I remember a time when I used to write about art every day. My creative process and philosophy was the thing that kept me grounded, and in touch with my inner self. 

The words just seemed to flow out of me effortlessly. I pictured the colors lined up in my arm, just waiting to trickle through my hand and out my fingertips onto the canvas. 

Within this seemingly endless supply of ideas, I knew that I would have to take time to do other things, too. I had to live things outside of my studio so that I would have something to say. 

It kept me from being concerned about the days or weeks when I was not painting. 

I also believed, and still believe, that I didn’t need to strive or force the inspiration to come. If I just lived my life, and picked up a paintbrush during that living, my next big thing would come. It would show itself to me. This usually happened after the thing had already appeared. I was playing, and enjoying whatever interested me. Not contrived, not based on what I thought anyone else would like. I’d discover a niche that was true to me. 

When I moved to the Iron Range, I tried to think of some local perspective I could present from a newcomer’s viewpoint. 

Chestnut Street appealed to me, and I tried to think of a new angle to paint it from. 

What happened naturally, without ever trying, was midnight walks, photographing an abandoned city in black and white. You see, I had lost my cat. I’d go out late at night calling for her in those early days. She was shy and frightened, and I knew I’d never find her in the daylight. 

The photos seem sad. The urban decay mirrored my feeling of emptiness at losing my love. 

I never found her. 

Nine months later, I’m still photographing the city at night, and accepting that she is gone. 

From my new home, I can hear the sound of trains in the distance. Even without my hearing aids, I can hear them through the open window in the summer. 

I asked my art group where they passed, and began photographing them, too. 

I used to own a railway caboose, so my interest in trains goes back decades. 

In the town where I used to live, I’d chase down the Hjørdis, a local sailing ship, photographing her as she sailed the Great Lake, and especially when she passed by our lighthouse, going in or out of the harbor. Now I try to catch the trains in a similar way. They are not passenger trains, so there isn’t a set schedule. That hunt only adds to the excitement, and makes each meeting more special. I keep a list of the engine numbers I encounter, and would like to express the trains in paint. 

My ongoing science fiction serial has been my main focus lately, and once again, I had that feeling that the ideas and words were endless. 

My creative interests take turns. 

My lifelong practice of painting will step aside to make way for my determination to create pottery, or to bare my soul through the past fifty years of writing. 

The paints are calling to me now.