Tain't No Pelicans Here...

"PELICAN BAY"
Yellowstone Park, Wyoming
Oil on Masonite
9" x 24"
(Private Collection)

Tain’t no pelicans here…but there are plenty of other strange folk hovering about in gawky white vehicles. Thank God they don't have wings.

When traveling through Yellowstone in the summer months, it is best to sup on chamomile tea and Quaaludes... or whatever best enhances one's tolerance of narrow roadways bloated with mammoth-sized campers lumbering along like pachyderms. It is the spiritual pilgrim's opportunity to practice kindness and acceptance, ultimately to view the be-wheeled ones as but curious seekers beauty and be thankful they are not among the criminal element of the world. I was stuck again and again behind the impassable creatures. When freedom appeared, it was so very brief as the next backlog would soon appear and I was thrust into mastery school again.

Is it largely a human occupation, the notion of wanting to be somewhere other than where you are?

In Yellowstone, when vehicles are stopped roadside with no particular logic, you can be certain there is a photo worthy moment happening nearby; a moose innocently munching on willows, a bison taking a dump roadside, a bull elk calling out his territory. Along with it the possibility of an overly confident tourist being stomped on by them for venturing too close. Indeed you can purchase a book at any Yellowstone visitor center chronicling the many fatal tourista faux pas throughout the history of the park… the enthusiastic housewives who backed up just a little too far for that awesome bubbling cauldron shot, or wanted to pet baby Bullwinkle. Can you imagine the epitaph?

I pulled off by this bridge enroute to Jackson and Big Piney where I had agreed to cook for the long and grueling fall hunt. This was the last painting respite of the season and the remaining three months would be spent cooking for groggy hunters in high alpine winter conditions that arrived all too soon after Labor Day. Hunt camp is all consuming and there is simply no energy left over for creative pursuits. Besides, the paints would have froze to the pallette.

Here and now, I was content to paint in the warm sun, caressed by a light breeze while raptors drift and hunt above. A dreamy afternoon that ocluded time with very little awareness of traffic noise, RVs or people who may have stopped by. A small herd of buffalo wandered into the scene towards the end. One moment they were simply there. Such details have always been part of the invisible layers that never appear in the painting, my secret memory.

Several years later, “Pelican Bay” became the lead image for a one-woman show of my work and quickly sold. Someone inquired, “How long did it take you to paint it?” Honestly, I haven’t a clue. Once an image has me there is no awareness of time, and really no concern about it.

East Meets West

"LINE LAKE"
Beartooth Pass, Montana
Oil on Rag Board
20" x 16"
(Not for Sale)

My first taste of the Beartooth Highway revealed view upon breathtaking view and frankly, it lit me up in ways that the gentle eastern landscapes of Maine never managed to do. Here is but one turquoise gem set perfectly in the sweeping timeless jewel of this rugged landscape. (sigh)

This was the great difference between the wild open landscapes of the American Rockies, and Maine where the forests are thick and the views mostly intimate and close. I never could have comprehended the feel of this place without experiencing it first hand. Some find the openness too exposed and disconcerting while others become smitten and take root.

The western landscapes inspired a feeling of expansiveness that set me to writing and painting with a near insatiable intensity for a span of years. This was the profound effect of the open horizons, soaring mountains and extraordinary color palette -- a virtual feast for the wanderer's eye and there were barely enough hours in any given day to express it all. I so tried to take root here and though I remained over a period of eight years, the way to sustain it financially never appeared. Always seemed like I worked twice as hard for half the result, and there was not enough purchase in the thin rocky soil, or perhaps I was better use to the world somewhere else.

In the end, I returned east to be with family and put down some roots. Though I found new appreciation for the subtle beauty of Maine, years later I still feel the call to wander west for a good dose of big sky now and then. It tends to get into one’s blood, under the skin, wedged up under the fingernails like the most stubborn dirt.

Line Lake rests upon the Montana/Wyoming border -- a sheepherder's trailer sits waiting with basic supplies and shelter, the wind blows, as it always does and during short windows of time we humans get to visit this towering wilderness before Mother Nature asserts her complete and undisputed possession of it. And it is good. Perfect really. What could possibly improve upon this flawless beauty?

This image appears on the back cover of my first book, Confessions of the Hired Spatula, so rather than sell the original, I have indulged myself in retaining it for "the artist's private collection."

