Tuesday, May 12, 2020


"Why are all the lamp switches in this house different?"  
I hear my family wonder out loud their observations about home.  And we often shout to each other from different rooms.  
"What about these donuts?!!!" 

I have been organizing my inventory of artworks from over twenty years for a soon-to-be-printed book.  It is data entry work that needs to be done.  
"Has anybody seen my goggles?!!!"

"What can I have for a snack?!!"  
I've also hired somebody recently to design and build my new website.  It ought to be ready within the next few weeks.  But it too has required time from me in the office and at the computer.

Togetherness.  We have new beds in the kids' bedrooms that are now full size.  And the markings on their height chart have grown past the taped paper that I've taken from one home to the next.  To them, still, height is the absolute proof of growth.  

Saturday, April 4, 2020

from my home to yours

I imagine those of you who visit this blog are doing so now in a different light.  The rush of our daily schedule has been altered by stay-at-home ordinances.  Things we used to cross off, get done, might now seem less urgent.  What's the hurry now?  

Zoom meeting with my website designer, and I don't like zoom meetings.  She apologized for being distracted and unavailable lately.  I told her that I'm looking to prolong this process and to enjoy it.  Savor it.  We've nothing to apologize for lately, if ever.

It is a good (great) month for commissioned work.  Below is a house in my neighborhood.  The owner surprised her husband for their 20th anniversary with my portrait of their home.  Their joyful reaction is, again and again, like a lifeline of support to me as a painter.

Thursday, February 27, 2020

who are you

Early in the gospel of John a question is asked by one man to another.  
Who are you?

Not, what is your first name or your title?  Not, what do you do for a living?  Not, where are you from?

Two men in a landscape whose paths have crossed want to know the essence of the other.  

Words are there, and the sentences can be stitched.  But they might break if spoken too loud.  They are the thoughts you have your whole lifetime to whisper to your truest of friends.

Friday, January 24, 2020


Out the backseat window of the minivan my son could not make out the horizon because of the fog.  He threw up for 5 hours well into Arkansas.  

Motion sickness.  Sick of moving.  Stricken by inner unease.  
It's a miserable state that obliterates the joy of travel and overtakes the victim.  

It becomes a search for visual anchoring.  

Years of traveling and learning how to roll with the unpredictable shaped my vision and expectations of parenthood.  I was going to steer my family like a migratory caravan.  

 But it's as if my son has opened a new horizon to me, an exotic one that is closer to home.

A good friend commissioned this painting with a snapshot of his two boys from 20 years ago.  It's now above their fireplace.

What's above your fireplace?

Saturday, November 16, 2019


A large Pecan tree fell over in a wind storm and nearly crushed my rotting fence.  Its trunk is on my neighbor's property and is therefore his problem.  Some would act quickly to remove the hazard, the intrusion, the unsightliness.  It leans and browns with decay dominating my view against the vertical living trees that surround it.

My wife and I go for walks together in the evenings.  I remind Andi to slow down, that I would rather walk for leisure and not so much for power exercise.  But I speed up.  We pass a field that was once used by the old high school for football games.  Brown weeds and grass with a rusty goalpost, the space is not quite a park as much as it is emptiness.

We scan the neighborhood as we walk.  A house has been painted.  A woman rakes leaves in a front yard where neither of us have ever seen any sign of life.  Silhouettes of buzzards or hawks perch along bare pecan branches.   We walk in the road because there are no sidewalks and keep an eye open for oncoming headlights.

Wednesday, October 16, 2019

four by five feet

Large canvases.  They feel comfortable to me.  I apply paint and I step back, but step back to where?  Oh right, to that place where one stands when they look at a painting, between 5 and 10 feet.  Step in and step out.

While I paint I recall the small abstract watercolors that I painted 4 years ago.  My muscle memory is activated.  This is as close to a flowing experience as I might possibly know. 

Scanning photographs for dreams, disconnecting the source material and its context, stealing the sense of imagery that breathes in its life.

Friday November 1, "first friday", opens our next show at Commerce Gallery in downtown Lockhart.  Guest artist will be Susan Sage from Portland and music by Emily Gimble.

Image may contain: 3 people, text

Friday, August 23, 2019

me against the sun

The sun has been a galactic god to civilizations, male to some and female, I'm sure, to others.  What is my relationship with the sun?

Icarus had one.  My own seems similar.  If you think of the sun as an enormous power source that you confront or fight.

What I find most embarrassing as an artist is the never ending exertion in striving to be what I'm not.  It is solar in scale.