Our winter snows of 2018 inundated the land. Underneath the - at times - 30 inches of collected snow drifting across the land, rested the soil and seeds and roots of all the plants that grow feverishly in the spring and summer at our place. Yet, the winter palette eased my eyes and settled the chaotic nature that growth perpetuates. 

The cold, that extreme chill that exists below the 0 degrees Fahrenheit mark, creates its own pace. Any task that breezes by on a summer day is compounded by a multitude of steps. Going outside to feed horses requires long underwear, coveralls, scarves, hats, and double gloves. Slogging through the knee-deep snow towing a sled laden with hay creates its own sense of  "presence". One must slow down, take each step, and appreciate that step, rather than anxiously view the 25 still needed to get to the gate.

And breath. Breath is frosty, icy, and cutting. Not only does the depth of the snow create a mindfulness to actual place and time, but the inability to draw a deep breath brings up  awareness to simple tasks. The horses stand with their heads down, conserving energy and drawing warmth up from deep inside them. The big snows leave them with heaping blankets of snowflakes that would alternately drip, drip, drip from their sides under the angled sun and then freeze as icicles as thick as dreams during the night. 

And, in that slowness of movement and stillness of sound that only winter brings, rise and fall the plants of last season. Their dormant memory stand as the flakes settle around. When the winds gust, some bend and some others break to rest on the surface of white. That winter, marking the drive to our house, stood three stately burgundy plants. Perhaps it was the coverage of everything else, perhaps it was the rich color so contrasted against the whites and blues and yellows, or perhaps it was that they were there, every day, as I turned towards home; whatever it was, they began to stand out. ​

In the year to follow and curious to know more about this behemoth, I watched as more of these plants grew in the moist, disturbed-soil areas. Starting out green and short and maturing to that tall, maroon plant, they become great bearers of seeds, big clusters of future life.  These seeds are as hardy as the plant, coated in a casing that let them float like boats on the water and be carried around on the animals that brush through them.  As such, they propagate with such abandon. Groups of them project from the ground, and as the year grows on, the stalks thicken with ridges and twists and massive sweeping leaves. And just when they've reached ​their epic height, the daylight hours start to wane.  They, too, begin to regress. 

The plant starts to cure, the green leaves which had long ago started to color with red, lose their flexibility and become all sorts of frayed and holy. Their stems become hardy canes, taking the brunt of the chaotic winds that blow through the area. 

Layers. Memories of soil and ground. Snow. Monochromatic landscapes. Plants either rising through all the changes or slowly being covered by the changes. And horses. Always horses. 

This painting came about slowly. One of the most difficult questions to answer is "How long does it take to make a painting?" Do I answer in hours spent holding the paintbrush or palette knife? Do I consider the time spent training? The stares and glances and moments spent in front of the work as I determine what the next step is? The constancy of my thoughts about it as I walk my dogs? As in anything that holds great heart, time spent on it becomes "always". The answer can truly be 50 hours, one month, two years, or 41 years, as the case may be. This one? It took ... a while.

I taught myself to slow down and focus on a square inch at a time. To take the time that it takes to see and create detail. I have memories of 5:30 a.m. mornings spent under a lamp while the winter nights refused to give up to the morning light. I remember the smallest brush I have and learning how to steady my hand. The curly leaves rested against my painting as I recalled teachers of the past saying "paint what you SEE, not what you THINK you see." And always retraining myself to slow, study the now, and not push into the future.

After I had made the layers and the plant, the painting waited. They do. I go on to others that have time deadlines or that have clarity as to how to finish them. I had work to do and music business and other life, and so it waited. There comes to be a bit of revealing, or rather, discovering, what some paintings ought to be. This one refused to give up its secret. I knew it wasn't done. I just didn't know how to finish it. 

There are such tender parts in this painting, were the plant appears to disappear again, where it weaves in and out of the layers, and I wanted to retain that lack of certainty. I wanted it to stand on its own, but not completely. In life, its a hardy fellow, but it still needs diversity to survive. In the painting, it did as well. 

