“Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.” Mike Tyson

Lee'sBarn, 66 x 48 inches, oi on canvas.

OK, so it happened. I was warned, and didn’t act quickly enough. Nothing like a friend thinking maybe you’d died to get you off the dime.

A couple months ago we were in New York, on Long Island, visiting my marketing consultant. I’m her favorite pro-bono client, the sort of privilege you get when your daughter happens to be a spectacular designer. I’ve been futzing over a new logo/identity, which she usually lets me muddle through on my own until I go astray with type and such. Then she shepherds me back in, (i.e., takes over and gives me a file when she’s ready). Anyway, she pulled up my website to see where we were currently, (yeah, I know - wouldn’t you think she’d be current, checking in every few days?).

Dad! You haven’t posted anything since 2015! People are going to think you’re dead!

I gave her my best hangdog look.

Knock it off! You don’t get to use cancer! That’s history. Over. Time to move on!

I admitted I knew that, but was trying to worm my way out of my complete and utter negligence of the publicity side of my career. She got me to promise to get back to updating, to journaling, to keeping current.

But I didn’t. I thought a lot about it, but I didn’t do it. We lost my younger sister Cindy this year. If you knew Cindy, you’d think it impossible, something as puny as cancer taking her. But cancer’s not puny, and despite strength and courage unimaginable to me, to say nothing of a will way stronger than iron, Cindy is gone. The earth should have cracked at her passing, the universe should have split. But as loss so often is, it was quiet, leaving us all deflated and heartbroken. It’s taken some time for me to regain focus.

I have some vague recollection of posting a while back about habits, and how mine are nearly all bad. And over the past few years, since before 2015, I’ve gotten way out of the habit of posting anything, out of the habit of a lot of things.

So, I’ll catch you up, briefly. See if I can’t get a habit started again. Sometime a while back I was diagnosed with cancer in my vocal chord. If you’ve known me a long time, you’ll remember a voice that could really holler. I was loud. As a child I was asked by innumerable teachers to get everyone’s attention. In high school, the adorable little girls next door, Amy and Julie Hoffman, told their mother they were afraid of my brother Todd and me. They’re so loud, was their explanation. I could stop my dogs in their tracks at 400 yards, occasionally terrifying innocent bystanders (even some not so nearby) in the process. Yeah, that’s gone. But I’m still here. Two surgeries to extract the cancer, two more to rebuild my voice as much as my throat would allow, and then, once I was convinced I was going to live, I had my knee replaced. It would have seemed a waste of money otherwise.

And I lost my mind for a bit. Or more accurately, was kind of lost in it. I was unable to digest a book, paint well, and seemed to have suffered almost a complete loss of my sense of direction. I didn’t even know I had a sense of direction, I was just never really lost, comfortable still when others were sure I (we) was, or might have been, lost. A midnight paddle, for example, and portage and more paddling through the Adirondacks that left my brother-in-law a little fuzzy on how we’d arrived at our campsite. That sort of thing. But after my medical adventures, it was gone, along with the rest. And a few other oddities, skips of perception, etc. Finally after a couple of really strange and disconcerting episodes scared me to the doctor, my GP, my wonderful GP, ran a few tests and confirmed two things-
1. The anesthesia required for five surgeries, over so short a period, had been, “a severe insult to my brain”.
2. Outside of the cancer, I was insanely healthy. Not healthy like a 55 yr old guy, but maybe 28 to 30. (This is not to claim anything affecting my appearance, which is all of the current 58. Or more).

And the cancer seems to have been dealt with. When will my mind be my own again, I asked. Well, that’s a tough one, he said, (or something along those lines). You need to be active, to sweat a lot, to make your system circulate, and it will come back with time. But there’s really no telling how long it will take. A couple years. Maybe more. So get busy, he said, with life, with living. Don’t think about it.

Hard not to think about. And I’m hard headed. I was raised to work, so I kept painting. Poorly for a long while. They made beautiful flames when they burned.

