Catching Up - Part 3

 

Manter Creek
8” x 10”
Multicolor Relief Print

Several years ago, we went on a backpack trip into the Domeland Wilderness in California. It is a remote, little-known wilderness that burned about 10 years before our trip. This resulted in an incredible landscape with patches of standing and fallen burnt trees intermingled with baby trees that sprouted after the fire, as well as tremendously large trees the fire left behind. The trail was challenging. We had to climb over and crawl under more trees than we could count.

We camped on Manter Creek, an oasis surrounded by land that had mostly burned. The cool of the creek in the heat of September was a delight at the end of each day. The nights were surprisingly cool, so the campfire was a welcome addition to our circle of friends.

Over the four-day trip, we only saw two people and a couple of rattlesnakes. One night, a pack of coyotes ran through our camp yipping like wild teenagers whose parents were out of town.

Here is the piece with only three color plates completed.

 

It was the wildest and most beautiful place I’ve ever been. I created several paintings and monoprints from this trip. The idea for this piece is taken from one of those paintings. Having a familiar subject allowed me to explore technique and color in the process of creating the prints.

 

Wild Iris
8” x 10”
Multicolor Relief Print

I love Wild Iris. It was rare to see them in the San Gabriel Mountains of California. But here in Colorado, there are fields of them in early summer. Especially after a wet winter. It’s truly incredible.

This piece was also taken from a watercolor painting I did of an Iris that was a delightful surprise on a trail we hiked frequently. It was a “reward” after climbing a fairly steep hill that was deeper into the hike. You know, past the point where the casual hikers wearing tennies and carrying a 12 oz. bottle of water give up on “hiking”?

 

Here, you can see the partially completed prints.

Something unique about this piece is that I mixed the plate colors in such a sequence that I didn't have to wash my inking surface between colors. I went from pale yellow to coral, then pink, on to green, blue, and then black. This created color harmony as each succeeding color had a little of the previous color in it.

Adding and Subtracting

"Still Partners"

10" X 12"

Monoprint 

Fear not. We shall not trudge down the math path any further than my telling you the dimensions of these pieces. Instead, the title refers to the monoprint process I've been playing around with lately—adding and subtracting ink.

I've had this tube of sepia ink and some luscious creamy paper I've been aching to try out, so it was time to return to the plate, so to speak, and experiment once again with printmaking. I love making monoprints—not only the immediate result, but also the unpredictable nature of the process. Remember, each print is unique, there is only one (thus the name). (See more here, and here.)

I started with a piece of Plexiglas that I inked using a brayer (like a mini paint roller). I roughed out my drawing and began scraping away the ink with the chiseled end of a brush. The process was mind-numbingly slow. And, because I'd added oil to make the ink a bit more fluid, I found I was taking one step forward and two back as the ink kept seeping back into the places where I'd scraped it away.

I used a cloth to remove some of the ink, but this left large bare patches with little transition between light and dark. Finally, I loosely outlined the subject and used a bristle brush to remove the ink. Eureka! I loved the texture left behind by the brush. Even in the barest places, it left a soft haze of color. The result was much softer than the scrape-away method I've used in the past. The experimentation will continue as I work to establish a wider range of values using this technique.

"Still Partners II"

10" X 12"

Monoprint

After I made the first print, I thought I'd try a different approach. I had the ghost of the image left on the plate, so I applied ink with a brush to re-establish the forms. You can see the ink didn't come out evenly; there are blobs here and there where it was applied too thickly. However, I was able to quickly make another print. I think I like the first one better. How about you?

These images came from a photo taken on our trip to Domeland last fall. It seemed odd that these two trees grew so close and so tall side-by-side and there is nothing else around them. Like an old married couple standing there, they look out over the meadow, the sun warming their backs in the mornings, the sunsets saying goodnight.

A Happier Place

Morning at Manter Creek

12" X 16"

Watercolor

Our campsite by the creek sat in a pocket of trees that had escaped the terrible fire. After scrabbling over and under the broken bones of trees for a few miles, we came upon a broad glade drenched in cool, blue shade. There, the creek widened out, running mossy green and earthy black, a lullaby of sound between overhanging banks of grasses and mint.

It was the perfect spot, with logs encircling a campfire ring and plenty of stubby branches to hang our gear. As we started to set up camp, Clint sent me down to the creek, knowing I was itching try out my new fishing pole. It was one of those spots so lovely you could just sit and absorb it for hours. Ah, Domeland!

