I must confess, I'm a tree hugger. Both proverbially and literally.
I love their power, their grace, their ability to bend, break and heal.
Such an inspirational resilience in the elegance of their forms.
Even in death or slumber, their vitality continues to provide.
Although I favor longer daylight and warm air and soil while life grows in abundance all around, I look foreward to the change to the colder seasons when many of them shed themselves bare to further reveal their structure and scars; the most beautiful aspects that hide beneath their summer attire. I pause to admire a curve of a branch, the lean of a trunk, the air and light dancing among the limbs.
May I never lack the desire to paint yet another tree.
 

Some of the star formations in the night skies collection are fictional.
Others are inspired by truth.
I looked up a few star maps online, setting the date, location, time, and viewing direction and printed them out to use as reference for the star placements.
For "northern," I set the location to facing north in Brainernd, Minnesota, where my son was working on environmental restoration with Conservation Corps, and set the date for my 2022 birthday.
Several other maps were selected, some for specific constellations.
One was chosen with Oslo as the location. (A bucket list wish of mine is to spend at least a day in the Oslo University assembly hall basking in the presence of The Sun.)
In an effort to maintain the joyful sense of play while creating these, the scale, alignment, and placement of the stars was not gridded out meticuliously, but done freestyle with a dash of artistic license.
I am a flawed human who was just having fun.

Cosmic maneuvers command us all.
Day and night, change of seasons, turning of the years.
Ever changing in their aspect, while still remaining recurrent and formulaic.
Amenable to and culpable for the very fact that we live and exist.
As humanity has done since before written time, I am partial to watching the skies.

I had been struggling to climb out of my rut for years. Strategizing with my therapist. Setting goals. Striving to overcome literal and emotional obstacles that kept getting placed in my path. And my studio. It had been almost seven years since my last exhibit. I needed to get some shows. I needed to apply. I needed to first create a cohesive collection with which to apply. I needed to paint. I needed to reclaim my space, both literally and figuratively.
It seemed insurmountable.
Then, I got an e-mail. An invitation to participate in the 10th Anniversay exhibit at The Meeting House Gallery. The big, hard proverbial kick that I required to get me back on my path. I quickly accepted, afraid they may have invited me by mistake. But, it couldn't have been a mistake because they know who I am...
In a nutshell, the response they sent to my acceptance was, "sign the agreement, send a couple images and the detailed list of your artwork by this date, ideally this number of pieces. No need to have your work pre-approved. You know the rules about what can be shown, but they're in the paperwork should you require a reminder. Drop off this day and time. Opening reception sceduled for that date..."
I had nothing. 
The only new works to survive that span of time since my last show there, other than photos, were a piece I had done for a friend and another painting hidden somewhere in the house to protect it from my overzealous critical wrath. Previous works were, in my mind, too old to be shown. They were stale.
Where to begin?
The mountains. The mountains were calling me.
(When I was very young, my father had taken my siblings and me to Skyline Drive on several occasions. My family often talked about it, but being the youngest, I had no memory of those trips. For decades I had longed to go, but hadn't. Earlier last year, I had tried several times to make that trip, but arguments and conflicts about the details always erupted and cancelled the plans.) 
A few days after choosing my starting inspiration, a dear friend and fellow artist called and asked if I might be willing to take a day trip with her. She had been struggling with the image of a wall in her piece and realized it was inspired by the stone walls along that famous scenic road and needed an in-person remider of their construction and appearence. Another kick from the universe delivered lovingly by a friend. Enthusiastically, we set the date, which ended up being delayed when a severe case of Covid put everything on hold. About a month later, we finally made our way. Still struggling to recover, the mountains were palliative. Invigorating to my fatigue, and the altitude change helped with the disorienting vertigo.
A frenzy of creation followed. The clock was ticking. There was no time for oil paints.
My anxiety and self-criticism flared hard early in the process. After a panic attack or two, comfort came in remembering that (other than the rules established by the Interfaith Center) there were no restrictions. On the first couple canvases, my hand had proven that it remembered what to do. 
Only half of the pieces on my list of works had actually been painted when I turned it in. Titles were chosen, dimensions provided, and prices set for canvases that were still blank. All that was left to do was for me to play with paint.
So, I did.
The night skies project, along with a sun and a couple moons, were also created during this fresh start.
 

To portray someone entirely is not possible.
It must be done in pieces.
In versions.
Moods and life stages.
Moments of impact.
The criteria by which we are defined.
The labels we strive to overcome.
Or inscribe intentionally.

These are some of the pieces of me.