Lake Windwing
•Paintings and Words Direct From The Artist
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This is a painting of a windbreak along one of the fields of Hadlow Farm in Sherman Connecticut, part of the Naromi Land Trust. The break is crowned by a beautiful invader, a heavy growth of bittersweet, a glorious blaze of orange, topping the grey and brown tangle of bare branches. The trees carry their burden like a talent, an unbidden asset that they're obliged to display. It weighs them down, but makes them beautiful.
Back to the Pootatuck River running under the bridge on Church Hill Road in Sandy Hook, Connecticut. It is noon, and in mid-November the low angle of the sun causes the trees to cast long shadows over the water. Do you see the little triangular rock, the one that appeared in two earlier studies? Here it is in a larger context, set against the forces of two opposing diagonals: the long shadows laying against the rush of white water, both bearing down, down, down. How heroic this common little rock seems, holding it's own against relentless forces. We are like the little rock, one among billions, difficult to discern from one another when seen in the larger context. We are the heroes of our own stories.
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A November morning in the wooded hills of western Connecticut, just before sunrise, the sky is an incandescent blue decorated with a black lace of tree limbs, branches and twigs. It's only a week since the last leaves fell and will be six months more before new leaves appear. The season of green is over. Maples, oaks and locust have begun their long sleep.
Late afternoon in November, hiking through Walter G. Merritt Park in Patterson, New York. Here on the east facing hillside everything is in shadow, bathed in a dim blue light. As the light wanes, the damp chill increases. The cold seeps inward. Hills in the distance reflect the low angled sun and I am reminded of how dependent we are on this single source of heat and light. How cold would a sunless world be?
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