November.

I submitted three small paintings to the Maxwell Alexander Black Friday show/sale. As I type this, the unrefined, rushed state of the paintings makes me a bit sad, but on the whole, I’m glad with what I put out.

I’m happy with my subject choices, even if my actual painting of the things falls short. I wanted to do a design piece - a piece that is about design first, as opposed to feeling, memory, color, etc. - so I chose a reference from my time near Cody, Wyoming, and titled it “Cody Mountain Tunnel”. There is a LOT of paint on the surface. Parts are unrefined, and I ran out of time to finish the bottom how I wanted, but I’m glad I made the picture.

(I love geography and geology. This was a good exercise in choosing what was essential and what was up for change. I learned a lot making this: about edges, color, and focus in small batches. Hard, sharp rocks can have soft transitions within them. I left a lot on the table with this work, but it is small and I could not make every facet of the rock faces, so I simplified.)

I had an idea to paint sheep in the open ranges of the Bighorn Mountains. I had the references, so I tackled that subject as well. It is a 16x16 effort titled “Apocalypse”. Sheep nearly disappear in the field, the wool being the same tones as the ground and grasses. I wanted to make a picture about that, and I tried, but ran out of time before the final work could be done, so I submitted a “nearly there” painting that could use more attention. I’m very glad I tried, and now have an artifact to build on.

(Apocalypse means unveiling or revealing, hence Revelation. It is the unveiling, uncovering of something that was already happening or made. The sheep were hard to see, very lost and found visually, and I regret failing to make them disappear more into the grass as I had intended. So that idea along with the sheep and moon made the title something I could not change. I tried other titles. It had to be Apocalypse. If it doesn’t sell, I will finish the work and see the vision fulfilled.)

My last piece is one that I had completed at an earlier date, but knew something just wasn’t right, so I set it in front of me to say more clearly what I meant to say. It went well, but, once again, due to time constraints (recall that I have two part-time jobs and have to switch gears everyday…) I could not repaint the bottom section to be better balanced. It’s okay, though. It’s a fine-enough 8x16. “Cloud Ceiling, Blanca Peak, Colorado”

To communicate that we are looking at a mountain and not a mesa, I punched small parts of blue through the clouds. The ground is a bit too simple, and the bottom line of bushes should be repainted with care, as I did not do so on the first pass, and ran out of time on the second.

While in the thick of this focused work period, I heard someone comment on a section of the New Testament: Ephesians 2:10, specifically the word “workmanship”.

I listened carefully because the paintings that I had chosen to create had very different intents and surfaces. I had to make many little decisions about very different designs, so the idea of “workmanship” was top of mind.

Here’s the gist of what was communicated:

ποίημα (poiēma)
Pronunciation: poy-AY-mah
Literal meaning: Something made; a work; a creation; the product of someone’s craftsmanship.
The Greek word poiēma comes from the verb ποιέω (poieō), meaning to make, to do, or to create.
It is also the word from which English derives poem.
In ancient Greek, poiēma could refer to something fashioned by a craftsman, a work of art, or a literary composition. Its fundamental meaning, however, is broader: something brought into existence through the activity of its maker.

Perhaps you can see what bit of that stood out to me - poiema is the root word of poem.

This is what we are after. We want to make images that somehow crystallize our experiences and to do it simply, elegantly, the way a single lit taper lights its space.

I don’t know if I did that, but I do know that the past couple of weeks have had me focused on meeting this deadline and, therefore, focused on the work - the ideas and details.

It cannot be rushed, but it can be efficient.
It cannot be mapped, but it can be expanded.
It may have planning, but it will have detours.
It may not be satisfying, but it will be nourishing.
It may get buried, but it is a seed.
It won’t be good enough, but it will point to something greater.
In the end, the making is for the maker first. It is planting and harvest at once.

It is important to note that, when I got the invitation to be in the show, the invitation came late - only one month's notice. I started working with the normal “I have no idea what to do or how to do it” mindset. But something happened quietly one evening while working after work. A little voice said that confidence is a choice, and that I needed to go forth in it.

I trembled some when that came into my consciousness, but I hadn’t felt glad and clear in a very, very, very, very long time.

With only hours before the submission deadline, on the way back from work, I saw sycamore trees backlit by the sun. They have dropped most of their leaves, but the ones nearest to the ends of branches hang on. This makes them easier to see and more distinct.

I looked over to my right with the window down and saw hundreds of young sycamores where earlier in the year there were only “trees”. Backlit, the leaves on the branches’ ends made a distinct silhouette of vibrant patchwork oranges and electric greens. Were they looking at me? Further down and along the railroad, the distant groups gave way to a dense line of them right beside the road - so alive, bright, laughing smiles in glowing light. It felt like one sycamore had stood up to cheer me on, and several more rose with him, then more and more until the roadside was a ticker-tape parade for the one who, as a boy by the bottom pond, walked in their broken branches and wondered at their white bark as he poured his prayers into the grasses and waters.