Color Me Blue...

"GARDNER LAKE"
Beartooth Pass, Wyoming
Oil on Rag Board
19.25" x 22.25"
$800 USD Unframed


At nearly 11,000 feet there is little but sparse tundra vegetation clinging to fierce craggy soil and hard scrub bracken bordering the small glacial lakes. The Beartooth Pass offers but two seasons; winter and almost winter and the latter is extremely short. It is not a place for those who fear heights, cold weather or lightening and the nearest cozy lodging can be found 20 miles down the mountain at Red Lodge, Montana.

I began this painting the previous day but quit when an imposing storm system rolled in. Today another dark thunder cell loomed with howling winds and plummeting temperatures that quickly settled into my bones. Even the paint on the palette was nearly too cold to mix and a less boneheaded individual might have given up completely. Just then a voice behind me said, "Hello, say do ya mind if we interview you?" A big fuzzy microphone and camera were then thrust at my surprised face – every blue frozen inch of it, no doubt looking dangerously sexy and perfectly suited for prime time.

Say hello to Doug McConnell and his traveling film crew from the Backroads series, here on special assignment filming a segment on Yellowstone and the Tetons, all of them looking marginally pleased to find an artist painting on this forbidden stretch. Sure, why not? I have a sense of humor and I was already running high on adventure, having recently escaped the last cooking job at the Flying Resort Ranches in Idaho. I was basically traveling through the mountains painting and camping before determining where to go next. Officially, I was footloose and fancy free with no legal address. The date of my last hot shower was also in question.

With fierce winds brutally whipping us, the cameras rolled, Deborah squeaked her little story (so cold the mouth was barely cooperating by then), a quick shot of the painting in progress was included, and off they went, those magnificent men in their filming paraphernalia. The producer was funny, and kind enough to send me a copy of the segment. The painting was ultimately completed. And revisiting these images, I would gladly be there again, if only…

I searched up the Backroads show and learned they had just concluded a 23-year run due to lack of funding in August '08. However you can find them at http://www.openroad.tv/ where portions of the Yellowstone and Tetons segments are posted. As for my little 15 seconds of fame, it fell to the editors cut. S’okay… it is part of this image, frozen right there in the paint.

Sweet Music in the Mountains

"ISLAND LAKE"
Beartooth Pass, Wyoming
Oil on Rag Board
(Private Collection)


Sweet sanctuary can be found in the Beartooth Pass by this small glacial lake. Island Lake Campground is located just to the left, and it is one of the more stunning camper's havens discovered during the wandering years. A well-used trail borders the lake and connects to an extensive network of trails that wander far into the back country. Looking at it now, I might have explored the trails a little further, but traveling solo, recall a certain amount of caution about hiking in bear country alone with no common sense equipment. Instead I stayed close to the lake, and one afternoon set out to paint the view.

At some point, a fellow stepped out of his RV nearby and began playing the sweetest violin, which continued for what seemed like hours as I painted quickly, racing the nightfall. When it came time to fold up, the violinist quietly put away his playing and disappeared into his trailer. Never a word spoken, none necessary. But this painting certainly reveals the collaboration with the melodies imprinted into every stroke of the brush, the softness of the edges and the feeling I remember of being there.

A Fear Of Flying

"CHAIN LAKE"
Beartooth Pass, Wyoming
Oil on Canvas
8 x 10
(Private Collection)

Since we're meandering around the Beartooth Pass, I may as well put this one in and admit the full spectrum of my humor during the earlier years spent dancing on the edge.

There is but one road that accesses the Beartooth Mountains, and it is a rare adventure through 12,000 foot peaks where the snow accumulates upwards of 30 feet in the winter, glaciers remain through the summer and you can get stormed off the pass on any day of the year. Twenty-foot poles border the road, and these are to guide snowmobilers during the thick of winter. It is a steep drive up, no matter which end you start on and one hopes both the transmission and brakes are in good order. At the mid point it features one postage-stamp sized little convenience store called The Top of the World, which has no phones (really, they're not holding out), a few cabins, and a rescue service for those who get into trouble. Up the road is Island Lake Campground and just yonder this little gem called Chain Lake. I perched by the side of the road to paint here, just me, the picas (little rock varmints that make a funny "gneeee" sound) and the cars passing by.