I spent some time recalling that winter, the horses, present but drawn into themselves. Heads down, their backs rolling under the depths of snow. And, the ever-present revelations and hidden bits of the world. 

And then, it came. After whatever time had needed to pass and ideas had floated through my mind, it came. I understood what I needed to finish this piece. I looked back through my photos of years past and found it.  What of today will lead to an answer tomorrow?

And so, we come to the now: this painting that originated from a record winter of 2018, of days that touched -20 degrees Fahrenheit, snow that hid the ground until April, plants that somehow had the fiber and intensity to stay in that harshness, and the horse. This visual record of ...

thoughts,

seasons,

plant and horse,

weather,

movements of my hand,

the paint,

the brushes and palette knives,

the canvas;

...well, it is in the Yellowstone Art Museum (YAM) for their 52 Annual Art Auction. This is dear to me in many parts, but most of which are my stories of going with my grandma to see her friend that worked as a YAM docent. I walked those hallways hung with art, both before and after their renovation and their change from the Yellowstone Art Center to the Yellowstone Art Museum, enthralled with a space of art and for art. As a student, I spent many days through the years viewing and studying the variety of exhibits throughout the years.  I was part of a team that built an ice block sculpture one year for the auction, and I helped teach a Saturday kids art class. Memories through the layers of time.

Last night, January 24, was the opening of the show. I participated in the Quick Draw/Quick Finish event, and I will also attend the Artist Meet and Greet on March 6. The pieces will hang until March 7, at which point they will sell during the live and silent auctions. More information can be found at https://www.artmuseum.org/exhibition/yellowstone-art-auction-52/.  I would like to say that they take phone bids, and I reckon this could be accommodated. 

I'll leave you with details shots of the final piece, as well as the whole view. May you rise and find beauty when the cold descends.

As an artist, I've been working on a theory. Well, I've noticed something, and now I am curious about it.

It seems like each canvas and palette belongs to its own identity, and my work as the artist is to align it, if you will, with the ideas and subject I bring to them. 

And they don't always match.  More on this part later.

So enters the 12 Squared Holiday Art Show at Terakedis Gallery in Billings, MT. The guidelines are  to create three or four artworks measuring 12" by 12".  When I saw the call for art on the Instagram page, @terakedisfineartandjewelry, the process of inspiration started to roll. 

I like rules. A lot. I like guidelines, too, and I like to find structure and creative problem-solving within a set of laid-out parameters. On the other side of that, I also ascribe to some latitude in working with said functions. My goal was to start out with a defined set of measurements and processes, and then to see where each canvas took the process.

I wanted to start with the same experience for each canvas so I could further understand whether each canvas does indeed have a direction it is meant to go. I decided to layer washes of color. As a purely visual experience, the layering of colors brings such delight to my eyes. What begins as a shallow experience builds and deepens, changing with each wash, sometimes fully and sometimes garishly. 

As I applied the alternating washes of paint, each of the four canvas reacted differently. Some showed more streaks, becoming almost wood grain-like in appearance. Yellows showed more prominent in some, while parts of the canvases wore thick belts of violet. The fluctuations in paint and adherence would inform my next movements.

Math and historical connections, both in human thought and geological nature, play significant roles in my work. In my mystified nature of studying compositional methods, and their furtherings found in nature, I started studying the role of the golden ratio when I picked up painting. I recall mentions in college, and with this little seed tucked into the recesses of my brain, I enjoy spending some time with the ratio in my work, most notably in using golden rectangles. A golden rectangle is a rectangle whose sides are related in the golden ratio, roughly 1.618. As this is not essay on golden ratios and rectangles and such, I'll leave my explanations there. I don't inherently know the intricacies yet, and so I am borrowing the knowledge and using the calculations in my artistic studies.  One of the fascinating alignments with this particular 12 Squared project, is that if a square (whose sides are the length of the shortest rectangle side) is removed from a golden rectangle, then the remaining shapes is a golden rectangle as well. And this continues throughout each remaining rectangle. Remove a square and be left with a golden rectangle. 

