Dispatches

On Air and Distance

11:07 a.m. (detail)
Atmospheric perspective isn’t too hard when the scene cooperates. Stack up elevations one after the other, paint the farthest one a pale blue-violet and the closest one in full color, and you’ve established depth almost regardless of what else is happening on the canvas. Whenever the terrain has features, it will do most of the work.

Fields, open water, and similar flat expanses don’t always offer much in that area. No overlapping silhouettes to grade from cool to warm, no middle distance hills to help transition. Instead it’s a a strip of ground, a band of water or grass and a sky; three or four horizontal zones all subject to the same atmospheric haze and none providing much spatial information on their own. It is very easy for everything just to flatten out into stripes. It’s good to remember that the further you look out, the more air you’re looking through that filters the view and affects perception of value, color and detail.


Whenever I’m having to show distance over an expanse I try to work out the values first. Air scatters light, so contrast degrades with distance. Darks generally will lighten faster than the lights darken, and looking a mile or so out, what was a strong dark-against-light pattern up close narrows down to a band of middle values. But this is not always the case with water - I took a documentarian approach with the excerpt at right, where the middle distance blue band actually was the darkest area that day, while having less discernible detail than the closer blue band. Depending on what you’re after, there are times when painting what is actually there should be prioritized over alignment to the usual rules. 


On flat ground, foreground darks should usually be the darkest darks in the picture and foreground lights pretty much the lightest. At a regular eye-level viewing height, the middle ground range compresses to a little more than half of the foreground’s spread. The background compresses it again, often to a very narrow band. Determine value ranges for those areas before mixing anything and the painting will already read as deep. Color will do the rest, working on a structure that’s already correct. The standard rule of “warm forward, cool back” is true often enough to use and wrong often enough to be careful with. That approach has more to do with saturation and temperature shift: distant areas are less saturated than the corresponding near areas and will shift toward whatever the sky is doing. Usually that’s cool but sometimes it isn’t. On your typical humid Gulf morning the distant water is probably warmer than the foreground sand.


A good idea for flat-ground base color is often to mix the foreground first at 100 percent, then the same color for the middle ground by adding a little of its complement and a little of the sky color, then again for the background with more of both. You end up with three versions of the same color rather than three different ones, which is closer to what’s actually out there.


Details. Foreground grass has edges. Middle ground grass has clumps with maybe a few edges. Far background grass is a tone, not a texture. Foreground breakers have crisp white edges; the middle distance has softer shapes; near the horizon has a thin lighter or darker band at most. It is about information per square inch as much as brushwork; the foreground has the most, the background the least.


The principles are the same whether the medium is oil or acrylic, but the execution may be different. Because oil takes hours to dry you can lay in a sky, drag the top edge of a distant treeline up into it while both are wet, and the colors blend nicely. Glazing works the way it has for 500 years - a thin transparent cool layer over a dried area cuts saturation and cools temperature with one application (a thin ultramarine tint is pretty good at pushing a middle ground further back).


With acrylic, by the time you want to feather two passages together, the first may have already set. Retarder or open medium extends the window enough for sky-to-horizon transitions, but not the way oil does. Acrylic glazing mediums let you build the same recession faster but each glaze sits as a separate film rather than interacting with the layer below, so the depth comes from three or four stacked transparencies. I don’t always have the patience for that and wind up dragging a slightly opaque, lighter cool color over dried darker passages with a dry brush, which replicates how haze actually sits in front of distant objects.


There is a counterargument as to whether flat-terrain landscapes should read deep. There are strong paintings of beaches and fields that compress distance rather than amplifying it - atmospheric effects are observed but used to flatten and unify rather than drive the eye back. The principles don’t change though - if the painting needs to be quiet, the atmosphere should do less. Either way, it helps to think of the air, as well as the terrain, as the subject.

Categories: Color & Technique

The Colors with No Name

An interesting thing I read lately was in a Van Gogh letter written in July of 1882, five years before he went to Arles and started putting down the blaring yellows everybody knows him for. He was writing to his brother Theo and talking about color:

Absolute black doesn’t in fact occur. Like white, however, it’s present in almost every colour and forms the endless variety of greys - distinct in tone and strength. So that in nature one in fact sees nothing but these tones or strengths.

