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Oh, possum!

Possum, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $435 includes shipping in continental US.

On Wednesday, I mentioned our late Jack Russell Terrier (or Terror, depending on the day). Above all, Max was a fearless hunter, a skill that often got him in trouble. He was capable of snatching a songbird in midflight, and squirrels and chipmunks stayed away when he was outdoors.

Sadly, he seldom got an opportunity to exercise that skill in a positive way. However, he’d periodically grow restive, whining and pointing at some blank section of wall. I learned to recognize that as a sign we had invaders in the house. Most commonly they were mice, which are easily dispatched. Memorably there was once a rat behind the dishwasher.

It was an old house with nearly a century’s worth of paint on the moulding. One day I noticed that a cold air return was shining silver. It had been licked and chewed clean. “Oh, dear, it’s lead paint,” I thought. “Max is going to lose whatever little sense he started with.” I watched him carefully and realized he spent his whole day hanging around that duct.

When Mr. Opossum realized he’d been captured, he was not a happy camper.

Then I opened the basement door. Max flew down ahead of me. There was an opossum on the top of a shelving unit where we stored extra glassware, appliances and other things that no longer brought us joy. Max went berserk trying to climb the shelf. The opossum retaliated by throwing things down on Max. Together they made a terrible mess. The good news was, I had lots less to get rid of when it came time to KonMari my life.

At the time, we had a young lady named Abi living with us. Abi really, really wanted to keep the opossum. “They make good pets,” she insisted. I might have tried had Max and Mr. Opossum not been sworn enemies. Plus, he had very sharp-looking teeth, and opossums have opposable thumbs on their hind legs. That could only lead to trouble.

Abi with her consolation opossum.

For a while, it was a stalemate. We put delicacies in a trap; he ignored them, or worse, fished them out. It was nearly Thanksgiving and I kept my pie plates in the basement. That’s how I finally won. Mr. Possum found my piecrust irresistible. (The recipe is here.)

Our good friend did not go gently back to nature. We drove him to a county park on the other side of the Genesee River, which is wide, deep and fast as it enters Rochester. He didn’t like the idea and hissed all the way. With one final scowl in my direction, he ambled off into the shrubberies. I’m not sure Abi has ever forgiven me.

My 2024 workshops:

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Painting with dogs

Shela Fero Geiss and Matthew Fero with their parents’ two labs, private collection, oil on linen.

Dogs make lovely painting companions. Before I could bring my daughter along on painting trips, I camped and painted with my Jack Russell Terrier for company. He was a pleasant traveling companion (most dogs are), and he acted as an Early Warning System. As artists’ head are often in the clouds, painting with dogs is helpful.

I’ve never been approached by a bear or a threatening person while painting. At the hoary old age of 65, however, my left hook ain’t what it used to be. I appreciate the security painting with dogs provides.

Ever-loyal Guillo running circles around me.

My current dog, Guillo, is a mutt with a very calm disposition. He’s happiest when he’s with his people and he’s uncritical of even my worst daubs.

Of course, you must provide your painting pup with the basics: water, shade, and, if appropriate, food. In my state, a dog can be unleashed if under voice control, but that’s not true everywhere. Even here I have a tie-out in my truck. I wouldn’t let him roam free next to a busy road or near farm animals.

Painting with dogs isn’t always trouble-free. I periodically run across daft dog owners. This week it was the owner of a senescent Basset Hound whom I met while hiking. The human kicked and stomped at Guillo as we passed. That’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, as my friend Catharine would say. Guillo made a wide circle around her, but another dog might have answered her aggression in kind.

Dr. Martha Vail-Barker and her poppet, Poppy, oil on linen, private collection.

It’s your problem to keep your dog (and yourself) under control. “He just wants to be friends,” is no excuse when your dog has jumped up far enough to have given a thorough pelvic exam.

Earlier this year, Catharine was knocked down by a German shepherd, resulting in injuries that took weeks to heal. “What if that had happened to an elderly person?” she asked. (She’s 76.)

How do you know if your dog is a good boy? (Here’s a satirical answer to that question.) If you hear yourself say, “I’m sorry, he never does that!” it’s time for training. If you hear yourself say it twice, you’re the problem.