And here is where my vision and what the canvas wants to be are not necessarily in agreement. I wanted to paint this horse. I tried to paint this horse. But it looked wrong. Really wrong. I painted and painted, covering and recovering, the same areas, again and again to try to feel right about it.

It didn't work.

The paint didn't blend correctly. The colors were off.  It was too transparent. I was lost in the expanse of brick. 

All of my planning, measuring, and structure, gone on the first painting. 

Looking back, the painting wasn't bad. But the contrasts were too much. 

Hours and hours and days and days I had spent on this piece. I hadn't progressed, and my paintbrush couldn't find the right place to be. I made a drastic choice with my palette knife and loads of colors. In minutes, I had covered it with my free will. Gone were the pools of crimson and grains of yellows. In their place was a delightful blend of textures and color. I went to sleep, and the next morning, started fresh.

It came together as easily as itches and scratches. The flow was effortless. What I had perseverated over for a week coalesced into straight hours spent painting, this time with no exasperation and all joy.

The reminder that as much as I wanted it to be something, as much as I had prepped it to be, it had its own purpose; that is the essence beyond the confines.  With this first piece, I looked back on that which I sought to explore. Each canvas brings its own ...interest?... into the work. Is that even possible? 

The latitude to flex as needed, to move beyond the constraints, that became the center of this painting.

Trio.

Below, at, above.

Past, present, future. 

​Soil, Land, Sky.

What does this one say to you?

I will say, the lines have meaning. The colors have meaning. The movement of the horses, or lack thereof, each of these are carefully considered. 

The information that I read about the Golden Ratios is tied together in humanity, in life. In can be found in the different ways that people have either planned out art and architecture or in ways that people seek to understand works.  Many of the ideas are tied to history and the study from thinkers of the past.

In that spirit, I wanted the area that is equivalent to that of the rectangle I had determined (12 x 7.4) to be filled with studies, in this case, of movement and the meanings that the movement conveys. I wanted them filled with life and vitality, to show that the use of numbers and measurements from the past are still with us today. 

And lastly, came Remnant. All of the pieces from the others, the bits of knowledge, the connections, the weaves, the tight lines and specific figurings, they are reflected in this piece. There are exact references (the very nature of the textured squares were formed by pressing Kinesic against this one while the paint was wet) and loosely.

The horse appears to both embrace and be blocked by the reflections of the printed squares. 

Starting as white canvasses and progressing through the same steps and movements, and then branching into explorations of a concept, colors, and horses, created these four paintings. They are as much individualistic as they are tied to each other. 

The show opens on Friday, Dec. 6 at the Billings Holiday ArtWalk and is up until January 15. Zack Terakedis encourages viewer participation by offering a Patron's Choice Award to an artist. Visitors will vote on their favorite works of art, and the award will be announced following the opening weekend. Also, the show will be online starting Dec. 5 at https://terakedisfineart.com/ . Terakedis is offering free shipping for the duration of the show for the 12 Squared pieces! 

At the onset of a year, it stretches out before us. Seemingly endless, with all of the opportunities that time has to offer. And this year has offered much, albeit not in a way I forecasted. 

I initially sought to create an art goal that would both connect me to the horse community in my area as well as to build my skills in painting the individuality and essences of a horse, such that a person could recognize that horse, even if I used abstraction to expand on my current thinking. I came up with the idea of painting a different horse for each moon cycle. I found a lot of interest in myself for both watching the moon and its changes, as well as for cultural and astrological connections.

Art, for me, encompasses such a vastness. There's history in the actual practice of making physical marks to tell a story. Shapes, lines, and colors have enamored eyes like mine. Hands have blended paint and hues and struggled to represent what is in the mind. Tradition abounds through art movements and technical considerations. Composition, color theory, continual growth based on prior elements, all of these are elemental to art. Add in math theory, with all of the concreteness and absolutes to stabilize the flexibilities of the uncertain.

