Home is where my heart is, where inspiration pours forth. I am a home person. My parents made me that way, They shared small things about where they choose to live. Sunday rides in my granddad's car out into the country. Delights of Dad or Mom pointing out things, like a rusted windmill that brought up water for the cows on my great granddad's farm. The house mom was born in, just blocks from where they raised us kids.
Home is in the little things I discovered for myself like the green leafy plants that catch the first snow falling at Fabyan woods. Drives to my uncle Chuck's I would look for those green leaves holding those delicate snowflakes. I wasn't thinking about art at the time. That memory came to me yesterday while doing a winter scene. I remembered those drives to my uncle's and those wonderful greens and that fresh white snow they held.
Main Street, west, miles from Batavia an old barn stands and the strong smell of pig manure alerted me to county life and the wonderful subjects life holds for me to paint. A dip in the road and a stone bridge were there waiting for my canvas. Three hours I sit there painting and dreaming. The new work securely in the back seat, I explore a bit farther and find a memory of riding with my Uncle John on his motorcycle looking for Easter eggs. Racing across a little wooden fence, dropping off the wooden eggs and racing back to the woods for more colored eggs. The bridge is for my next canvas. I will dot the bridge with kids and fill the sky with rich blue and silver clouds, a memory from a visit to my uncle Melvins.
Memories mix with an endless supply of subjects, wandering about in my head, each bringing out present-day scenes for painting.
