A memory

Song of the Lark by Jules Breton, Art Institute of Chicago

July 6, 2016

What inspires me?  What gets me back to the studio, or out in the field with a french easel?
I have thought about that a lot recently and have to say I  just marvel at the fields of hay and oats in my neighborhood, the  gentle green hills and the lake, the blend of pine and maple  timber and the shoreline that bless this strip of land in northeastern Wisconsin.
Lake Michigan is just a mile to the east of us.
Today,  I write from home with window views to Kangaroo Lake.  There are families of Canada geese and merganser, kingfisher and herring gulls, and in the winter, a lone otter runs past.
When I drive to my studio in the old farm house two miles away, I pass through Land Trust property, farm fields and old cemeteries.

The changing light, fickle in its forms of expression, continues to intrigue and bring moments of wonder and awe. On one side we have the vast waters of Lake Michigan, and on the other, the more contained but equally wondrous waters of Green Bay, not the city, the actual bay. This place has both the sunrise and the sunset covered, crowds gather on either side, while others seek solitary  hikes to places like Tofts Point, Anclam Park, or the waters end roads on the Green Bay side of the peninsula.

When I was a toddler, I  discovered the joys of a tulip, it is my first memory, standing outside our home on West Harrison street, there is my brother beside me, reaching to the blossom encouraging me to look into it. I  was enchanted from that moment, by light, by color, and by the miracles of the universe.

Sometime after that we moved to the country, to a farmhouse that provided a roof and four walls, and vast fields of corn, beans and pastures, unencumbered by visual distractions.  There was a large pasture, cotton wood trees falling over a creek provided a natural bridge to exploration. I was horse for most of those years, and lived in perpetual joy of  the outdoor life. Each day the sunset with  new glory, and at  night the stars would rotate around the barn, with frequent glimpses of throbbing northern lights. In the winter the house would sway and moan, as Mother stuffed rags in the front door that was never used during the cold season. The sky and the weather  which filled it became a crucial element of our daily lives from season to season.  This was necessity for farm life, but also became necessity for the artist's eye.  I entertained myself with activities out of doors. One summer, I discovered  the luminous quality of tiny  wet stones in our gravel driveway and would spend hours with the  garden hose, trickling tributaries of water into the gravel, creating my own universe of tiny blue butterflies which came to drink and taste the minerals of the wet gravel. Hundreds of them would land and linger there, I was deeply impressed.

Other activities there included painting the sidewalk with a bucket of water, which my Mother devised as a distraction. Treasure hunts around the yard and Hide The Thimble also seemed like fun at the time. Another memory came to me the other day. I had a little round plastic mirror when I was very young, the  flip side of the mirror was the painting I posted at the top of the page.
Song of the Lark by Jules Breton is a painting of a peasant girl out in the field, the sun is rising I would guess,  and she may be singing, or perhaps there is a bird in there somewhere and she has stopped in her labors to just listen.  I knew larks, and this little mirror was hardly the same as looking at the real thing but I spent a lot of time staring at this reproduction. Is she  weeding a field much like I did as a teenager, walking beans for my Dad and my Uncle?

To be overwhelmed on a daily basis by beauty,  That is what it is like to live where I live. I don't paint every day, I spend a lot of time thinking about it, and about why or what I should paint, but it all boils down to this,  singing, painting, writing, its all the same, its all about gratitude and honor, and most of all, praise.

I found a youtube item on this painting, Bill Murray attributes this painting to saving his life one bleak day in Chicago. The painting is hanging in the Chicago Art Institute. As an adult, I  have seen it hanging there,  but its the memory from my childhood, of that little plastic mirror that stays with me.