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.

In 2004, due to my father's enthusiastic encouragement and offer to babysit, I signed up for a watercolor class through recreation and parks. Meeting once a week in the art room of a high school in our county, the classes began with an instructive demonstration followed by independant work. A different flower each week.
I put great effort into trying to mimic the instructor's style. Her work was stunning. I looked at her creations enviously, with admiration and respect. Mine were highly unsatisfactory in comparison.  It took a couple frustrating weeks to realize my error. I then began to paint using my own hand and eye: being me instead of trying to be someone else.
 The single stalk of bamboo is from the final class. While discussing as a class what to choose for that final session, I volunteered to bring samples from the bountiful stand in my own yard. The subject material was embraced by all, many of whom took the sample piece home with them.
The watercolor bamboo studies were created later. Inspiration drawn from my own back yard.
Bamboo, like trees, is a repetitive painting compulsion for me.

This series is from a body of work created as the result of a psychological seed planted in me at a meeting. We were led through a guided meditation, following which we were given a question to ponder:
"If you had an extra 15 minutes a day, what would you do with it?"
My immediate snarky internal response was, "Probably waste it. I already waste more than that each day."
Putting my sense of humor aside, I gave that query deliberate consideration. If I approached with the attitude that those daily morsels of time were a gift, how would I spend them with intention? I looked within to find the way that I would most want to utilize that most precious currency, for myself, for my soul, was to create art. I charged myself with a daily minimum of 15 minutes per day spent in my studio. Cleaning, organizing, and prepping of  papers or canvases counted. What was not allowed was to rollover any extra time I spent beyond the minimum to the following day. Each day began with a new debt of fifteen minutes owed, even if I had spent hours or the entire day the day before. It was an extremely productive period.
This practice was interrupted by a devastating series of events which has impacted my family and me over the course of several years.
I'm working on re-implementing this routine.

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.

Emotions, philosophies, nightmares, and dreams sometimes become too substantial to carry internally.
Canvas and paper help bear the load.