In a lifetime of dogs, I’ve broken up more than my share of fights. Twice, I’ve been bitten hard enough to break the skin. Both times were preventable.

The Beggar of St. Paul (detail) featuring dear old Max, oil on linen.

Dogs are simple empaths; they’re sensitive to the emotional states of people, and they only have two responses to threats: fight or flight. These are deeply ingrained in the evolutionary history of all animals, including us (although we can occasionally talk our way out of trouble).

Since 80% of Americans live in urban or suburban areas, our dogs spend much of their lives leashed. That cuts off the flight option, meaning that stressed dogs learn to react to threats with aggression.

A smart person learns to identify hyper-alertness, muscle tension (raised hackles), growling and barking as signs of a stressed dog. The trouble is, these can also be signs of an excited or playful dog. It sometimes takes some nous to know the difference.

If you have a highly-excitable dog who reacts badly to strangers, he might not be the best candidate for painting with dogs. But if you have a laid-back mutt, he’ll make great company.

My 2024 workshops:

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Monday Morning Art School: meaning and mediocrity

Night Hauling, 1944, Andrew Wyeth, courtesy Bowdoin College Museum of Art

Yesterday my friend Barb and I peered at Night Hauling, a 1944 tempera painting by Andrew Wyeth. “I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never seen bioluminescence in the sea,” she said.

“Well, I also imagine at that time most people were using lobster boats with engines,” I countered.

“Not if they were stealing traps,” she said, and we both laughed.

In 1944, Wyeth was still trying to figure out how to emerge from the shadow of his famous father. It would be four more years until Christina’s World proved he was ‘not your father’s Oldsmobile’. Night Hauling is magical realism built on an utterly firm foundation of realistic drawing and painting; it’s what NC Wyeth was famous for and what his son and grandson would carry forward in American art.

The Wyeths all had individual and personal visions. Grandpa and grandson are insouciant and entertaining; Andrew is melancholy but with humor. Their message is so clear because it rests on perfect painting chops. Mediocre painting never gets in the way of what they’re trying to say.

Bonjour, Monsieur Courbet, 1854, Gustave Courbet, courtesy Musée Fabre, Montpellier. This may not seem revolutionary to modern eyes, but Courbet was putting himself in the same social level as his patron (and making himself more robust).

The meaning of meaning

Great historic landscape artists like John Constable or Claude Monet were doing more than simply recording scenes. There is science, observation, and a great deal of thought behind their work. In addition, there’s a well-realized ethos. It could be spelled out as with the artists of the Salon des Refusés, or it could be subtle, but it is always there.

I realize we haven’t got easy themes like American Exceptionalism at our disposal anymore, and much art is just too politicized to be bearable. However, no painting should be without meaning, or it may as well be wallpaper. That’s why I constantly ask the question, “what were you trying to say in this painting?”

Seascape Study with Rain Cloud (Rainstorm over the Sea), 1824-28, John Constable, courtesy Royal Academy. It would be hard to articulate the thesis of this painting, but it sure resonates.

Bad Art for Sale Near Me

“I count twenty paintings that this group did in one day,” a reader wrote last week. “The event went on for a week, so that’s a hundred paintings! You know all of them can’t be particularly good.” I didn’t need him to add that, because he included a photograph. The word I’d use to describe them is pedestrian, and that’s possibly being generous.

“They’re all going on sale, too,” he added sadly. I never get too bent about Bad Art For Sale Near Me because the people who can’t tell the difference are not my audience. But he’s right; it does devalue painting when so much mediocre stuff is on the block. I love plein air events but I think they’ve hit the point of oversaturation, and now I carefully pick which ones I do.

Le déjeuner sur l’herbe, 1862-63, Édouard Manet, courtesy Musée d’Orsay. I have never figured out what Manet was on about here, or tired of trying.

What do you do with the duds?

