Now that I’m retired, my days are far less structured.  I stay up later, and I sleep in later.  I paint whenever I feel like it.  I recently bought a kiln, so I’m ready to get my ceramics studio up and running.

My son and I have taken jobs as Aquatic Invasive Species Technicians with the county, so our excursions to lakes and rivers now have a purpose beyond just our enjoyment of them. 

I love to see Raymond working, because this is a dream job for him. It is giving him valuable experience to put on his resume, and he is learning a lot about our native ecosystem and our impact on it. 

Everything I see and experience trickles into me and can later influence what I express through my art.

I need to guard against creating in order to result in a product. That may sound counterintuitive. The act of painting will produce a painted surface. This doesn’t surprise me.  I love to end up with something that I can display or sell.  I just want to keep that playfulness and discovery in the process. So I play.

Lately, I fill sheet after sheet of paper with marks and pigment, with no expectation. I’m just there, watching the lines and colors spill out onto the paper. They flow down my arm and out of my hand in layers, sometimes obliterating what was there, sometimes showcasing it. 

I see the brushstrokes, but I don’t attach to them.  Later on, I spend time with them, and their story is revealed. 

I see my story. The stories I have lived. The stories I have documented. I can’t explain it other than that my hand paints.