The moon, in all of its waxing and waning and newness and fullness, is already mapped out. What is not predictable is the weather below; the rains and snows and how brightly the sun will shine each day. 

On the path of my year-long project,I fell instantly behind. And all of the reasons, they feel like excuses. Like I haven't turned in an assignment, and I am trying to validate why it will be late. And perhaps they are excuses, and perhaps excuses are just reasons. I do know that the moon which I once loved and followed with such glee become a constant reminder of work I wasn't doing, of time slipping away. Of commitments set aside. 

All of the planning, the mapping, the time scheduled to work on my moon paintings were blown away by the storms of life. And perhaps I will get to that, in time, those storms. And storms aren't bad. Floods bring nutrients, new seeds. The rains water the grasses and plants, letting them come to fruition and bloom with all of the vigor with which they are destined. The snow, even the frigid cold that ices your breath and pricks your cheeks, allows for that great dormancy for recovery. And in that darkest of night, when the full moon rises, one can see with almost the clarity of daylight. 

What I do have is this:

*one finished painting, the February horse from the Snow Moon

*one partially finished painting, sitting in my studio, resting in its state of partial visibility, the January horse from the Wolf Moon

*one started painting from the March horse of the Crow Moon

And a pause. 

I'll need an umbrella of sorts for 2020, when I am to resume my project. A way to clarify my time and efforts for a project of this magnitude. 

But for now, a postponement.

I find that in my formation of an idea, I begin to pull together tints of past knowledge and structures. Things that are covered under the tower of thoughts in my memory start to rumble, vibrate, loosening the weight and beckoning for my consideration. While at first the connections are not apparent, a consideration happens, and colors, such as they are, create form.

I’m reverting so many times to the ways that we are connected to the Earth and its rhythms. While the paved lanes, painted lines, and structured buildings give us an easier passage, nature continues to dictate the path. I would have it no other way.

So, in reference to this acceptance that we are, indeed, subject to the weather, seasons, tides, and land changes, I’m basing my 2019 idea on the cycles of the moon. The light from the moon seems to have risen in assorted times in my own reference. When I was 13 and delivering newspapers with my mother at 5:00 am, I was so grateful for the mornings of light, when the moon augmented the street lights and lent clarity and safety to the darkness. Working in the high altitudes in Colorado, we’d take the horses out for full moon rides, galloping through the forest and careening around two-track corners, laughing and screaming and wrapping our arms around our horses.  Backpacking trips, when the moon shone through the tent fabric, staying away sleep and calling to us to come out, stand in the light to see all of the boulders and white bark pines in their varying shadows. Even at home, now, heading out to feed the horses before bed, turning off the headlamp to fully absorb the brightness where once it was dark, the moon provides guidance.

From what I have found so far, and from what I can project, we will have 12 full moons appearing this year in the northern hemisphere.  And so, I will have 12 paintings of horses that I will have photographed, painted, and put together as a complete show at the end of 2019. I typically paint the horses I know, the ones I interact with. But, I’d like to change it up a bit. Here’s how it will work:

I am putting a call out via Facebook and Instagram to horse owners and friends of horse owners, or even people that know a special horse, as each moon ends its cycle. On the time and date of the new moon, I will start accepting and reviewing photos of people’s horses, looking for that certain horse that seems to hold the spirit of the time. Once I have chosen said horse, I will need to come out and take my own photographs. I find that this is the best way to gather the individuality of each animal. The process of creating the painting has thus been set in motion, and I’ll work on it through the moon. Starting at the next new moon, the cycle will start again. At this point, I will need to limit the distance within a reasonable driving distance of Huntley, MT...unless you want to fly me out to your horse. ;) And so it will continue through the last full moon, the December Cold Moon.

It’s a bit of a journey, this new task. I don’t yet know which will come. I do know that I can start. And so, here it is. Starting Saturday, January 5, 2019 at 6:29 p.m., I am asking people to submit photos of their horse to be chosen to be painted. This moon is known in some cultures at the “Wolf Moon”, the moon when the presence of the wolf was known through the challenges of winter and the breeding season. I will, indeed, write more about this specific moon so you can decide if your horse fits this moon. 