At one point, a woman approached, presumably to peek at what I was painting. She had a German accent, we exchanged pleasantries, and I soon discovered her true intention, which was to verbally unload a great fear of heights, now fully activated driving through the Beartooth Pass, which is really no place for a person known to be afraid of heights. But she and the husband had driven it 20 years ago, and presumably enough time had passed that she dared try it again, or she imagined the mountains had gotten smaller, or perhaps she had better drugs.

At its highest point, the Beartooth Highway reaches 10,974 feet and rests above tree line with a series of hairpin turns on both sides of the pass that would raise the hair on even the most calmly disposed neck. Looking downward, one can easily imagine one's swift demise, bouncing and plummeting down 1,000 foot jagged rock slides and cliffs, coming to rest as a mere stain at the bottom. The few species that seem to have mastered this terrain include the Mountain Goats and Sheep, which leap straight up the side, and the Grizzly Bears, who do whatever they damn please.

What exactly was she thinking? And just why was she pestering me about it -- must have a magnet somewhere...I continued painting while Nervous Nellie embellished on her fears. Suddenly that sick humor, which I could easily blame on my father, kicked in, and out of my mouth came, "Well ya know... there's only one way to cure that problem..." Honestly, I had no idea how to cure that problem, and no clue what I was going to say except that her mouth was now hanging open in rapt anticipation. "Just drive up the road a piece and find a nice little high point... then make like a bird!" That was a lame attempt, even for me, but it did serve a purpose.

Terrified, she gasped, "Your painting is lovely, but your sense of humor is HORRIBLE!" As she began collapsing fully into the drama, the husband appeared quickly with a protective arm and whisked her away, hissing admonitions at the demon artist as they went. Might not have been funny to them, but in the moments that followed I nearly peed myself laughing. Just me and the wind and the place to myself again.

In retrospect, having settled some business in my own interior and finding a greater compassion for the human comedy, I realize how often the things we fear are sometimes those that fascinates us most. The hypnotic flame that burns the curious fingertips, the edgy bad boy relationships that end in predictable heartache... and it does take a certain amount of consciousness to catch yourself, choose things that make you happy instead of taking yourself for a white knuckle ride. Above all, if you're going to dance on the edge, best to learn not to complain about the inevitable wreckage because you know better, and it only annoys the pilgrims.

Here's a cool site about the Beartooth Highway http://gorp.away.com/gorp/activity/byway/mt_beart.htm

The Art of the Fall

"FIRE"
Freeport, Maine
9 x 12
Oil on Canvas
$600 USD Unframed


The turning point of autumn in Maine is when the hardwoods awaken into passionate shades of red and yellow, transforming the landscape itself into art. This yearly ritual draws people by the thousands to flock here, scouring back roads and venues to witness the fleeting spectacle of the great seasonal crescendo before the inevitable fall. A special foliage forecast appears on the evening weather and like bittersweet lovers, we pray for the affair to last. We know that the cold introspective time of winter soon follows, but we always resist. And the sometimes doddering tourists give the local bubbas new reason to complain, muttering Leaf Peepers, Swivel Necks... and other unflattering names.

I especially love how the wispy marsh grasses transform into a sea of fire. In order to capture this view, I toted unwieldy painting supplies over the rocky underside of a marsh river bridge at low tide, teetering and ducking the underpinnings and then weathering the highway noise directly behind me while painting -- including the truckers and their horns. It is the ultimate artist's mastery school to attain focus in the midst of this cacophony-- no tuition, just an investment of time. But to dabble in this fiery palette was a treat, and I had been driving by this scene for years, nose nearly pressed to the window with longing yet wondering how to access it. As a wise friend once said, you have to get out of the car to find the best stuff. All the best jewels of nature are hidden from the brief passers by.

It seems fitting that "FIRE" would be the last image of the season before the long winter. As always, I wonder if I will be able to recall the warmth of the sun and the moment when it is long past. Thankfully, I always do.

Define Blue?

"PILOT PEAK"
Beartooth Pass, Wyoming
Oil on Canvas
9 x 12
(Private Collection)



This story must be told. For one, because it is a good reminder of how personal one's perception of color and reality will always be, and two, for the simple fact that I behaved myself, when I was certainly given enough fodder to unleash the inner brat in all manner of colorful ways.