The last sentence is a bold claim. In nature one in fact sees nothing but these tones or strengths. Not red, not blue, not green-grays, but mixed, broken, in-between tones that don’t have names. He goes on to list a few of them (red-gray, yellow-gray, blue-gray, green-gray, orange-gray, violet-gray) and then basically shrugs, saying the variations are infinite and there’s no way to catalog them. The point seems to be that named colors are a convenient shorthand but not really what you’re looking at when you look at anything. What we see is the unnamed middle.

Van Gogh said the colorist is somebody who can look at a color in nature and analyze it - say, this green-gray is mostly yellow with a little black and almost no blue - and then mix it. The solution isn’t having a tube for every situation but knowing how to interpret a color’s makeup. He says that understanding the three primaries plus black and white is worth more than seventy pre-mixed shades, because more than seventy tones can be made from the fundamentals and none of the pre-mixed ones are going to match what you’re looking at anyway.


He comes back to the idea in another letter three years later when talking about painting a head, and he describes seeing it as “a harmony of reddish brown, violet, yellow, all broken - I’ll put a violet and a yellow and a reddish brown on my palette, and break them into each other.” Breaking them into each other is the working method. Put down a few colors, often complements or near-complements, and mix them partially - not all the way to gray, but partly. What results is a broken tone, a color that started as one thing, ran into another, and landed somewhere in between.

The technical idea of “broken tone” is straightforward: when you mix two complementary colors in unequal proportions, they partially neutralize each other and you end up with a gray with a bias. Put that broken tone next to a pure version of either parent, and the pure one will sing. Put two broken tones of different bias next to each other, and they have more of a quiet interaction instead of fighting with each other.


This is why a canvas with only pure colors can feel garish and somehow flat at the same time. Every color is at maximum volume, so nothing is actually loud. Simple tints and shades of these do not add real depth, but introduce a range of broken tones and the pure notes finally have somewhere to stand out from. The unnamed middle is doing the structural work and the named colors get the credit.


You can see it in Van Gogh’s own paintings, though you would think he completely abandoned grays for saturation when he moved to France. The Potato Eaters (1885) is almost entirely broken tones - reddish-browns, greyed yellows, violet-leaning shadows, a sickly green cast to the skin. Almost no pure color anywhere but it’s not muddy. Tones are clearly distinct from each other because each one is deliberately made and placed in relation to the ones around it. Three years later he’s in Arles painting chrome yellow sunflowers and the red-green clamor of The Night Café and it looks like the work of a different painter. But if you squint at that painting, the strong colors recede and what holds the thing together is a substructure of in-between tones. The Arles saturation didn’t replace the gray years, the gray years made the Arles saturation possible.


For me, applying this sort of thing has mostly meant mixing grays on purpose instead of just tinting black or raw umber. Combining complements in unequal proportions and paying attention to what bias comes out will change what your eyes do when you look at anything. The shadow on a white wall isn’t just gray. It’s probably a blue-violet-gray leaning warm, or a green-gray leaning cool, depending on what’s lighting it and what’s reflecting onto it. This will develop with experience. To this point I’ve been lucky to be able see the makeup of a color I’m trying to match in terms of the tubes of paint I have in the box. And so far I have been able to get anywhere I need to go with the fifteen or so tube colors I keep around, my basic color alphabet. 


A lot of this is just basic color-mixing technique and not news to anybody who’s been painting for a while, but Van Gogh’s framing is an interesting way to think about the in-between colors and the load they carry. Most of what you’re looking at doesn’t have a name. That’s not a problem to solve, it’s just the thing you’re painting.

Categories: Color & Technique

Coalescence at Nowhere

The last time i was this active was about 20 years ago, and while most of the paintings back then were decorative abstracts I was really most interested in doing surreal conceptual pieces in a realist style. It was easier at that time to separate from real life, give visualization to ideas, and look for answers, not to mention staying up half the night working with tiny brushes. But there was not enough focus, stamina or Red Bull to maintain that, and it eventually became harder to stay awake or get into the right psychological gear. The solution was to shelve the actual painting process, work out the undone compositions in my head, and let them go. Today I only remember the last one, which actually did get sketched out on a canvas - a game show model in an open landscape presenting a framed picture of the same open landscape. No answers there.

What recently pulled me back into painting was my simple and probably childish need for the beach, and the realization that I could sort of be there, even when I wasn’t, by painting where I wanted to be. As opposed to the conceptual-surreal stuff, the exercise has been a tonic rather than a torment. But here lately old motivations have been starting to resurface and mingle with imaginary beach day. Enter False Memory, Colima, a mostly unwelcome collision of impetuses based on an image that’s been in my head for probably 40 years.

