There is a difference between land, which is earth, and landscape, which signifies a kind of jurisdiction. It always meant the framing of an image.
—Simon Schama, Landscape and Memory
My identity was formed at latitude 44.022701, longitude 91.686316. Formative experiences took place here, and the memories I hold of this time in my life are my reason for engagement in art. The variegated bands of color which define this body of work have their origins in the Mississippi River Valley of southern Minnesota. The genesis of my images can be traced to growing up on a horse farm set among the bluffs above Winona. It was on these 360 acres that the life cycles of a farm taught me one of the few things that we as human beings know to be true. Everything comes from the land. Everything returns to the land. With this simple foundation and paint as my medium, I have embraced vertical and horizontal bands of color as a means of constructing a figurative and literal place to pause. There are very few other reasons to paint today, if not to signify a set of circumstances, in a moment that can be revisited over a lifetime.
On a farm, time is measured by the growth of the crops, most visibly through size, but also through the changing colors that mark the progression toward ripeness, and season’s end. Rain turns the tilled soil black in the spring. Divided acres of wheat emerge as shoots of palest sap green. Their time for harvest arrives when stalks rustle in the wind, a dry unbleached titanium. The broad river bisects the valley with sparkling coolness, while the heat of summer turns gravel white hot on the road at noon. By late in the day, the long driveway from the mailbox is a glowing shade of violet that Cezanne would appreciate. Fences made from railroad ties stained in sepia with brushes dipped in coffee cans of oily creosote, rise and fall in lines that separate abundant cornfields from grazing mares, heavy with foals. When the wild sumac blazed alizarin crimson, the mares were brought up to the barn to give birth. Even as children we took turns on the overnight watch, as an expectant mare paced in the box stall, exhaling clouds of gray vapor into the cool night air. Finally, a colt or filly slick with viscous membrane slid onto the golden bed of straw. It was a glorious sight, and brought sighs of relief.
Farms are not idyllic; life and death are experienced viscerally. When death arrived, blue-black flies swarmed unseeing eyes, and precious horses lost to us were brought to a deep mossy ravine where their bones were picked clean by other creatures. Autumn leaves fell, heavy drifts of snow covered the bones, and after a couple of seasons the land took back even these last remains. Likewise, when a fire took our barns after a heat lamp shorted, the incineration was so complete that only a small cradle of iron remained of my riding saddle, all else was reduced to ash and charcoal. Enough charcoal for many lifetimes of drawing.
I have painted these scenes, events, and memories many times over the past two decades. There are unforgettable combinations and proportions of hue and shade that have the power to evoke the beautiful and difficult rituals of the land. We are hardwired to experience the emotive and spiritual power of color through our culture and earliest existence. So too, it was my experiences of life on a Winona horse farm that provided the path to let go of the figure in my work and concentrate instead on the structural fundamentals of the ground. It was an elegant solution that originated from my earliest memories. I strive to conjure those elemental relationships, without representation or as stand-ins for landscape, but letting bands of color slide, divide, enflame, fade, emerge and embrace.
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