I firmly believe that the only way you get better is to keep painting, lots. My old friend Marilyn Fairman used to say, “I saved another canvas today,” after she scraped out what she’d worked on all day. I never do that because I think it keeps me repeating what I’m comfortable with. But I also don’t paint over old paintings; they have impasto that’s tough to cover. Needless to say, I have lots of duds. If you’re doing it right, you should too. And you should not confuse your mediocrities with your best work.

We often change our mind about work we’ve finished. I recently found something I dislike in a painting I used to love. I’ve been teaching color bridging recently, and I realized that one passage of that painting would have benefitted from it. (No, I’m not going to edit it. That way lies madness)

I used to have an annual party where I’d saw through every painting I hated in my inventory. I have a new idea to recycle them. But the important thing is to recognize that you’ve grown and changed, and to stop letting your mediocrities drag down the gems in your work.

My 2024 workshops:

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My love affair with schooner American Eagle

Breaking Storm, oil on linen, 30X48, $5579 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

“You have a crush on every boat,” my husband once said. Of all the boats I’ve ever loved, schooner American Eagle is at the top of the list. She’s not the only windjammer I admire, or even the only windjammer I’ve painted. But I get to teach on her every year, she’s always in perfect nick and I never have to do any of the maintenance. That’s down to Captain John Foss, who restored her impeccably, and Captain Tyler King, who’s keeping up the good work.

A quick glimpse will tell you why we had no onboard electronics on this lovely old girl. I wish I still had her but, as they say, it’s complicated.

I grew up in western New York, where my family kept a 30′ wooden sloop, first at Buffalo on Lake Erie and then at Wilson on Lake Ontario. As a kid, I figured that since the Great Lakes are smaller than the ocean, they must be safer. It’s only been since I’ve moved to the Maine coast that I’ve realized how extreme the weather in my hometown of Buffalo is. The Great Lakes are prone to unpredictable squall lines, seiches, and storm surges. Electrical storms are very common, even in winter, when they create the phenomenon known as thundersnow. Periodically, the water in Lake Ontario turns over, making a noticeable, sudden change in the temperature that results in fog. The Great Lakes have heavy freighter traffic and fog can drop in an instant. It’s less nerve-wracking now, but in my youth “onboard electronics” were limited to running lights.

American Eagle in Drydock, 12X16, $1159 unframed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

On the other hand, the Great Lakes are consistently deep. If you can get out of the harbor channel without grounding yourself on last winter’s silt, you’re unlikely to hit anything submerged. That’s different from the Maine coast, where rocks stick inconveniently out of the water, or worse, not quite out of the water. When I first sailed on schooner American Eagle, I told Captain John that the thing that gave me pause about potting around in the ocean by myself is not knowing what was on the bottom. “Lobster traps, pretty much,” he laughed. And sailors today all use depth finders, which take the sport out of holing one’s hull.

However, the weather on the Maine Coast is simply not as foul as it is on Lake Ontario. (A friend who lives in Scotland tells me that Rochester is more dreich in late fall and winter than is Edinburgh.) It rains less here, and there are fewer storms.

I see boats as powerful symbols of the human condition. We’re always either sailing into trouble or getting ourselves out of it. Breaking Storm, above, is about the latter, and I’ve got a painting of the windjammer Angelique on my easel that’s about the former. (Sorry about that, Captains Dennis and Candace!)

American Eagle rounding Owls Head, 6×8, oil on archival canvasboard, $348 unframed includes shipping and handling in the continental US.

Breaking Storm is my favorite of all my schooner American Eagle paintings, but I realize it may be too large and expensive for some people. That’s why I painted American Eagle rounding Owls Head, just 6X8. It’s softer and more suggestive than the larger painting, and there’s no sense that the storm has abated.

Of course, if you sail with us in September, you can paint your own version of sailing on the Maine coast. But if you can’t go adventuring with us, a painting is every bit as wonderful.

My 2024 workshops:

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Ten ways an art career can drive you nuts

Coast Guard Inspection, oil on archival canvasboard, $435 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

“Finishing, mounting, framing, prepping, switching out the last mixed colors on my palette… this art @#$% is a lot of work,” one of my students texted as he prepared for a show.

That’s why my first question to someone who wants to become a professional artist is, “Do you really want to work that hard?” I’m blessed to be able to support myself as an artist, but I’m under no illusion about what goes into a successful art career. Some weeks, very little of my time is spent painting.