We did more fishing, than catching. The few little trout we caught were gently returned to the water and bid farewell until our next trip. It was heaven wandering along the bank, while taking in the glorious fragrance of the creek: mud and decaying vegetation—that rich, sweet smell of living things reuniting with the earth.

This idyllic creek soothed us to sleep and flowed through our dreams. When the sun came up, beams of color broke through below the canopy illuminating clumps of grass and casting fire upon the water. At the end of the day, the soft coral light of sunset kissed the creek good night.

Sunrise on the Meadow

Sunrise on the Meadow

20" X 16"

Acrylic on Canvas

Just before dawn, we woke to the yips and snarls of the coyotes. We tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use. The sky was beginning to lighten, so we shuffled into our jeans and crawled out of the tent.

Mmmm. Tea around the morning fire, waiting for the next batch of water to boil to bring our breakfasts alive. Our campsite sat in a bowl shadowed by a ridge of rock. It took a long time for the sun to peek over the edge of the Domeland.

And when it did, the world went from cool blues and greens and grays to a riot of color. Gold light streaming through the breaks in the clouds first lit the tips of the trees guarding the meadow and then the far ridge tops. The liquid light slid down as the sun slid up, igniting the day.

Getting There

I am transported when I paint. There are two activities going on in my head as I push and dab and smear the paint around on the canvas. One is a running patter about technique and color...no that's too red, this shape is too thick, yes, that's the right value, I need another glaze of blue...

The other is the sensory equivalent to being there. I'm standing on that ridge, my cheeks cold in the pre-dawn air, I smell the campfire, and listen to the ravens calling, "Good morning".

I escape. I've done this since I was about 13, when I would recoil into my room from a world that was nothing like the books, magazines, or television shows. Teenage-dom for me, like a lot of people, was no picnic. One of my escapes was painting. I devoured National Geographic magazines for subject matter, and I'd go to those places when I painted them.

When I was fifteen, a magical thing happened that changed my life. My uncle and aunt arranged a summer job for me in Yosemite. It was like going to heaven for 3 months. When I'd leave, all I could think about was when I was there—and when I was going back. Going home. That’s how I thought of it. In between those summers, the out-of-body travel became more a more frequent occurrence. I retracted like a raw nerve from my surroundings. I had three glorious summers there that got me through high school, kept me from jumping off a roof.

For some reason, when I was working on this image from Domeland it made me think about that time in my life. There was one painting in particular I remember that I worked on for a long time—until it was perfect. It was a beautiful, gnarled tree, stark against an electric blue sky. After each painting session, it was as though I slowly awakened from a vivid dream. Then it struck me why this memory came to the surface: the tree in that painting looked like many of the weathered trees in Domeland.

Painting isn't just about getting there in terms of finishing a piece, it’s also the way I mentally and emotionally return to the source of my inspiration: the wild places, the places I love best.

Now for the update on the painting: I'm getting there, in fact I'm really close. I just need to make the foreground become the same place as the background. The warmth of the sun peeking over the ridge and the light on the grassy hill rolling down into the meadow is not quite where I want it to be.

If the art gods smile down on me, this weekend I'll finish it and start another piece. What next? Maybe back to making monoprints...I have an image of a sinuous sycamore that's been hanging out in my head.

PS. This is my fiftieth blog post. Yay me.

Return to Domeland

It’s time to go back to Domeland. The wilderness area no one’s heard of tucked between places that sound vaguely familiar. I have to dig deep to recall exactly where it is...somewhere near Brigadoon, I think.

What I do remember is its beauty and wildness—and the fun we had—the four amigos. I still laugh remembering as one of our hiking party—who shall remain nameless—high stepped like a cartoon character, legs-a-spinning as he hightailed it down the trail away from a very pissed off rattlesnake who’s sunning was disturbed. Funny? Yes, if you weren’t the one running.

Domeland feels like a secret place where somehow you’ve been lucky enough to gain entrance. You can hear yourself breathe there and feel the spirit of the place—its trees, rocks, and wildlife.

From a painter's perspective, the Domeland is a Maxfield Parrish painting. It’s saturated and oozing and dripping with color and contrast.

So, what to paint next? I had one more of those special canvases I fell in love with and an image of the sun first lighting the meadow—the perfect subject. I broke out the new brushes and acrylics, in hopes of achieving rich and brilliant color pushed to the point of surreal—just like I like it!