Anybody that remembers old Navarre Beach before the high-rises will remember that the intersection of the causeway and beach roads was just a sand-blown 4-way stop with a lonely Tom Thumb sitting adjacent. I liked the look of that spot back then because it felt a lot like nowhere, and therefore very full of possibilities. Though the crossroads now boasts a full blown traffic signal, turn lanes, and landscaping, the way it used to be has stayed with me. The difference today of course is the influence of presence. Things are always gained and lost when more people show up. Colima presents a similar, imagined scene, detached ideally from time and place but marked with vestiges of presence. I had to write a statement about it recently for a submission:

False Memory, Colima (2026)
The painting depicts a location that does not exist, a nowhere rendered as somewhere with the visual authority of a remembered place.

A faded traffic sign marks the remote intersection and issues its directive. In the distance, a ruined structure indicates that the sign was once heeded, but the enterprise failed. Sand encroaches on the road. The systems that made this intersection legible as a place - authority, exchange, maintenance - have withdrawn, and what is left behind is not emptiness, but release. What, then, is lost when a place becomes “somewhere”? The openness of nowhere is a condition this environment has been moving toward all along, interrupted only temporarily by human presence.


The ocean is simply there, as it was before, and as it will be after.

I used a reorientation of the Navarre Beach intersection for the fictional spot that borrows the name of Mexico’s Colima state, where neither the sand nor water actually look like this. It’s only real in my mind and is as appropriate a setting as any for a commentary on nowhere vs. somewhere, or space vs. place.

OK. Place is fundamental to human experience. It’s created when human meaning, intention, and social structure are imposed on space. Colima depicts the reversal of that process - place dissolving back into space as the human systems recede. Place is ultimately temporary, but its development creates limitations and diminishes something that was there before. The sign, stand, and convergence of roads were mechanisms that converted nowhere into somewhere, and their decay represents that conversion collapsing. The sand piling up on the pavement is literally space reclaiming place.


Deemphasizing  the water, especially after spending so much time with shorelines lately, was a departure and the viewpoint backs us far enough away from the beach to reveal the remaining evidence of how people organized a place. The glimpses of the ocean between dunes reminded me of the view while driving stretches of beach road on Okaloosa Island, where it peeks through here and there, continuous, familiar, doing what it always does. For me that usually evokes a kind of topophilia, but this time I wanted the continuity of that blue band to feel indifferent, existing in space with no regard for human activity or intention, doing what it always does. The overarching constant though is the certainty of both gain and loss in the cycle of space and place.

Anyway, this one indulged a desire to do something conceptual, and it was fun to visit the intersection (pun intended) of landscape painting and philosophy of place. I don’t know what else might transpire in this area and I’m still not really pushing for it because I’ve been enjoying keeping things light. It may mean something that the painting I did right after this one was a crab smoking a cigarette.

Categories: Commentary

Mystery and Melancholy: De Chirico Revisited

Copy of de Chirico’s Mystery and Melancholy of a Street
The earliest thing I’ve painted that I still have around is a copy of Giorgio de Chirico’s Mystery and Melancholy of a Street, done in the spring of 1988 somewhere on the second floor of LSU’s Foster Hall, certainly while wearing a black turtleneck and smoking filterless Camels. I mostly remember having to extend the foreground to fit the canvas board and being happy with the little flag on the corner of the arcade. Those were the days I suppose, when one could skip the regular classes, paint all day with no interruptions and no real consequences, and kid themselves into believing they were doing significant work. But on that particular week this was probably just a geometric, mood, or copying exercise. I don’t remember. If I had thought it would be hanging in my kitchen 40 years later I might have spent more time on it, but probably not. I do know I didn’t appreciate those aimless days as I should have, and every now and then I miss the feel of that mostly-contrived bohème Foster Hall vibe.

But I digress! All that to set up some quick thoughts on de Chirico, father of the pittura metafisica school of the 1910s-20s that would directly influence the surrealists. Unlike them, the practitioners of “metaphysical painting” issued no manifestos or politics, just a shared conviction that ordinary objects and spaces held something underneath, something you could only perceive by looking at them sideways.