Pilot Peak sits at the base of the Beartooth Pass, north of Cooke City and the Silver Gate entrance to Yellowstone. Years ago, I stood at this place on a windy September day, thunderheads grumbling and rolling overhead, aspen glowing vibrantly on the mountainside. As I began laying the groundwork for this image, an elder gentleman came along and quite matter of factly announced that I was using the wrong color blue for that mountain. Really? The wrong color? According to who?

Eventually I learned that the fellow had painted this view himself and was simply aching to show it off, but for lack of a better method, persisted in insisting on "the correct" way to paint until finally in disgust, there was nothing left but to show me what real art looked like -- and with that darted off to the van to find his painting.

I was taught always to be polite, and at 31 hadn't yet realized that it was okay to tell people to bugger off. When Mr. Helpful finally did leave, the irritation of the encounter lingered. I consoled myself with fantasies of mixing the perfect blue and chasing him all the way back to the van while doinking blobs of it on his person. The very thought of it made me chuckle, and it still does. The incredulous dolt is surely part of the memory time capsule of this image, wherever he and his hemorrhoids may be.

In art, there IS no right or wrong, there is only what pleases you and conveys the intention, and what doesn't. However in life, there are certainly shades of etiquette which may bear consideration, especially when approaching unknown entities painting by the side of the road. Annoying pests, approach at your own peril.

So tell me, do you think I used the right color blue?

And Some Ya Bleed For...

"MORSE MOUNTAIN"
Phippsburg, Maine

Original Oil on Canvas (NFS)

Roland Giclee Ltd. Edition
$275 USD (unframed)

16" x 16"

Tucked away on Route 216 is the entrance to a rare jewel simply known as Morse Mountain.

Though the mosquitoes are thick, it is worth the two-mile walk to behold one of Maine’s most enchanting secrets – old growth forests thick with ancient moss, glacial granite monoliths and marsh corridors leading to a broad sand beach bordered by marsh rivers on each end. Only a few cottages and old homes sprinkled along the way. The high point is Morse Mountain, which offers this lovely view of the marsh corridor below. Little evidence remains of the Navy installation that once presided over this view, except for the road itself, for which we are most grateful. Because Morse Mountain is a bird sanctuary, dogs are not allowed on this hike. Apparently the biting pests have full license to roam, and roam they do.

I hiked into Morse Mountain one day, weighed down with paintings supplies in the backpack, canvas stretchers in each hand and most definitely the wrong pair of shoes. The morning trip in wasn't so bad with the sun high and the swarm moderately well behaved. I painted the image called Popham which precedes this post. On the way out, I could not resist the lighting and exquisite beauty of the overlook, so in that daft, tunnel-visioned artist glaze, I set up and began to paint. Out in the open and protected by the breeze, the afternoon was sublime. However when it came time to walk out... oh dear, dear, dear.

Envision bone tired woman (painted brains out) hiking with heavy pack, wretched shoes and a wet painting in each hand and no one to swat mosquitoes for this poor fool. The little darlins attacked every exposed centimeter of skin, and then some. One moment I felt the sting in my outstretched palm (remember the canvas) while another little sucker landed on the other vulnerable palm. Shrieking, I thumped the first little bastard with the corner of a canvas, and then the other. Miraculously, neither painting was smeared.

If only I had wings. Where is the Navy when you need them? This would be the last time I ever attempted two canvases at Morse Mountain. I still have scars to remember that day from months of scratching, along with these particularly satisfying images to revisit now and then.

More than anything, when I stand atop this hill it is the feeling of the people who came before us that overwhelms me -- the ones who vanished in our wake. I can see them, navigating the marsh, gathering shellfish by the ocean, living simply in a way that we seem to have evolved completely out of... and just who is going to save us poor fools?

At Morse Mountain, the sun rises, the sun sets. The wind blows ever constant. The smaht ones hike in during the off seasons.

Ne-ked Men Everywhere

"POPHAM"
Seawall Beach, Phippsburg, Maine
Oil on Canvas
(Private Collection)



One sunny summer day I hoisted the painting gear into a backpack and hiked into Seawall Beach, which neighbors Popham Beach. After an icy ocean dip to ease the stinging mosquito bites, I picked an overlook in the dunes and began to set up the easel and palette to attempt this image.