Toy Monkey and Candy, oil on archival canvasboard, $435 framed.

Here are the ways an art career can mess with your head:

Financial instability: Many professional artists face financial challenges when starting out. It takes time to establish a reputation and generate a steady income from art sales, but it can be done. Professional artists are the canaries in the coal mine when it’s time for an economic downturn, and they will come. Make sure you have a backup plan.

The need for endless self-promotion: Yes, a successful art career rests on marketing ourselves and our work, and building a brand is crucial for success. But self-promotion is challenging to most normal people. I never want to be the person who says, “But enough about me; how do you like my hair?”

Subjectivity: While there are objective standards by which to judge art, success itself is highly subjective. It may have more to do with your external circumstances (your strong white teeth, who you know, being at the right place at the right time) as the quality of your work.

All of us hate rejection: Yesterday I was texting with a person who was rejected for a show for which I thought he was a shoo-in. We’ve all been there. Over time, we either develop thicker skins or we move on to doing something else, but at times we all complain bitterly about jurying. The wisest of us do it quietly, to our trusted friends.

Back It Up, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $435.

The push and pull of communication and isolation: Art is communication, but creating art is a solitary activity. There’s great tension between needing to talk through our work at the same time as we should be buckling down alone in our studios. (Resolving that tension is one of the benefits of classes and workshops.)

Balancing creativity and commercialism: The professional artist must find a balance between creating art for personal fulfillment and art that sells. Omphaloskepsis is the luxury of the person who doesn’t need to work, but at the same time, there’s no point to churning out lighthouse paintings on black velvet. Your art career needs to find a happy medium.

No job security, no 401K, no PTO: As bad as corporate benefits have become, professional artists are, in comparison, out on the highwire without a net. We work project-to-project, often a year or more before we show our work. Our financial management must be very keen or we’ll be working at Walmart before you can say Jack Robinson, whoever he was.

Constant skill development: You never totally master painting; you just keep refining your skills until your hands fall off. A successful art career requires mastering new technologies and concepts. Staying relevant means continuously leaning into them. The art world bears little resemblance to that of my youth. Overall, I think the changes are great, but they do keep me on my toes.

Brooding Skies, 8X10, oil on archival canvasboard, $522

Constantly foraging for opportunity: Securing exhibition opportunities and commissions is competitive and challenging. Next time you’re debating curling up with a good book or going to that opening, consider your art career and put your shoes on.

That blasted time management: I started writing this because something knocked me for a loop yesterday. I flitted between unrelated tasks all day rather than buckling down to what I had intended to do. Juggling multiple projects is the hardest part of my job.

My 2024 workshops:

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Monday Morning Art School: do you have a return policy?

Seafoam, 9X12, oil on archival canvasboard, $869 framed.

“Have you written about original art sales being final?” a reader asked me this weekend. “Do you ever accept returns? If so, why or why not?”

My late friend Gwendolyn used to regularly shop on what she called ‘The American Plan.” Gwendolyn wasn’t an abuser of the system; she didn’t wear clothes and then try to return them. Instead, she’d bring things home from the mall in a variety of sizes and colors, hoping her family would like something she’d selected. The rest would go back.

Main Street, Owl’s Head, oil on archival canvasboard, $1623 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

American retailing encourages this, with most sellers offering very liberal return policies. That makes sense for large corporations in the highly-competitive world of online consumer goods. It makes less sense for custom goods made by small workshops, like jewelers, painters, or seamstresses.

Before you start selling paintings, you should think through your return policy, or you may be asked to do something you’re not willing to accommodate.

Since I have a commerce-enabled website, Google requires that I have a clearly-articulated return policy for both my paintings and my workshops, which you can read here. Without it, Google won’t rank my website, which means nobody would ever see it.

You determine what your policy is, but I think “no returns at any time, for any reason,” would be unreasonable. Art does occasionally arrive with damaged frames. Even though I always ship with insurance, it’s good customer relations to manage the repair or reimbursement myself.