My goal in this endeavor is both personal and social. I’d like to bring in the outer world to my own personal experience of art. The interactions of bringing of experience and emotions make art. This is but one way to do so. So, January 5, 6:29 p.m. MST, I’ll be ready. 

​

They're a convergence of stories, these pieces. Shall it be told in chronological order, a linear event-driven succession of causal nature? Or perhaps ordered in thoughts, ideas. An outline signifying each notion, carefully and methodically dissecting each as such. Except, as much as the straight trajectory appeals, it doesn't lend itself to the all. Hidden in the events is a past that makes today possible.

The Elm, English, perhaps?

My Husband is, among the widest variety of handy a person can imagine, a luthier, crafting stringed instruments from wood with a story. He's often called to old buildings to salvage stairs and pews and pianos, or people will drop off random sections of trees, benches, anything with the possibility to become. Shortly after we were married, his friends called with a rather large stump that remained in their backyard. Armed with an "at-times" operational chainsaw, the Highlander (I'm not quite sure that Toyota was envisioning all of the uses that "Helga" has helped with when designing this vehicle), and the dogs, off we went to the Billings neighborhood. Much cutting, wedging, rolling, and leveraging ensued. Two cylindrical mammoths were *soon* loaded onto Helga, and my portion sat amongst the pups in the rig. The sheer mass of this tree was overwhelming.

Time passed, they rested in our yard, elevated from the ground in which they once grew.

A year later we hefted these fellows to our new home, but this time in a more suitable horse trailer, with less anxious glances in the rearview mirrors.

And still they rested, cured, changed.

The Evolution of Process

​As an artist, I'm seeking a level of truth, of definition. I refer myself to biological connections, to the things I see around me. Walking my dogs, working with my horses, driving through the depths of snow to check water and feed, these events inform my process of coinciding within the textures of nature. While my paintings have evolved from a merging of my own ideas and the painting itself, the effects of the paint and water and graphite and subject, I was often the primary influencer. I created some level of rift, and it was then my work to develop within that.

I sought, in some way, to bring in the variety of surfaces, line, and chance that life outside me could provide. I wanted less of my own influence and more of a structure outside of myself.

My trunk portion remained, a record of the seasons past, of the mild and the frigid winters, the tremendous growth periods and the minimal ones, of the sun and the soil and the rain.

Enter the timeliness of Canon I

​I like figuring. Working within an idea. Creating some resolutions to a problem posed. 

The criteria of the show: Create 4 pieces of a 12" x 12" format to be viewed as a collection but exist on their own standing.

​Canon III, 1.618

I tasked myself with a way to consider this as a collection that told a story as a whole, but then could present each piece as an individual. I wanted each tile to be inexorably linked with one another, dependent as it once was as a column in which to grow. I used the framework of the masters, of the Golden Ratio and the dissection of such. My understanding of the relationships found in this ratio and the removal of the square to create another golden rectangle coincided with the square aspects of the project. 

I lost myself for a happy time in the equations and the relationships therein. I treated each 11 x 11 square (I determined that the Elm wood be the guiding force, and the redwood as the framework in which it rested, in my own "Ren" interpretation) as the square removed, and extended the rectangle into the adjacent square. Using the lines to identify places of prominence and tie-ins with the other squares, I added the structure of mathematical rule into the rings of the growth.

I savored the expectations of a definite and controlled outcome.

Ren

The physicality of this name is immersed in this horse. His is a story of trust, goodwill, and courage. He brings to life the ideas of the work, a reason that all of the rules and figuring are worthwhile. His representations are valid to him, his expressions are his own, yet he signifies a universality that stretches across the horse portrayal into the human realm. 

Choosing his expressions for each tile was done with care and consideration. Again, each piece is determined to stand on its own but is intrinsically connected with the other. Communication, both in horses and humans, can be weighted with positioning, social standing, and body language. The subtleties belie the importance.