Suddenly a man popped up out of the tall grass wearing nothing but a lime green spandex thong. Startled, I launched a blob of Titanium white from the tube. We chatted lightly and then Mr. Thong mentioned having attended a very prestigious art school but admittedly “sold his soul” by going into advertising and graphic design. Lately he had felt an urge to get back to his first love of painting and he viewed my presence, and the lengths to which I went to paint here, as a good omen. Thanking me, Mr. Thong went on his way. One never knows the influence we may have on other people's lives. I was still smarting from the mosquitos, with the swarm no doubt anticipating my return.

A number of years later, a co-worker recognized this image immediately, and purchased it for his wife's anniversary gift. Seems he had proposed to her on this very same spot and it appeared to be a happy marriage.

Now about the ne-ked men.

Those of modest politics should note that on warm sunny days, the far end of Popham is usually occupied by nude or scantily clad men trolling for luv behind the dunes. During the glory years, park wardens could only cover so much ground on foot, thus the designated lookout had plenty of warning before every one had to scramble back into their shorts. These days, wardens come armed with fast moving 4-wheelers and the nudies are considerably more vigilant and cautious. Necessarily, the nude brigade has spilled over to Seawall Beach, at lease those who can weather the frigid waters.

As a member of the other gender, I was mostly ignored, with the exception of one gentleman named Richard. The first encounter happened as I was swimming hard against a strong outgoing tide when he suddenly appeared from behind the rocks -- butt naked and chirped HI like it was no big deal. Its a wonder I didn't drown-- but after careful consideration, I deemed him harmless and we talked on occasion. Since I painted here so often, it became his ritual to cross the river and say hello. In all those times, I never saw him clothed.

Years later, while visiting in Maine I took a rather sheltered friend to this beach, and was actually telling her of this fellow with a chuckle when I glimpsed someone walking towards us.

Oh My GOD... THERE HE IS, naked as always! Jolene figured I was joking until she looked around to see Austin Powers and his hair rug approaching. Quickly hiding her eyes in utter embarrassment, Jolene hissed, "Only YOU Deborah!" Honestly, at her age you'd think she'd seen one before. Richard called out hello and we chit chatted briefly. He inquired if I had a mailing address out West so he could drop a line? I fumbled for writing apparatus then quipped, "Oh... say Richard... do you have a pen?" Jolene was horrified. Thankfully, Richard soon headed off, and since it appeared my reputation of attracting characters was firmly in tact, there was nothing to do but laugh at the comedy of the event.

A Windswept Roadside Attraction

"OLD ROADS AND WATERWAYS"
West of Whitehall, Montana

Oil on Rag Board

9.5 x 19.25"
$700 USD unframed

I remember being here in the cool sunshine and wild winds that threatened to both topple my small production and freeze my tookus in the process. But the view so barren in its windblown subtle tones became rich in a way. And it was worth the discomfort, even the cool stares I received from hardlined ranchers driving by who must surely have wondered, who is this fool on the side of the road?

A Meeting of Nations

"MONUMENT VALLEY"

Utah

Oil on Linen
8 x 15.25"

$580

One day I pulled off the highway beyond a Navajo roadside stand to paint in the legendary Monument Valley. A three-legged reservation dog trotted over to mooch food, tourists stopped to snap pictures, and the hot desert sun sizzled on my skin. In the East, our understanding of what an American Indian reservation must be like is necessarily limited. You would have to be there to comprehend both the harshness and the beauty. And while I might visit for a few hours to paint, in ways I felt so out of place as to be naked. Only the Navajo can truly know the heart of their land.

One day at the rez gas station, a tall young Navajo man approached as I readied to leave. Having pulled up behind my car in a tall truck, he spotted the paintings drying in the back window. Without hesitating, he confessed his passion for painting, and lamented that he had done nothing since graduating public school years ago. Clearly, the creative spark had continued to fester inside of him and I gathered that talking here with me served to vent some of the frustration that tends to gather within the unexpressed artist.

The essential artist is defined by the way they view their world. They do not merely drive along oblivious to light and shadow, beauty and pain. Instead, the artist's eye continuously captures imagery and stores it away. Certainly this man watched the land and its ever moody horizons every day as he drove the long highways hauling hay. I offered that one day he would pick up a pencil or a brush and tell the story of his land and whatever he did, it would be beautiful beyond words. Until then, he would be painting with his heart and not to worry that time passes by. The years would only sweeten the image.