Apple Tree with Swing, 16X20, oil on archival canvasboard, $2029 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

It’s devilishly difficult to photograph paintings. There’s inevitably some difference in color. A person with a very tight color scheme might realize the blue of my ocean doesn’t quite match their couch. I used to worry about this a lot, until I bought some wall paint online during COVID. My husband’s office is beautiful, but it’s not what I saw on my monitor. Nobody can manage color perfectly online because every screen shows color differently. (Then there’s airbrushing and photo enhancement. Although it doesn’t pertain to my paintings, most product photography is enhanced before we ever see it.)

Having said that, I work hard to make accurate photos and I’ve never had a painting returned because it didn’t look like the photo.

The buyer has more responsibility for paintings bought in my gallery or at an event. He or she has thumped the tires and understands the work’s physical presence. There is no reason for the same return policy in a bricks-and-mortar store but whatever it is, it should be posted.

Beautiful Dream, oil on archival canvasboard, $1449 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

I and many other gallerists will send a painting ‘on spec’ if asked. That means the customer pays for it up front (as a surety). If they decide they don’t want it, they pay for its return and insurance. The time limit for this must be clearly specified in advance. Two weeks is more than sufficient to realize a painting just doesn’t work.

No matter what your return policy is, your long-term goal should be to keep your client. Start by asking why they want or need to return the item. Once you determine that, you can offer them a more appropriate product for purchase or exchange. For example, in the example I gave above, I’d show them my entire inventory of ocean paintings. (If they didn’t die of boredom, they’d be bound to find something that’s a better match.) Sometimes people simply can’t visualize size, and buy something that’s too small. If that’s the case, offer them a credit toward a larger one, and don’t be afraid to offer them layaway if the price scares them. A painting is a lifetime investment, and we want to do everything possible to help people able to afford art.

My 2024 workshops:

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Rachel’s Garden: a favorite watercolor painting

Rachel’s Garden, ~24×35, watercolor on Yupo, museum-grade plexiglass, $3985 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

On Wednesday I challenged you to do 30 watercolor paintings in 45 days. “What is your favorite watercolor painting?” a reader responded. My favorites are by John Singer Sargent, Winslow Homer, and Anders Zorn, I said. Then she clarified that she meant a watercolor painting by me. That’s harder.

To me watercolor is like drawing: an extremely personal medium. I use it to sketch out ideas and for travel. And of course I teach watercolor once a year aboard schooner American Eagle. I like my watercolor quick and dirty, in part because it helps me get over myself when I get tied in knots in oil painting.

Bunker Hill overlook, watercolor on Yupo, approx. 24X36, $3985 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Watercolor paintings are infinitely varied. The result depends on the paper used, the brand of paint and the character of the artist. I gravitate to Yupo and hot-press paper because I like their editability. Others like the soft lyricism of cold-press, and indeed that’s what I generally use and teach with at workshops.

Path to the Lake, ~24X36, watercolor on Yupo, framed in museum-grade plexiglass, $2985 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

It’s very hard for me to identify a favorite painting, though. It might be Glade, which long ago went to a private collector. Or Clary Hill Blueberry Barrens, which I think captures the excitement of a windy day at the top of the world. Or Bunker Hill Overlook, which is a painting of just one of the more than 6000 lakes and ponds in Maine. Or Path to the Lake, which reminds me of my pal Clif Travers and his cemetery obsession. But right this second, I think Rachel’s Garden, above, is my favorite. As watercolor paintings go, it’s loose as a goose, and I like that.

The deck of the lovely and gracious American Eagle.

I’ve tossed in one from my time teaching aboard the schooner, because it’s on cold-press. It’s one of the few paintings I’ve done that’s not for sale.

My 2024 workshops:

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It’s time for our 30-watercolors-in 45-days challenge

Mike Prairie’s dog biscuits.

February 21 to April 6, 2024

I like painting-a-day challenges in theory, but in practice I can never finish them. Missed days nag and carp at me. Painting-a-day challenges always end up making art seem like a chore. That’s something art should never be.