 I went to Alaska and ran a remote river with friends. I walked the dogs. A lot. Exercised.  We welcomed an amazing granddaughter into the world. And after the kids gave me permission, I convinced Darby we should move back to the Pacific Northwest of my youth.


And then, seemingly in the blink of an eye, Darby got a job that really excited her, in Portland, OR, my home town. Next thing I knew, she was there working, we bought a house I hadn’t seen other than Zillow, and with the help of friends and family, we packed up a truck, loaded three cats and the White Devil into Darb’s truck, Uly in the cab with Todd and me, and off we went to Oregon City, OR. A trip we all swore we’d never do again, but I knew I had to repeat it a few months later with the rest of our stuff, with my buddy Paul Driscoll along as co-pilot.

Damn. What a pain in the ass. Seriously. But we’re here now, and I love Oregon as much as I did when I was a kid. More for all the years of missing it. The whole place is new to me again, and I hope to explore it until I drop, 35 or 40 years from now. Rivers to run, mountains and coast to hike, and steelhead to chase. At least that’s the plan. I’m not new to the idea of plans going awry, of punches to the head, but I’m making plans anyway.

And granddaughter No. 1 has been joined by a little sister, and a cousin. That’s the downside of the move - them so far away. But it’s actually quicker to fly back and see them than the drive was. And I don’t have to drive through New Jersey traffic. And the other part of this plan is grandma and grandpa’s ultimate summer camp. Hiking, horses, rivers, rafting, paddling, ocean…. they’re not going to want to go home. And until they get out here, or if they don’t, we’ll be back there frequently.

So out of the blue, I get a call the other day. I didn’t recognize the number, and didn’t answer. But there was a message, and it’s from an old fishing buddy- like way back old, college days. I call him back, we catch up a little, and he said, Yeah, I was on your website, and I saw that you hadn’t posted since June of 2015. I was afraid you were dead.

So this is the first attempt at re-establishing the habit. To let you all know, I’m not dead. There are a few updates tucked in here, on the Artist Statement page. And the painting above. I've been working a lot, with a bunch of pieces finally coming together. More soon. I think. If not, Emily, give me a swift kick this time. I can’t have anyone else thinking I’m gone.

ps- (do blog posts have ps’s?)- This spring, something has cleared out more of the cobwebs. I suddenly have more ideas than I can keep track of. Like it was pre-cancer. I have some summer travel in between, but I’ve got to find a larger studio this fall. So much to do. Big stuff. Stuff I’m really excited about. I’ll try to remember to keep you all in the loop.

So, if you've read this far, I need to say Ive migrated the Field Notes to my new website- the one I got scolded for not updating. I'll post here a few more times, but at some point it will all be over there. It can be found at: http://www.richardcharrington.com/field-notes/

Snowfall

Snowfall, 48 x 48 inches, oil on canvas.

We had lots of snow this past winter. Lots. I eventually get tired of dealing with it- well, the cold, more than the snow. It was bitter cold for weeks on end. But all that aside, I love the look of it. The feel of it. Snowshoeing. Cross country skiing. The dogs' happiness with it. But most of all I love the effect it has on the land.

I spent much of the winter thinking about how I put paint down. Mark making is a very popular topic in painting the past decade or so, and I suppose on some level that's what I am meaning. But to me, that makes it seem too specific, the marks too precious, to have their own identity. I'm concerned about the lay of the paint, the texture and surface, not as individual expression of marks, but as a intuitive representation of what the experience of being in that place, at that moment, feels like. I don't want it to be that conscious an effort, no more so than the dreamy feeling I have when I am outside and find something I want to paint. So in the moment it's even closer than intuition.

But then I guess it's a combination of marks. Of colors Of paint.

I'm still thinking about it.

Morning Shadow

Morning Shadow, 60 x 48 inches, oil on canvas.

A new piece, just off the easel.

Living Within Our Inherited Landscape

Vilona Gallery, Boulder, CO.

The show starts today, with the official opening Friday 6 - 8 during Boulder's Art Walk.

