Place, as in plein air.  Because I believe in reincarnation i.e. that not only one's body is recycled by nature but one's soul is recycled on the wheel of karma to learn the lessons one needs to grow as a being, that place is where one is launched/reborn or to start again.  I feel that place must be memorized so that one's soul/spirit can begin again.  I record that place by painting en plein air.  I am memorizing/memorializing the Sanpoil Valley as that place.  Curiously I must have a lot to learn because most all of my life for many moves has been along the 48th parralell of the U.S. Perhaps I was with David Thompson.  (look up who died with him along the 48th parallel when he was surveying the 49th paralell.

"Sleeping Salmon Mountain", 12x24, acrylic, Available, email; gcaudell@msn.com

"Winter, Sanpoil Valley", 30x40, oil, SOLD

 The cold and snow continues in the the mountains of eastern washington.  Painting en pleinair is a challenge but one perseveres hoping for the warm spring days to come.  The birds are anxious and have delayed nest building and the bees are hunkered down hoping for trees to bloom and provide badly needed pollen to sustain themselves and grow their brood to replace all the workers that didn't make it to spring.  C'mon girls hang in there!

 Raven and Coot, 6"x14", acrylic 

Raven and Coot

Tsimshian

Myths and Legends of Alaska, Katherine Berry Judson

A LONG time ago, Raven wanted all the birds to look well, so he painted them.  Raven painted Coot last.  Then Coot began to paint Raven, who wanted many bright colors.  So Coot painted Raven with bright colors with one hand, but in the other hand he hid charcoal.  When Raven looked away, Coot quickly blackened all the bright colors with charcoal.  Then Raven was angry and he chased Coot.  But Coot ran too quickly, so Raven threw white mud at him, white mud which spattered over Coot.  Therefore Coot had white spots on his head and back.  But Coot flew away and left Raven all black.

Peace Angels, digital drawing

 The anxiety and fear of the day

 weighs on my happiness like a cloud hiding the sun on a cold winter day.  

I kick a mosaic of autumn leaves and angels fly from my feet bringing a smile.

Betty's Brook #5, 30x40, oil

 

Betty's Brook #4, 36x36, oil

 

Quotable Me

 "The artist paints from a vision within and sees himself in the world around him."

3rd in a Series; Betty's Brook, 24x24, oil

I guess I'm into a series, Betty's Brook. There's an enormous artesian spring on the Westfork Ranch.  It never freezes in the winter no matter how cold.  It is deep in the alder, aspen and cottonwoods and runs into the Sanpoil.  The trails that run through it are made by range cows, moose and deer. It is a bird paradise with many waterfowl and marsh birds nesting in the spring, returning in the fall on their way to southern climes. It is a classic wetland the sort salmon used to call home.  

The process is one of distilling the impressions of the place into a technique that is the language of expression.  The artist paints from a vision within and sees himself in the world around him.

                                                              Betty's Brook 3, 24x24, oil, SOLD

 

 Five years later... sheesh, I guess a record of my time has lapsed or filled by other platforms.  I have been ruminating on the issue of recording one's life.  It used to be we saved photos in an album for future reference by descendents and such that has been replaced by a virtual album and yet here is my online self from 5 years ago.  Had a left the planet would it still go on?  Even if it had would anyone care to look at it.  Relatives, friends and descendants could, atleast until the platform was obsolete.  One of my tasks for this winter is to digitize an analogue album of ancesters an aunt left me so the grandkids have an idea of their roots.  I'm digitizing photos and lineages while at the same time I will make prints of old photos of ancestors to document in material / analogue form something concrete for posterity.  What a conundrum the virtual realm presents.  

What does that say for the business of making paintings?  Talk about analogue! Practically retrogressive.

Do we really own our own thoughts anymore?

 

"Streets of Oaxaca"