Several years ago, my student and friend Becky Bense and I dreamed up a challenge that would motivate us without creating an added layer of guilt.  Neither of us have time for the Strada challenge, which requires a new painting or drawing every day for a month. That’s not to knock the painting-a-day discipline; those who finish it in the spirit in which it was intended will reap great benefits in brushwork and composition. However, it’s not always doable.

Kisses for Wayne T, by Jennifer Johnson.

Think of this as the hippie/boho version of a painting-a-day challenge. A big part of the idea was to discourage perseverating. That can be the death of watercolors, which benefit from quickness and a light hand. Instead, we’re encouraging speed: three studies of a few minutes each, in pencil, monochrome and then color. It’s a value-driven exercise that should leave room for spontaneity.

People are very creative in their interpretation of the challenge. Robin Miller once ended up writing a graphic novel. She’s since retired, but it’s hard to see how she can top that.

Tulips by Kimberly Krejsa.

The process is super-simple

We do small watercolor paintings in three steps:

  • A sketch;
  • A monochrome (grisaille);
  • A finished painting.

You can then post your finished work in this Facebook group. (This is a very supportive group, and I also monitor it closely.)

Sandy Sibley painted the contents of her purse.

The first rule is, there are no rules

  • It doesn’t matter what medium you choose; we chose watercolor because it’s fast.
  • If you take more than half an hour on any of these, you’re overthinking it; 15 minutes is better.
  • It doesn’t matter how ‘good’ the results are; the process is the important part.
  • It doesn’t matter how many you finish; I haven’t yet managed thirty watercolors in 45 days.
  • There are no winners; painting is its own reward.
Judi Beauford’s pages are as beautifully-designed as her paintings.

Why three steps?

It’s a sneaky way of teaching a principle-that drawing and value are the basis for fast, confident brushwork. But you don’t need to think too hard about learning; the process is its own teacher. And, no, you don’t have to be my student to play. Heck, you don’t even need to be an experienced painter to play. This is a good, fast way to dip your toe into painting.

If you’ve never painted before, you can start with a simple watercolor kit and a pencil. However, if you think you’d like to pursue painting, I put together the following short list of items that won’t be a waste of money:

Robin Miller’s Mrs. Quince, who collects things.

This is kind of a semiannual thing

Although I try to do this twice a year, the dates are as fluid as anything else in this game. (A hat tip to Karen Ames, who reminded me on Monday.) Our dates this time are February 21 to April 6. Of course, I’m always the behindest of artists at my own party, so I’ll be posting what I can finish, when I get it done… and you can too.

If you only finish three paintings in 45 days (which is sometimes where I end up), that’s okay. You’re three ahead of where you would have been if you didn’t do any. If you flex the dates, that’s okay too.

My 2024 workshops:

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Monday Morning Art School: why is a workshop important?

Sand and Shadows, 8X16, oil on archival linenboard, private collection

I had a long chat with Olena Babak last week, where we mostly discussed how much we value our artist friends. The plein air world, in which we’re both deeply planted, fosters a sense of community. Many of my friends are artists whom I met teaching or at events. There is something unique in the experience of pitting ourselves against our own unreachable goals that binds artists together.

At the same time, I texted with someone considering my Towards Amazing Color workshop at the Sedona Arts Center.  “What is the most important thing I will take away from this workshop?” she asked. I’ve been mulling that over ever since.

All painting starts with observation and perception, and Sedona is in a natural setting so preposterous that painters can’t fall back on what they think they know. The landscape is vast and the air is so clear that none of the usual tricks of aerial perspective apply. This creates distinctive lighting conditions, especially at sunrise and sunset, which in turn bounces what we think we know about color on its head.

Peace, 8X16, $903 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

That’s a great thing, since none of us should be painting stereotypes anyway.

In most of our world, the dominant color scheme is green, brown and blue, with flashes of warm colors. There is nothing wrong with that, of course; I paint it and love it deeply. But Sedona flips all that on its head. Its giant rock massifs are red and cream, set off by a ferocious azure sky and accented with dull greens.

Meanwhile, the intense warm light forms equally intense cool shadows. A week of painting that light will bleed back into our paintings of the more-delicate lighting elsewhere, helping us capture the nuances of light and shadow. Painting what we don’t know is invaluable for developing a keen sense of observation for when we get back to what we do know.