Growth

The level of chance, unpredictability, weak points structured from years past; they constantly affected the Elm as I worked. I found that different areas reacted to the washes of paint with an assortment of character. Some portions held the moisture on the surface, content to let it pool and solidify. Others immediately soaked it into the grain, requiring layers and layers to achieve an effect. 

Each tile reacted as a whole to the paint. The first tile that I started, Circumspect, was content to let me use a brush and blend the colors. It fit.

Until I started Hearken.

I have found that I cannot often push a painting past its existence. While I can urge it along, it seems to be on its timeline and formation of ideas. Hearken immediately reminded me of this. My attempts at a similar process to Circumspect failed. Finally, in some level of experimentation and giving myself over to the ideas of the wood, I grabbed my palette knife and created washes of color. Pressing, scraping, applying, thinning and thickening the wash, this is where the wood lay. It began to take on its own contributions. Throughout the next three tiles, I revisited Circumspect, applying what I had learned to it. 

I treated the Golden Ratio lines as a delineation, a break in color and thickness. I wanted them to carry themselves throughout the painting without breaking it apart. Those rules and measurements needed to present themselves just as validly as the rings.

And then, the very issue of end grain wood brought about some of my greatest realizations in respect to life. The rings signify the growth, the years. Extrapolating this, they could represent learning and stages.

Pressures contracted and expanded the tiles. What I once considered as stalwart became flexible and brittle. While the corners, the intersections of the stories, remained as they once were, the very insides of the tiles were continuing to change.
​
And this is where they cracked.

And this is where we crack.

In our growth.

In taking chances.

In leaping into the unknown.

In this attempt to tell their story, I am both satisfied in what I have presented and left feeling as if I can not possibly capture it all. So much of it is outside of me, that I cannot but hope that you bring yourself into them. 

Ah, how time ticks on in the singular nature, appearing to always move forward with the loss of the past. The past is with us, though, present in the growth and thoughts we have, our movements fueled by the happenings. The season is changing, and the fruit of the summer rests in the cooling of the fall.

I am sitting in presence of the past; the magpies picking amongst the soil, searching for tidbits from the warmer season, the garden eking out the shortened days and the declining warmth, and the horses browsing for the remaining nutritious grasses and leaves on the overburdened land. That transfer and continuation of energy lives on in the present, and thus informs the future.

The studio is filled with paintings I began this summer, with even a few from last winter, anxiously awaiting my return from the sun-filled days. And so, as these days shorten and the sun appears and disappears more to the south, I will begin my changing of routines, from the abundance of the outside season to the fall cultivation of summer activities and thoughts.

I'm sitting in UnCorked, a wine and cheese bar, in Livingston, MT as my Husband, Wes Urbaniak, plays music for the evening. I'm grateful for the opportunity to have a block of time to update my website while I listen to my favorite musician and sip a delightful malbec/cabernet blend. I'm thinking about the various stories and talents that we all carry with us, and the intersection of those moments as we converge in the same realm of time.

I've been immersing myself in a variety of podcasts lately as I complete my daily drive to take care of my newest horse, Ren. I am a fledgling in understanding the principles of physics and time and reality, but these thoughts have been heavily in my mind as of late. Coupled with that is the investigation into geology and the formation, be it the rising or settling, of the land.  I recently donated a painting to the Christikon Benefit Auction in order to raise money for their ministry of the Lutheran faith.