I never asked his name, but I drove away knowing a special moment had happened. Several years later I realized how truly extraordinary it was that he had spoken to me at all.

The Navajo maintain a strict solidarity against speaking to white people outside of necessity. To reveal something as personal as a hidden passion is nearly unthinkable. In that same place I’ve been waited on by Navajo women who would not engage in any way, other than to drop my change on the counter. And given the history between our cultures, I have to empathize.

Still, I have always remembered that moment and the overflowing wellspring of a dream long held in his eyes. To others, it may have appeared that a white woman and a Navajo man were talking, but I know that it was only two artists sharing a dream. I hope one day he will tell his story, as no one else can.

It's All In The Eye Of The Beholder...

"THE THUMB AND THE TEAKETTLE"

Sedona, Arizona

Oil on Board

11 x 14

$500.00 USD

I first landed in Sedona in the fall of 1993, a neophyte wanderer in a foreign land. The red rocks lent an intensity that I had never experienced in the northeast, and like many a hick before me, I was somewhat besotted with it. The long neglected red and orange hues fairly clamored on my pallet and it was a refreshing change from the pastoral tree lines and fields of Maine. I nearly painted my brains out, and it was here that I began to channel impassioned poems and essays, from where I couldn't have said.

This auspicious rock formation was one of the first sites upon entering town via Oak Creek Canyon. One friend who lived virtually beneath this monolith referred to it as Little Penis... which anyone who has lived here for any time immediately understands with a knowing nod. I didn't quite have the balls to title the painting as such, so opted for the generically acceptable Thumb and the Teakettle. Still, you have to admit... there are interesting resemblances.

Sedona's world famous energy vortices and passionate red canyons attract travelers and new age seekers from near and far. Its alluring beauty captivates them, and some become so obsessed as to rabidly return home, sell everything, quit the job, divorce the spouse, kick the dog and move on in part and parcel with breathless anticipation of a new and beautiful life, only to find the eids of Sedona do not yield success so easily. The especially love sick remain, determined to find some means to survive, often working two and three jobs, paying ridiculous rent only to be a part of the place. Couples who move here often blast apart. Others cry uncle and leave feeling decidely screwed. The locals watch and shake their heads. Dos locos.

Sedona is basically a huge cosmic amplifier, like the speakers on your sterio. Whatever internal program you plug into it is what gets broadcasted loud and clear, thus unresolved emotional issues are soon screaming back at them, usually in the form of chaotic situations, painful lessons with local "shamans," damning bad luck and explosive relationships. UNCLE already!

Years later I learned something of the ancient wisdom of the place and it made sense. The native peoples acknowledged this land as a sacred site, traveling into it for ceremonial purposes only. They understood its essence as too powerful to live in, and the remains of their dwellings are conspicuously found on its perimeters. Leave it to us white folks to mess with ancient wisdom.

First came the early settlers of the 1800s. The town's most current name is after Sedona Schebley, a settler woman. Eventually came the gentle earth hippie types throughout the 50s, 60s and 70s. Some of them even lived in a big cave atop a cliff in a far canyon. Then the world found out and during the 80s and 90s in marched the resort and hospitality businesses, restaurants to please every taste speckled along the strip along with crystal shops, vortex tours, pink jeep adventures, yellow bi-planes and rainbow striped balloons to provide the ultimate red rock experience. Resorts were built in sacred canyons, despite the objections of native peoples, only to go broke repeatedly. One development was scrapped completely and never got built due to repeated misfortunes and mysterious breakdowns. Still that giant sucking sound and the near deafening *ka-CHING* of fortunes being made and lost continued undaunted.

My take on Sedona? It is a marvelous feast of the senses, a wonderful place to visit, hike, get your aura photographed, palm read, chakras cleared, colon blown... view overpriced mediocre artwork, eat some good food and check in on the mirror of your life. What's working? What isn't? Then go home with a sense of gratitude for what you already have.

As for the Little Penis, it keeps watch over the balance of things here. Regardless of how people struggle to stay in Sedona, they seem to roll in and roll out much like the coastal tides with nearly as precise timing and regularity.