De Chirico’s work from this period consisted of dreamlike, disquieting scenes set in mostly deserted urban environments, maybe inspired by the streets of Turin and Ferrara though he was based in Paris at the time. The piazzas are rendered with clean draftsmanship and the architecture is solid enough. But shadows often fall at the wrong angle, the perspective tilts past believable, and the afternoon light feels like it’s been there forever, unchanged. The viewer often observes from the shadows. There are discordant arrangements of items: rubber gloves next to classical busts; artichokes in empty courtyards; mannequins standing where people should be. None of it is random - he was building a symbolic language out of ordinary things in the wrong proximity to each other and letting the collision do the work. He called the effect enigma, and spent his whole early career chasing it.


Mystery and Melancholy of a Street (1914) seems to apply all this unease in one place. The viewer is positioned in an elevated spot to watch the distorted scene of a girl rolling a hoop toward a long shadow cast by an unseen figure. The vanishing points don’t agree with each other and the isometric projection of the open trailer adds to the disorientation. The light is golden-hour warm but the sky is nocturnal and reflects nothing back. So many open doorways. The girl is sketched loosely - present but unresolved, like a memory. A sense of timelessness pervades the scene. These are the kind of things that get the mind going, especially during a semester that was 100 percent fine arts and philosophy classes. I remember enjoying having the excuse to make a mediocre copy.

Certainly the great contribution of de Chirico is exemplified in the original. When the surrealists discovered his work, they immediately recognized what he had unlocked: painted space could be psychologically loaded without being expressionistically distorted, and paranoia could be achieved through a kind of logic that defies logical boundaries. Yay! Ernst, Dali, and Magritte would all borrow from this directly. De Chirico would later repudiate them as well as his own groundbreaking work, lurching into full neoclassical from that point forward. The early work was his most important though and has lost none of its power a century later. I’d suggest checking out more of the paintings from his metaphysical days to anybody not familiar with them - they are thought-provoking, convey real atmosphere, and were the visual building blocks of early surrealism.

I’ve always thought it would be fun to paint an “answer” to Mystery and Melancholy that would put the viewer at street level in one of the openings about halfway down the arcade to reveal what is on the other side of the near building (spoiler - I’m pretty sure it includes the statue from The Enigma of a Day) while preserving the tension. In keeping with the spirit of the original it would have to produce more questions than revelations. Haven’t thought through how that would actually work but I ever get around to trying it I’ll put more effort into it than that copy all those years ago.

Categories: Commentary

Symbolism at Pointe des Chateaux

I don’t usually try to assign narrative to landscape paintings, but last year after seeing some striking footage of Guadeloupe’s Pointe des Chateaux online, I wanted to paint the scene in a symbolic/spiritual context as a gift for a friend. I thought I would share what I had written down about it at the time:


Pointe des Chateaux, View of La Desirade (2025)
The Pointe des Chateaux is the easternmost point of Grande Terre island in Guadeloupe of the French West Indies. The narrow, windward peninsula is marked by its outcropping of jagged rock formations eroded over many years by the turbulent surf. The top of the cape provides a unique vantage point to view the formations and the west end of the Guadeloupean island of La Desirade which is about 5-6 miles to the east.


The image shows a period of relative calm at the cape, observed from its highest point in early afternoon. The viewpoint is nearly due east. A large cross erected at the location is the focal point of the composition and actual site. It is about 40 feet tall and seen clearly from the nearby beach just out of view to the north, the location from which the area is more commonly observed and photographed. The lines of the composition and the actual geography converge at the structure, and to me the scene evoked a narrative.

The presence and intent of the cross at Pointe des Chateaux are accepted here as a representation of true faith, the recognition and receipt of God’s gift of redemption for His own. The physical cross itself, however, is a human construct. It can be taken to reflect the paradoxical message of Philippians 2:12: the responsibility of believers to be active in the outworking of their own salvation, despite the inability to effect it outside of God’s sovereign action. True believers necessarily seek to align with the spiritual and holy nature of Christ, but the effort is difficult and the task impossible to achieve this side of heaven, as they are tethered to a material environment and a fallen nature. Still the responsibility remains.


The ocean can be taken to represent the world, its influences, and temptations. Day and night the Pointe cross faces the open Atlantic, displaying the increasing wear consistent with its assignment. The degradation of the peninsula beyond and below the site implies the eventual failure of a structure that stands on the merits of its man-made construction alone.