Early Light is 11X14, oil on archival canvasboard, $869 includes shipping and handling in the continental US.

That raises the question of how accurately we mix our colors. Just as I discourage eastern painters from using premixed greens, I discourage Sedona painters from using premixed reds. Yes, the rocks may be close to burnt sienna, but slathering that on will just make for a flat painting. We need to learn to mix colors to match the subtle variations in the landscape. That’s a skill you can take anywhere.

My personal painting challenge right now is in representing what I’ll call, for lack of a better term, deep space. It’s easy enough to paint an eastern mountain that’s a few miles away, especially when I have aerial perspective to fall back on. The giant rearing rock formations of Sedona, set like massive eroding jewels, are eroded like hoodoos but bigger than skyscrapers. They create their own special drafting problems. They teach me how to convey distance, perspective, and dimensionality. Once you’ve seen that kind of depth in a painting, you can’t go back to using mere layering to create the illusion of distance.

Pensive, 8X10, oil on archival canvasboard, $522 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

I am both a committed plein air painter and outdoorswoman (although I can’t tell you which came first). Painting outdoors fosters my connection with the natural world. It’s not just the landscape and atmosphere; it’s also the weather, the creatures and the plants. (That relationship transcends words, which is why I loathe writing artist’s statements.) Sedona has all those things in spades. If you haven’t ever been there, it’s worth the journey.

I hope this answers my correspondent’s question, and by extension, yours too.

My 2024 workshops:

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Early Spring on Beech Hill

Early Spring on Beech Hill, oil on canvasboard, Carol L. Douglas, 12X16, $1449 framed includes shipping in continental US.

I climb up Beech Hill every day when I’m at home. It’s not very tall, just 533 feet above sea level, but that is set against the fact that I’m starting at 87 feet above sea level. I like this hike better in the summer, when warm breezes caress my face. I can watch the to-and-fro of sailboats from Rockland harbor and the margins of the blueberry barrens are a panoply of wildflowers. Midwinter isn’t quite as nice, although it is largely free of casual amblers. For the past two days it’s been cold and blustery, with gusts up to 45 MPH.

The path is somewhat protected until you come around the hill to the final rise and there, you’re almost blown off your feet. That’s an improvement over some winters, when the wind has sculpted hip-high drifts with the consistency of concrete.

The other approach to Beech Hill is somewhat steeper.

On a glorious summer morning we will amble but these frigid winter temperatures make us hurry. We’re also in training to ramble in the Yorkshire Dales in May. Our best times for the 4.5-mile hike are just scant of 1:30:00; after that I must break into a jog-trot on the downhill slopes. However, yesterday we brought it in at 1:29:23. You might not be impressed, but that’s not bad for two senior citizens wearing crampons and skidding on ice. Excuse our short victory dance.

I have many friendships that begin and end on that trail. We might stop and chat or just call out “good morning” as we sail by, but this time of year, the only people who are hiking are the true stalwarts. Yesterday, I saw Candace Kuchinski from the windjammer Angelique. She was out with her dog Nicki. “I have a painting of your boat on my easel,” I told her. I love living in a small town.

Beautiful summer day on Beech Hill.

People who don’t live in the north don’t realize how much color there is in a winter’s day, especially at the tail end of the season. The plants start to respond to the longer days and warmer sunlight. Early Spring, Beech Hill is all about that subtle color.

The sod-roofed stone hut at the top was built in 1913-15 by Hans Heisted, a Norwegian immigrant. It was an American-style folly, designed for summer picnics for a wealthy local family. (When the trees are bare, you can just make out a stone well house in the same style on the south slope, but don’t wander down there-that part of the woods is home to porcupines and coyotes.) Its verandah faces the sea, and the short version is a popular tourist hike in summer. In early morning, in early spring, all creation is laid out below you. But my favorite view of it is as you come around the bend and see it peeking over the blueberry barrens, just as I painted it.

Beech Nut in the fog.

Today, Beech Hill Preserve is managed by Coastal Mountains Land Trust, making it accessible to all.

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