What goes on when I'm not in front of the easel

It's usually a blessing to be a painter.  Since I was very young, I have studied works and techniques of past masters in books and museums. (Oh, do I love art books!) My first public art exhibition was when a large complex drawing I did was singled out for display and acclaim at my kindergarten open house.  My hero in high school was Michelangelo, so now you know I was a young art nerd.  

Learning to draw, mix and use color, seeking the wisdom and instruction of fine contemporary painters, and wrestling with the intricacies of design and composition have changed the way I see the world.

Yet all this activity to become a better painter can also be frustrating.  When I look at nature, I see paintings all around me. I have about a thousand paintings in my head that may never be seen. I have been known to exclaim, "I would love to paint your portrait!" upon seeing a particularly interesting face, eliciting a quizzical look in return.  Extraordinary light and shadow effects or glistening highlights on a crystal vase can make me stop dead in my tracks.  And let's not even mention the effect of light filtering through a flower petal.

Such attention to my environment has taught me that painting, even at its highest level of achievement, cannot replicate the transcendent beauty of nature.  So why do I feel compelled to interpret that beauty using such humble materials as canvas, pigment and oil?

The reason, I think, is that I feel connected to the rhythm and order of being when I slow down enough to let nature reveal her beauty. Painting allows me to visually celebrate this gift of beauty, and amplify that gift by sharing my art with others.  That is what drives me into my studio, and what gives meaning to my endless fascination working with canvas, pigment and oil.