To varying degrees the things of this earth distract everyone from the things above. From the high ground at Pointe des Chateaux, as with all Caribbean vistas, the view is enticing and seemingly endless. It reflects the striking beauty of the creation as well as the myriad possibilities for one’s earthly pursuits. La Desirade here represents those pursuits. The island fixes the horizon at an attainable distance while the squall off its coast implies challenge and uncertain gain. The Pointe cross does not directly face it. At this particular moment its orientation is square to a horizon that meets clear sky. In this part of the world the sun and the hurricane approach from the same direction, and everything else is subject to both.


Man has no divine assurance of earthly happiness and security. What believers have is divine assurance of eternal happiness and security in Christ. It is this knowledge that allows them to fix their attention in a direction beyond the material and towards an eternity of fellowship with God, despite all obstacles and temptations.

Categories: Commentary

Unlearning with Monet

Copy of Monet’s The Beach at Sainte-Adresse (2024)
The last time I was doing any kind of representative painting I was focused on heavy realism. That was around twenty years ago (!) and it has been interesting to see how strong the tendency still is to want to wring detail out of the new stuff. I had always pushed toward photorealism with the still life compositions and felt like the surrealistic paintings also hit harder when they looked more like a photo, but this time around with straight-up landscapes, I’m feeling like high realism makes for a less interesting painting. Scrapping detail, however, is sometimes easier said than done.

So to loosen things up I switched to acrylic paint and started going a lot faster. I also went back and did a crash study on Claude Monet and other early impressionists and painted a few copies in early 2024. Unsurprisingly the Monets that helped the most in preparing for the coastal theme were some of the Saint-Adresse paintings done in and around 1867. It’s always interesting with impressionists to note what gets left out because it’s a window into what the painter sees and how they prioritize visual elements. Of course lighting drives a lot of those decisions, but the organization of color is often where the creativity lives in impressionism. To me this is the greatest value of Monet - abstracting color without tipping completely over into unnatural palettes.

Part of my unlearning has been to literally unfocus my eyes, not just to identify the light blocks, but to break down the color as well. “Paint what you see” is about 90 percent of the representative painting advice I can give, and a way to apply that advice to myself in this case is to hinder the view. I don’t know how well the tactics are working so far though - old habits die hard and I think I’m mostly painting realism with an impressionist edge. I have enjoyed revisiting Monet though and I’ve always learned something whenever I’ve copied the work of the greats.

Categories: Color & Technique

Where Olive Meets Periwinkle

Waders on a Sandbar (2026)
The unlimited ways that bodies of water can appear has been an attraction for me with these coastal paintings. Previously I had not spent a lot of time reducing something like a view of the ocean to its basic form, so this has been a good personal exercise in detaching context from a familiar environment and simply seeing the light, hues, and shapes as they are. In doing that I’ve finally started recognizing the really interesting and unexpected color combinations that appear when water, sunlight, reflection, shadow, and subsurface elements collide.

There is a particular cast to Gulf water west of Mobile Bay. It’s not altogether unique, but familiar in the northwestern Gulf Coast and different from the celebrated pthalo of the panhandle. Watching my kids out on a submerged sandbar on a sunny day, I started looking at the shallow span in between that was free of breakers but full of motion. Two absolutely distinct colors were on display - the bright periwinkle of the reflected surface and olive wavelets revealing the mixed hues of the water and sand. Seeing such different colors alternating side by side is interesting. The combination clashes happily in bright sunlight and does a lot to give the impression of movement when you paint it.

The paint color for the olive will vary depending on water depth, time of day, and what beach you’re standing on. I’ve gotten a pretty serviceable Mississippi Sound olive with a base of burnt umber, yellow ochre, and Prussian blue, maybe a cadmium yellow boost if it’s sunny. For a convincing periwinkle I’ve been mostly happy mixing a sky blue from Prussian blue and white, then adding alizarin crimson to taste and then black or raw umber to muddy it up. I was finding that starting with pink pushes the mix too much toward purple and away from how the natural color looks. I don’t know why it should matter but for some reason starting out with the light blue helps me avoid that.

Olive and periwinkle. You won’t see this combination too much between Pensacola and Apalachicola, and you probably wouldn’t pick it for your living room, but it conveys a distinct Gulf Coast vibe all the same.

Categories: Color & Technique

Thoughts from the Dali

The Salvador Dali Museum, St. Petersburg, FL
In September I was in Tampa for a Bucs game and went across to St. Pete to visit the Dali Museum. He has always been my favorite painter and I’ve been thankful that we can see such a great collection by one of the all-time greats right here on the Gulf Coast.

