efforts. Southwest Colorado, with its big ole bowl of sky, affords the cloudwatchers like me plenty of entertainment. 

Every day is a new show of shapes and colors. Then, there is the rain: from a whisper of virga, to a pale veil falling to earth, to an impenetrable curtain of purples and blues. Up on our mesa we see the entire show come and go as the storm blows through. Some days we jealously watch the rain dance around us, forsaking us for the mountains to the north or the desert to the south. 

Over the Fourth, to celebrate my independence, I set aside an afternoon to paint. I’d been dreaming of layered clouds with crests lit by the warmth of the setting sun. This painting sprang from memory after months of cloudwatching.

A Long Way from Where I Was

Hidden Valley, Looking South

Watercolor, 12" X 9"

Life can change in an instant. And so it did for me last August, when I got a new job—one I'd wanted for more than 8 months—because it was perfect for me. 

I'm working for my mom now, Mom Earth, that is. Somehow, the stars aligned and now I work for a non-profit conservation organization in Durango, Colorado. I left California in November, moving to a funk-aliciously awesome mountain community.

I fell in love with the southwest when we came here on a belated honeymoon just over four years ago. I knew I had come home even before I got here. Actually, I knew I was on my way home when we stopped in Wupatki and the breath of my Mother blew my hair back from my face. I knew I was almost home when I saw the distant coral and purple cliffs as we crossed the Navaho Reservation the next morning. And I knew I was really home when we drove down into a belly-button valley during a butt-puckering snowstorm that November night. I felt it in my heart and soul. When we left, all I could think about was coming back to this beautiful place infused with ancient spirits.

Big change like this comes with a price. Suddenly, I wasn't painting recycled cabinet doors and dreaming of my next painting. My spare time was filled with sorting and packing. The stress level skyrocketed as I opened this door to something very new: a new job, a new home in a new place—yet I was thrilled because it was taking us to Durango. This pre-empted my art for a long time.

I’d been dreaming of shapes and colors for a while—clouds of bare trees lit by the sun and glowing against the dark and dramatic blue-gray sky. Other times, the trees were dun smudges against the bright and brilliant blue. I would gasp as the snow changed from cream to pink to periwinkle, then cobalt as the sun dropped, sable silhouettes of deer scattered across the landscape. From the door of the mobile home where we’ve hung our hats, we watch the sun paint the ridges to the east gold and orange as the day fades. In the mornings, the trip west gives me a daily dose of awe as I watch the sun rising on the La Plata Mountains.

Finally, I found a day to pack up my kit and go paint. I drove out to Hidden Valley, which we’d discovered early one Sunday morning while out exploring our new world. It was enchanting, draped in taupe, ochre, and brown, the sky a bowl swirling with playful clouds. The soft colors of winter in Colorado—the time of year I've seen it most, ironically. I fell in love with this place during the season nature sleeps. 

I couldn't wait to get back to this valley with my watercolors. This time, a light blanket of snow covered the ground; the cool shadows accentuated the sun-warmed rocks. Gold and green trees sprinkled across the valley, thickening on the ridges.

Quieter than quiet. Not a bird, not a breeze, the sun warm on my face. I laid out my palette and settled on which direction I’d face for the first loving brushstroke of the day in my new world. It. Was. Heaven.

Upcycling #3: A Trailside Show

Showy Penstemon

Approx. 24" X 12"

Acrylic on Oak Cabinet Door

 

Our first trail of the season—where we bust out our boots and walk off the cobwebs after the winter doldrums—is out along a stretch of the Pacific Crest Trail east of the Cedar Springs Dam at Lake Silverwood. It's transitional in nature, sitting on the edge of the foothills between the mountains and the desert: a carpet of dense chaparral with Manzanita, Scrub Oaks, Wild Lilac, Sage, and Rabbit Brush. In the folds where water runs off the ridges, you'll find Sycamore, Willows, Currant, and (yikes!) Poison Oak.