Arrival in Colorado.

The last of thirteen paintings arrived at the Vilona Gallery in Boulder, Colorado for an April show.

Deep in the heart of Texas

Occasionally I get to see a painting in its new home. Gibson's Barn lives in a beautiful spot, deep in the heart of Texas.

For scale

One of the biggest reasons I moved the studio a couple years ago was for space. The work is getting ever larger, and I didn't have enough room to either set it up at an easel, to get back from it enough to see, or even more problematic, to photograph it. In the space I'm in now I have a white wall- well it was just a plasterboard wall until my son Todd got after it with a big roller and buckets of paint- large enough to install a gallery hanging system. And my old friend, the multi-talented Tim White- helped me figure out how to light the large landscape work I am doing. But the scale is still hard to convey, so I decided to put my studio mate to work.

Grand Prismatic Hot Spring, Yellowstone National Park, oil on canvas, 30 x 120 inches.
With Uly, 120 lbs of good company.

Trespass, 48 x 120 inches, oil on canvas, curio cabinet.

Along Kebler Pass, 48 x 100 inches, oil on canvas, curio cabinet.

Prep continues

Two 24 x 34, three 30 x 30, two 32 x 40, two 48 x 48, and two 48 x 60. Canvases leaning everywhere, gesso on everything I wear into the studio.

And painting in between. Some things should start coming together in the next week or so.

Prep work

With a big pile of stretcher bars, it was time to get busy stretching. After stretching, each canvas gets two coats of Golden GAC 100, a multi-purpose acrylic polymer. In this case, its purpose is to isolate the canvas from the destructive qualities of the paint, which can really degrade canvas or linen over time. Over two coats of the polymer, I brush on three coats of Golden Gesso. The gesso is also acrylic based, so it bonds well with the the GAC 100, but it is porous as apposed to the shielding quality of the earlier layers, so the paint soaks in and binds to it.  A safe, secure, archival ground to build a painting on.  I can usually juggle 3 or four big canvases at a time, moving them around the studio, propped and drying, waiting for another layer. Each is dated after the last coat, so I know that it's dried sufficiently over a couple weeks to provide a dry and stable surface.

Studio artifact...

It's been cold, brutally cold, but things are getting done!

Thirty Barns

Thirty Barns  <--- this link right here!

The link above will take you to a short video slide show of the development of the 30 paintings.

I started the series of thirty barns the first week of November. My aim was two fold- a series of studies to get me focused on some of my painting for this year, and to have a series of small pieces to end the season with an on-line show.

From that stand point, it was very successful. But it was even more successful on another, unexpected level.


The way I work has evolved over time. From my original intentions of being a very direct painter, I have slowly developed a very different approach- applying layers of color, over days, weeks, and often months. The approach has developed as my concerns with painting have changed, but primarily because it allows me to achieve color effects and surface textures that provide the atmosphere I am after. The approach is slow. I find color layers most cleanly when it is wet paint going over dry. Because I love oil paint, not so much acrylic, that requires setting a painting aside at some point so that I don't start mixing wet layers, and end up with mud. But I am my father's son- I work. In order to keep working, I have developed the habit of working on several paintings over the same period of time- often a dozen or more. Occasionally way more. With larger pieces, they are moved around the studio. But with the 30 small paintings I set them on runners on my large studio panel, and they were all there at once. And an unexpected conversation developed.

At the studio each day, it's pretty much Finn, Uly and me. Conversation is, well, not something most would understand. Lots of grunts, growls, and negotiations for a quick break or a bone.

This conversation- with the paintings- was different. A Me, Myself and I, sort of thing, except it was a little like having 30 of me- or variations of me. Talking with one another.

Laying in the first blocks of color is always the most exciting part of a painting, filled with bold movement, bright color, and possibility. Usually by the third or fourth layer- on the third or fourth day- questions start to crop up, and the possibility of doubt sets in. And usually at this point, I have to sit and stew, looking at a piece, debating possibilities, trying to work out a good painting from the initial gram of an idea that got things rolling to begin with.