This painting is early in the process, not much more than an underpainting—so together we’ll see where this goes.

A Quick Message from My Evil Twin

Domeland Sunset

9" X 12"

Monotype

We are less than two days away from the show and my evil twin is here cursing and whining and growling as we prepare. This behavior will take place right up until the first guest arrives, when she (the evil one, not the guest) will magically melt away, and the sweet and pleasant me once again takes control. Because then, it’s all gravy, baby. I drink champagne, visit with long lost friends, and get to know new ones. We have fun and if I’m lucky, a few people buy my paintings.

In the meantime, in my never-ending search to overdo it and tendency to freak out about wanting everything to be perfect, I drive myself and everyone around me (Clint) a little crazy. In the end, it all turns out fine (I just keep telling myself that).

This week I had only a nanosecond of art time. Remember the Domeland Wilderness? This is one of the monoprints I did when I first returned, filled with memory and spirit of the burnt, silvery, and twisted Diva trees that watch over the Domeland.

The color was inspired by the heart-tickling sunset we witnessed the second night we were there. That day, as we hiked down from Church Dome, in the distance, bruised clouds dumped rain in a ring around us. 

When we returned to camp and started dinner, the sun disappeared and we had a spattering of rain—nothing more. As the sun dropped, peeking between the cloud layer and the horizon, the world filled with orange and violet light. Occasional flickers of lightning backlit the trees.

We rushed out to the open meadow to watch the show. Then, the clouds shifted and a lavender rain shower veiled the sun, which still cast its brilliant color further west where the clouds had cleared. We watched the light and color show until dark and tramped back to camp to sit by the fire—until the moon rose (that’s another story).

It had to be one of my top ten best ever sunsets.

Only the Beginning

These images are monoprints—created by inking a metal plate and scraping away the ink.
You only get one print from each drawing with this method.

We are back from the Domeland Wilderness and what a wild wilderness it was indeed. We had four glorious days in this rugged, battered, and beautiful wild place. I have so many paintings to come and impressions to share—where do I begin?

We camped next to a meadow gone gold with the coming of winter. It was surrounded by a forest of trees; trees that told amazing stories of hardship and survival. 

Along the south edge of the meadow stood a patch of tall skeletons left behind by a devastating fire that came through 10 years ago. Bones etched with char, standing as eerie fence posts against a dark backdrop of trees that escaped burning, these trees, the ghosts and the living, are the remains of a dense forest once choked with undergrowth, the ground blanketed in a century of decaying duff.

Survivors reach up to a sharp blue sky. The bases of the trunks, charred, the dark crevices outlining the puzzle pieces of bark. Cartoon trees. Stretching upward, the lower limbs gone, burnt away, the needled branches high over our heads. They are funhouse trees, pulled upward like taffy in one of those mirrors that squeeze you into a long narrow shape arching your mirror body over the real one. Peering down at you, creaking as the wind makes them sway. They've struggled. Determined, they survive.

They’ve stood and watched while brothers and sisters succumb to fire, or snap off when heavy with snow. A swath of those winter casualties is nearby—jagged stumps surrounded by shattered pieces of branches, the needles long gone, dissolved into soil. 

Can you imagine the sound of a hundred trees—maybe all at once—as a gust came through and tore them apart, the crown and branches crashing down into the snow in a tangle of ice and mist and needles and cones? Snow spurred into the air, then carried along in a cloud trailing the burst of wind.

Did the birds know to get out in time? Did they know their home was about to blow apart? Were the wood rats nestled in the holes under the snow shaken apart? Frightened to death? Or, did they instinctively seek out homes in trees sheltered from the winter winds?

Each winter, the wind and snow take down their share of trees. Some, though green and healthy, haven't sunk their roots deep enough to hold on against the elements. Others, long dead, the heart and roots eaten away by grubs and bugs and tiny things we can't see, finally give in to the forces conspiring to drive them to the ground.

Yet right next to a casualty, there stands a withered skeleton with a twisted and delicate shard at the top offered to the sky; a tenuous, yet defiant fist against the elements.

What I would give to see one of these giants fall! The day it gives up and gives in to becoming earth, its ghostly branches shattering against the ground, splinters clattering against those who still stand. Dirt and duff spinning upward with the root ball, the bark crust crumbling away upon impact.

And then silence for a while. Everything settles and starts to breathe again. A tentative caw from a raven, and then the forest resumes its rhythm and hum.