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.

A Little Grit Never Hurt Anyone, only Smarted...

"BEYOND ANTELOPE CANYON"
Navajo Nation,

Page, Arizona

Oil on Canvas with Grit
(Private Collection)

Every painting holds a piece of its circumstances. Some more than others...
From its conception, this image was a challenge. Living in Sedona at the time with a man whom I was busily completing my masters in "ridiculous relationships," we drove to Page, Arizona for a creative retreat. While he was setting up a photo shoot in the famous slot canyons (along with hundreds other tourists) I settled in nearby to capture this image with the brush.

The day was clear and beautiful, however, the wind proved daunting as it barreled down the canyon in angry gusts, forcing me to clutch onto the easel and painting for dear life while the maelstrom passed. Little did I know that a storm cloud was gathering in the slot chambers where my companion was becoming frustrated with traffic passing through "his" photographs, kicking up dust, bumping into him. In a brave moment, I dared release hold of the painting to step back for perspective... and the wind exploded in force, sending my easel, pallet and painting flying.

Just as a peanut butter sandwich must necessarily land face down, so too do wet paintings. My beautiful new canvas now encrusted with lovely red sand. Crestfallen but maintaining humor, I retrieved it and began to pack up. Better to let the painting dry and recover it later.

It would be several years before I would touch that image again. Long enough to find some perspective in the horrendous hours that followed its symbolic fate... long enough to forgive myself for getting into that relationsoup, along with owning the ridiculous choices that led up to it... long enough to appreciate the good things of that day like the warmth of the Arizona sun, the beauty of the place... and certainly the freedom to find my own wisdom and make mistakes.

Sometimes we have to push life to the limit in order to know where the boundaries are and in painting, as in life, this may require that we pick ourselves up on occasion, dust off the grit, and continue finding our own true path.

Did Someone Say Clouds?

RIMROCK II

Wood River Valley, Wyoming

Oil On Canvas

11.25 x 6.5

$450 USD Unframed

$650 USD Framed

Towering rim rock mesas along the Wood River Valley opalescent in the afternoon sun… should have paid more attention to the clouds creeping up behind them -- Wyoming is famous for its fast moving storm cells that quickly overwhelm the landscape.

I continued into the mountains and set up camp where my visiting brother was scheduled to arrive. First came rain, then temperatures plummeted to sleet then snow -- I held out until the all hope of a dry night faded, then quickly stuffed wet gear into the car as nightfall settled in. I would be lucky to get out on the wet clay roads.

Driving in the blinding snow, car tires slithering and bucking in protest up the hill, dark forms appeared on the road ahead, so large that I wondered if it was cattle. Instead it was a rockslide where fortunately one very critical rock was movable. The car fishtailed but I squeaked through and continued slogging onward, gripping the wheel as white snow bombs blotted the windshield. Half way out I spotted headlights and it turned out to be my brother’s truck. Even more fortunate was the little hotel 30 miles away that had a vacancy. We were lucky indeed. The following day it was bright sunny and dry again. Weather is like this in the Rockies, a storm cell appearing out of nowhere and gone just as quick. No sense in fighting it as nature always wins and we are but small specks in the natural world.