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.

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.

The Summer Host of Characters

"LOW TIDE"

South Freeport, Maine
Oil on Canvas
12" x 12"

SOLD

Oh the stories about this place.

The lonely farmer -- who roars up on his tractor to boast of his “big barn,” complain how women run the minute they hear about the 10-year old son, meanwhile eyeballing me for dating potential. Lately, I am not too proud to duck for cover every time I hear the farm equipment coming.

The kayaker -- who insisted on putting in at low tide (Read: Bonehead). Quite the showman as he hefted the kayak and proudly strode to the water... then for the next 45 minutes dug and kicked and panted to get out beyond the mud flats, then gave up and dug and kicked and panted to get back to the parking area. (Its true, I have pictures). By then he was fuming -- black clouds forming overhead as he huffed back to the car with considerably less flair. And in that fateful moment the tide turned... water gushing generously into the inlet, which only further maddened the erstwhile studly who sped off in a cloud of dust, oblivious to my chuckling.

The clammers -- who leave mysterious tracks in the flats that catch the sunlight like silken ribbons. Yet none who exit the mud look so elegant as that.

The swimmers -- who appear on sunny days at high tide and cannonball off the bridge. The air is filled with their sounds and it is pure summer glee at its best. Osprey hovering and hunting in the distance.

The fishermen -- who appear like ghosts just when the stripers are running, little fish flicker and jump to elude the big ones who chase them. Sun dappling on the water.

The campers -- who lumber along in towering land yachts to weigh anchor at Recompense Campground just beyond the bridge. A virtual paradise for summer visitors and the biting pests who are all to happy to serve them.

In the winter, I remember these times and feel warmed by them. Several winters ago the temperatures plummeted and held low for weeks. This entire outlet froze with over a foot of ice that rose and fell with the daily tides. At low tide, it sat on the flats and I roamed the edges and inlets, dressing warm against the wind and cold. Free form art sculptures formed by tidal ice activity dotted the shore. This was my moment to walk on water, and even though it was frozen, I felt like an adventurer.

Somehow, amidst the robust development trend of southern Maine this beautiful farmland remains open and relatively unscathed. We truly hope it remains so.

In Case You're Desperate...

"THE TURNING POINT"
Scarborough, Maine
Oil on Canvas
15" x 30"
$1,200 USD

Interesting things can happen when you're standing along side the road painting, not the least of which are the characters who drop by for a visit. First, the lady who screeched to a halt and sprinted back up the road waving her gallery card and screeching "Do you have gallery representation?;" and let us remember the husband and wife who wanted to own it for their home nearby, but didn't want to pay much (sorry folks, you'll find that sort of art work at Wally World) and of course, the truckers.

I must say a few words about truckers. Either they are be depraved by nature, or they are all art lovers at heart, because apparently few can restrain themselves from laying on the horn whilst barreling by. Have you ever had a semi truck horn go off at close range behind your back? Talk about getting your crackers scattered~

After the umpteenth blasting, I mused that a specially designed trucker's horn might be the key to my wealth. Why I would simply design and patent a horn that would convey their truest base sentiments, ....blaring Ssssseeexxxxxxxxx! Maybe several optional sounds, for instance TITSssssssssss.... Assssssssss.... HOOTERrrrrrrrssss! Several friends were appalled; they thought this highly sexist of me and offered that I might be sued. However, I am convinced a fine trucker's horn would sell like HOooooooT CAKKKKKKKkkkkkkkkkes! No doubt I would quickly become a millionairess.

The most comical and enduring chuckle regarding this painting is the woman from Freeport who wanted to buy it in the worst way, but was not authorized to spend such a sum as her husband, in all likelihood would have divorced her. And so she did what any sane wife would do, and offered me half the asking price. Naturally I declined. I am no flea market art seller, and until the the right buyer comes along, I am enjoying this particular piece in my office. Looks rather lovely I might add.

Not one to be easily dismissed, this dear woman called six months later to inquire if the painting had sold. "No... I'm looking at it right now, and its a BEAUTY!" Again, the half price offer. Again the decline. She warned, "OK, but if you get desperate, remember me." I countered, "Ohhh trust me, if I get desperate... I will surely remember you.