But with this series, I would put the piece back on the easel, in amongst the rest of the pack. I'd step back, and the change made in the piece would make the whole different. Kind of like a new kid walking onto the playground. The whole dynamic changes, and illuminates each individual. Sometimes the changes in the piece just worked on would initiate something similar in another piece. Or something opposite, Or completely different, just ideas spurred onward. But an ebb and flow developed that seemed to make solutions easier to find. Sometimes. A few were abandoned and replaced with new starts, the initial idea not being strong enough to maintain momentum. Or just lost.

But the whole experience lead to me questioning my work process. It would be valuable to have my large work more exposed during the painting, to be able to see more than one at a time- to be able to bounce the bigger ideas back and forth, so each informs the other.

I'm afraid I need more space.

The goins on over the last several weeks......

Barn No. 1, in the series of 30.

They are coming together. 4 finished Wednesday, and after weeks of painting, looking, changing..... the conversation of painting- the remaining 26 will be coming together in the next 10 days. They are offered for sale on my small work site, and I'll be talking some about the process over here too.

It has been a very interesting way to work, learning through the good luck of a random choice. It will change the way I work in the future, in terms of how the changes in one piece can inform the choices I make while working on another.

Busy fall season.....

Here's where I started.

I'm totally swiping an idea from my friend David Oleski. He's off in Thailand, he'll never know.OK, so he'll know. In fact he encouraged it. I'm not as bad as I'd like to think. Several weeks ago I started 30 paintings. They are small, either 6 x 8 inches or 7 x 7 inches. They will be available starting November 25th. One per day, for 30 days. Details to follow.

In between working on these 30 paintings, I've been chasing steelhead. My favorite fish in my favorite season. The river has been stingy this year. I can't believe I've gotten any work done at all.

Here's where I am at as of Friday. Close on a few.

Variations on a winter theme.

Stone Barn, Winter Sun, oil on canvas, 24 x 34 inches.



Stone Barn, Winter Moon, oil on canvas, 24 x 34 inches.

Summer's finally here....

Gathering Storm, oil on canvas.

but I'm still painting winter.

A mid-sized study for a much larger piece.

Weekend Update

After ignoring my website for a while, I spent time this weekend getting the two galleries updated and current.
Genesee River at Letchworth, 34 x 44 inches, oil on canvas. The study for a much larger piece from last springs Artifact show.


Five Sugar Maples, 18 x 22 inches, 23 x 25 framed, oil on canvas.


New Day II, 24 x 24 inches, 31 x 31 framed, oil on canvas.


Under a Brilliant Moon, 30 x 30 inches, oil on gallery wrapped canvas.

Early Snow

Early Snow, 8 x 10 inches, oil on panel.

Just in time for an end of year thaw, I put the last touches on a small piece, reflective of the first snow of this year.

WInter arrived...

this past week, with a quick dump of heart-attack snow, and the arrival of some favorite winter neighbors.


I love to watch the Short-Eared owls, often arriving as a pair, arcing crazily around the fields. Staying low and close to the ground, they'll wheel acrobatically and drop on something small and unseen in the distance.


Darby prefers the Harrier hawks, with their slow, gracefully rocking flight, also low and quiet above the winter turned field.


The cold is sudden, and not altogether welcome, but I've already found a painting in the harsh arrival. Something small, but atmospheric, should be done in a couple more days.

In the studio

The end for now.....

The Artifact of Landscape show came down this week. I have to take a break from the magnum landscapes for a bit and work on some smaller scale work for my show season. Well, smaller by my new 12 feet is medium-sized standard. I have several 4, 5 and 6 foot paintings underway, which should start finishing up in the next few weeks.

I'm excited about the upcoming show season and the pieces I am getting ready for it, and at the same time, there are ideas for the extra-large landscapes bubbling just under the surface that are hard to put aside for the moment.

Oh well, art was never supposed to be easy, and if it was, I'd be bored.