While it really shouldn’t, the difference in seeing paintings in person versus viewing online or in a book always surprises me. No matter how well it’s done, photography never captures the color, contrast, and detail of the actual piece, and that was certainly true again this visit, as I got to see a few of the permanent collection pieces for the first time.

Discussing the subject matter and various interpretations of Dali’s work could go on endlessly, but I thought I would just share a few thoughts related to his technical skill, which also really can’t be overstated.

Much is made over the realism of Dali’s paintings, which enhances the impact of his fantastical, often dream-induced scenes. This is maintained consistently regardless of composition size, from canvases thirteen feet tall to panels that are about the size of a postcard.

This is all about brush size and the ability to execute consistent technique, and it’s known that depending on the situation, Dali would use brushes that had only one or two hairs. Another key to achieving realism is preserving sharp contrast in small areas and not overworking to the point that definition is lost.

The Weaning of Furniture Nutrition (1934) has become one of my favorites over the years, and at a mere 7 by 9-1/2 inches, its tiny scale was stunning in person. Even smaller, at around 5 by 7 inches, was The Ghost of Vermeer of Deft Which Can Be Used as a Table, painted the same year. I had been impressed by the extreme detail of the boats in Furniture Nutrition before considering the shotglass on the subject’s leg in The Ghost of Vermeer. Who can paint something this small?

I would say with Dali it’s another example of you paint exactly what you see, but most of what he was seeing was from his mind’s eye and he effectively painted photographs of that. No one had done this at such a level of realism before, and it’s no surprise that the work was so striking and elicited such strong reactions, even among the surrealists, in the 1930s.

There are many examples of this extreme precision in such small compositions, and I suppose my biggest takeaway from this visit is to embrace smaller dimensions. Also, I will eventually go back to oil. Also:

The cadmium yellow streaks within the cloudbreaks of Archeological Reminiscence of Millet’s Angelus (1934). Simple thing but magic.

Daddy Longlegs of the Evening, Hope! (1940) - which I understand was the first of Dali’s paintings purchased by the Morses, who donated their collection to start the museum - was to me the most arresting painting on exhibition. To me it conveys “masterpiece” more than anything else I got to see that day.

One could look at The Hallucinogenic Toreador (1970) for hours and still not take it all in, but my favorite detail is still the tiny sunbather in the pool in the lower third.

I appreciate better how the electric blue sky of Apparatus and Hand (1927) sets off its subject.

The optical illusions of the double-image paintings such as Bust of Voltaire (1941) are more impactful in person. For some reason these seem to come off far more obtrusively in photographs.

I probably stared at the detail of La Main (Les Records de conscience) (1930) more than anything else. Another example of how sharp value contrast accentuates realism. Again with the small brushes. Also appreciate seeing Dali’s Freudian arena rendered in more nocturnal lighting.

I could go on, but that’s probably enough. Below are a few pics. Sorry they’re not better but a lot of these were under glass and I was taking them on my ancient BlackBerry!

  • The Weaning of Furniture Nutrition
  • Archeological Reminiscence of Millet's Angelus
  • Daddy Longlegs of the Evening, Hope!
  • The Hallucinogenic Toreador
  • Apparatus and Hand
  • La Main (Les Remords de conscience)

Categories: Museum Visits

Hello world!

You've just GOT to have the obligatory 'Hello world!' post or it ain't WordPress, so here it is. New website, new paintings, same old struggle to find time to manage both.

After another decade-long hiatus I picked a brush back up last spring and have since been completely hung up on beaches, waterfronts, sunlight, and the alternating simplicity and complexity of rendering them. This time the process of painting has been more enjoyable than any other time since college. I've chalked that up to the subject matter, smaller dimensions, and the happy switch to acrylics (no waiting! no mess!). I hope to stay here a bit.

I don't generally like artist statements mostly because of the presumptiveness that seems to go along with it. It's not for me to say that anything I'm working on is "art" and honestly, this current interest is pretty light. Just painting beaches for a while, because you know, most of us really like the beach and have had some pretty good times there. Maybe people would like to see pictures of it.

A thanks for visiting goes out to whoever might see the site and click around. I don't expect visitors but what I'm working on will show up here and I'll try to post a few thoughts about it along the way.

Categories: Uncategorized