It's a gentle undulating path that snakes you in and out—to the inside curve and then the outside curve of the knuckle-ridges that run along one side of a green valley sprinkled with cattle. In the cool temperatures of early spring, the trail is fringed with tender green plants and wildflowers of astonishing variety—one of the reasons we return again and again. Every hike is a new discovery of colorful blooms: Chia, Penstemon, Larkspur, Indian Paintbrush, and others. But by early summer, the area is as hot as the face of the sun—with only dry brown stalks remaining from the evanescent flowers of spring.

We chanced upon this Penstemon, which was unlike any we'd seen before on our travels, and we encountered a handful of them along the trail. Though there weren't many, each one a lovely surprise—and so delicate they seemed oddly out of place.

Later, at home, Clint looked it up and discovered it is the Showy Penstemon (Penstemon spectabilis)—so very aptly named! When I recently came across my new canvases—the cabinet doors—I knew I needed to set aside a taller one to capture the image of this splendid specimen.

Upcycling Part 2: Hop Valley Sunrise

Hop Valley Sunrise

Acrylic on Oak Cabinet Door

Approximately 12" X 14"

We shouldered our packs in the dark. Headlamps in place, we set out on the steep trail rising from the canyon cradling La Verkin Creek. I'd never hiked in the dark before. My head down, with intense focus, I plodded up the trail. When we hike, we have a running joke when someone stumbles: "We're not carrying you out of here, so you better be careful". I always laugh, but meanwhile my stomach does flip-flops and I mind my steps ever so carefully.

The morning was cool—in the high 30s—yet with the effort of climbing it wasn't long before we stopped to peel off a layer or two of clothing. By the time we reached the top, it was light enough to see, but the sun hadn't risen over the walls that lined the valley ahead of us. We hiked in deep cobalt shadows while the sky grew brighter and bluer.

Then, ahead of us, the sun began to hit the east-facing wall—bursting into a blazing coral, then orange, the folds and shadows shifting to purple. We were still in the lee of a jutting ridge, yet the fiery reflection reached back to where we crossed the meandering creek. It lit our hearts with its brilliance. We paused and watched the show as the sun fully crested the ridge, and then stepped into the full light of the new day.

Upcycling: Opening the Door to Something New

Grandfather Tree

Acrylic on Oak Cabinet Door

Approximately 16" X 20"

An artist friend of ours is planning to escape Looneyfornia and head north to Oregon. One day as she winnowed through her amassed possessions in preparation for the move, she called and offered me some old cabinet doors she found in the trash. Huh? 

Sweet Jean, artistic through and through, always marches to her very own creative drummer. She'd come across these old cast offs and decided they would make good painting surfaces—since the construction made them a perfect pre-framed "canvas". I had to go over and check them out. 

 

There were all shapes and sizes of doors in the pile, which had sat out in the sun for a few years, rendering the doors even more interesting than when she'd first carted them home. The finish was worn off in most places, leaving a rustic surface that I fell in love with. The hinges, still attached and speckled with rust, added to the charm. I was already imagining what I would paint on them. I loaded the doors into the car, plotting as to how to sneak them into the house to avoid the "I thought we were getting rid of junk" lecture from Clint. I couldn't wait to get one up to my studio and get to painting.

There was a little bit of prep work involved. First, I had to wash off the spider webs and dirt and let the doors dry thoroughly. Luckily with our super low humidity, this didn't take long. I then slathered two layers of gesso on the center panels to seal the wood and give me a good binding surface for the acrylic. Gesso on wood is a smooth, almost slippery, yet chalky foundation that yields a completely different painting experience. A hint of the wood grain comes through, adding another interesting element to the surface. Sometimes the excitement of a painting is found in the surprises generated by new materials and textures. It was highly stimulating—I've already started on my third "door" painting.

About the first door painting...

Grandfather Tree

I'd climbed up the hill to say hello to the La Plata Mountains, gleaming off in the distance. As I skittered back down, there at the base of the ridge I saw the weathered bones of Grandfather Tree—a perfect guardian standing stark against the big bowl of the Colorado sky.

As soon as I saw the cabinet doors, I knew I wanted to paint this image on one of them. Stay tuned for the next painting, coming very soon!