The Christikon Camp is located along the Boulder River, a place that I passed on the way to a trailhead many summers ago for an extended backpacking trip with my sister. Many days of hiking through the forests and over the Columbine Pass to a variety of high alpine lakes eventually led to the extensive switchbacks of the Upsidedown Trail. Coupled with my memory of my own experience of the days spent exploring was the large expansion of time that these mountains in which these mountains have been formed. And then, one day as I was sitting at home last summer, Mark Donald, the director of the Christikon Camp, sent me a text showing four lost horses that had found their way to the camp's grassy meadow. As I worked through my vision for this work, I relied heavily on these experiences set in a variety of time:

         "One can go back to a place, but one cannot go back to a time. Yet, each place is a culmination of such time, and all is in constant flux.
           Research of the geologic forces of the northern Absaroka Mountain Range between the Boulder River and Yellowstone River Drainages fielded such ideas as crustal warping, uplift, and erosion. Further delving into the formation led me to the merging of glacial carving, immense floods and lifting land to form what we now consider the Absaroka Beartooths. The understanding is as vast as the high alpine lands, and I hold but a small glimpse into it.
            Upon this immense span of time lie the intersections of the present. A 2008 backcountry trip, a wayward journey of 3 horses and 1 mule to the Christikon meadow in 2016, and the creation of this piece in the spring of 2017 center on the layers of the land. Time melds to a place of now."

​

As I'm studying and recording marks as I draw this evening, I am listening to the conversation of the physicist Carlo Rovelli and Krista Tippett. I am holding the beginnings of thoughts about the concept of existence and reality...we and others exist within the interactions of the surroundings. I link this so strongly as I draw lines that intersect, darken, lighten, widen, all to create the impression of a specific shape. We are that which we come up against, defined by our outer boundaries. But what is happening from the relational subjective perception on the inside?

I tie this back into a thought I had while walking the other evening. That which we touch is only felt by the resistance of it. I attempted to feel of the finest fibers of a winter grass, but I couldn't quite grasp the texture as it bent beneath my finger. Rovelli poses such a compelling idea: "I don't think that I as a person exist without the rest. I am my friends, my love, my enemies, my everything that I interact with. " He goes on to discuss the relational aspect of our lives and, from my point of listening, the influences of the environment.  I work so heavily in finding the curves and connections of shape and life in my work.
​

Amidst the rays of the Montana July sun, my husband and I first traveled to Ennis for a music gig at the Gravel Bar, and then made our way to a spot just north of Bozeman. Purpose lie in photographing horses for commissioned pieces, and as we meandered along the dirt roads, thoughts of time and influence lie heavy in my mind. The abstract questions of the geological lifting of the Bridger Range and the relationship to the plains lend themselves to a deepening exploration of existence in time. The bedrock upon which we exist and the underlying structures merge with the ideas of growth and decay, impermanence of form within the seasons, and transformation of energy. The reaching, curing grasses along the dusty road rely on the nutrients of those before them, as they, too, will become nourishment for tomorrow. Engaging with the very present and aware horses as they interact with us and each other supplies a level of immediacy. As much as we are defined and determined by the influences of the before, we live in the exacting time of now. In translation of these ever-forming understandings, my piece titled "Emergence; Revenant Castilleja" works within the layers of structure, place, and life. The dichotomy of our place continues with this painting. At first conceived beneath the period of growth, photosynthesis, and abundance, and then worked on under the cover of snows and dormancy, I worked amongst the interplay of the influence of land and life. Life, held within the ever graceful and dynamic horse called Raven emerges amongst the landscape. The semi-parasitic Indian paintbrush (Castilleja) exists using the roots of others, here, the Arnica. This continuation of reliance threads itself into continuity; mountain sediments flowing to the plains, Indian paintbrush gaining sustenance from others, horses shaped by their environment.

I am thrilled to have this painting in the 29th Annual Women's Works Show. Reminiscent of the fissures cut by water through the landscape and echoing the colors of the area's native sandstone, this piece serves to investigate the intangible demands of sorrow. I've found that as I am developing a work, it begins to have specific characteristics.  My task then is to integrate those characteristics and underlying thoughts in order to convey them accurately and aesthetically.  With this specific painting, I found an elusiveness in the lines that I wanted to maintain, as well as an intense level of realism and emotion around her eyes and the way she holds her ears. 

It is currently displayed at the Old Court House Arts Center in Woodstock, IL from March 10 through April 30, 2016.  The annual exhibit is the Northwest Area Arts Council's international juried competition. More information and the catalog can be found at http://www.womensworks.org/ .