For me, painting on found wood is a dance between the energies of wild nature, and the human spirit.  It is a process that spans decades, and all of it is out of my control, save the moment I select the wood, and the hours I spend laying down paint.  First, a tree absorbs light for myriad revolutions around the sun, converting that energy into matter.  Then the tree is felled and milled into various lumber elements to comprise the form of a house, a dock, a boat or a shed.  By some stroke of destiny, this piece of tree is returned to the whims of nature, and it is softened, rounded and weathered into a kind of collaborative sculpture.  It is like a larger version of sea glass.  When I visit the beaches and rivers that so sustain my soul, these gems jump out at me and seem to be asking for me to usher them through one more turn of the dance they have been dancing for longer than I can even know.



When I travel, I am compelled to collect images that reflect the soul of a place.  I look for perspectives and subjects that express timelessness, the essence of geography which in turn dictates culture, or the wisdom of the weather.  I count myself lucky if I can preserve the momentary glimpses I get of the wilderness revealing it's spirit, which often pass in a flash.  The way the light reflects off the clouds and then the sea, the moment the raven pauses to survey my intentions, the way the mountains snuggle against one another from one magical point of reference.