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Today I’m thankful for the helpers.

Pine Tree State, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $435 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

My friend Laura Miner loves to quote Mr. Rogers at me every time there’s a disaster. “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.'”

I can’t say I watch much news, scary or otherwise, but I’m keenly aware of the helpers. They always seem to be with me. Most recently, my friend and student Karen Ames learned that my brushes were lost when my painting pack went AWOL in Arizona. She promptly mailed me a beautiful selection of Rosemary hog bristle brushes. “I wasn’t using them and I know you needed them,” she said. I was very touched.

Early Spring on Beech Hill, oil on archival canvasboard, Carol L. Douglas, 12X16, $1449 framed includes shipping in continental US.

Have you ever done a good deed and never received a thank you? When I was 14, my brother was in a crash that killed him, his two classmates, and a passenger in the other vehicle. Our house was pandemonium, so I slipped out and walked to the neighbors. Dear old Mr. and Mrs. Adler took one look at my ashen face and gave me a large glass of brandy. I had no experience with spiritous liquor; I choked and sputtered, but it did make me feel better. Of course, I never thanked them; 14-year-olds are ingrates at the best of times, and that was the worst of times. They’re both gone now, but I’ve never forgotten that simple act of kindness.

Never assume that your small deeds don’t have an impact, or that the recipients aren’t grateful. It may take a snotty teenager decades to realize her indebtedness, but she’ll eventually get there.

It’s not always easy or cheap to be kind. For example, you’re late to work for the third time and the car in front of you is potting along at 20 MPH below the speed limit. (My daughter, who inherited her lead foot from me, says that Maine’s state motto is “35 MPH was good enough for Grandpa, and it’s good enough for me.”) How tempting it is to blow the horn, yell, and tailgate. You finally manage to pass and you realize that the old lady driver has a death-grip on the wheel; she’s the same age your mom would be if she were still alive. You’re suddenly very relieved that you didn’t act like a jerk.

At Rest in Camden Harbor, 12X16, oil on birch, $1159 unframed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Artists are famously broke. They’re also, paradoxically, among the most generous of people. I left my quinacridone magenta home when I was at the Sedona Plein Air Festival. There was none to be purchased anywhere in town. Casey Cheuvront immediately gave me a big dollop of the closest thing she had, dioxazine purple. Later, Ed Buonvecchio loaned me a tube of magenta. I’ve never run short of something, broken something, or forgotten something that an artist hasn’t immediately stepped forward with an offer to help.

Old Wyoming Homestead, 9×12, oil on archival canvasboard, $696 unframed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

People sometimes talk about ‘paying it forward’ but most helpers aren’t thinking of kindness as a debit/credit sheet. They’re not treating the universe as a giant karmic apparatus that repays their kindnesses with benefits. They’re just being kind. That’s because kindness is not a zero-sum game, but rather something that can fill us to overflowing and never run out.

Today I’m thankful for the helpers. Here’s a discount code for all you helpers, which will give you 10% off any painting on this website: THANKYOUPAINTING10

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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This series would not be happening without you

From Step 1: the Perfect Palette

Last year, Laura and I sketched out a seven-part series called Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters. Laura had a vision based on the industrial training videos that were part of her prior career. I’ve never watched a training video in my life; the last time I worked for someone else, my instructions were scribbled on foolscap.

I didn’t want to make a tedious video where I did a long, uninterrupted demo. They always make me fall asleep. Laura wanted a series of shorts that explained a specific concept. Each would be followed by exercises and a quiz.

I had no idea how to record video, and no clue how to edit it when it was done. However, I did have a good SLR and audio recorder. My son introduced me to DaVinci Resolve. We bought a subscription to Canva and extra storage on Google. Once we had all those things in place, we realized we had no idea what we were doing.

From Step 2: the Value Drawing

There is nothing more disheartening than spending an afternoon painting, only to find that you hadn’t focused the camera, or the light was wrong, or you forgot to start the audio recorder. If there was a mistake to be made, I’ve made it.

Our goal was to finish all seven classes by the end of the year, but as the summer season heated up, I lost my momentum. We will probably finish the fifth one by Christmas, and the other two by the end of winter. Once that’s done, you’ll no longer need me; you can learn to paint by doing the exercises.

From Step 3: The Correct Composition

This series would not be happening without you. That starts with the people who have asked me over the year to write a book; I got it outlined and then stalled. The outline for that book became the outline for this series.

Then there are the people who beta tested the first class. You gave me incisive and pertinent feedback, which improved later classes. A few loyal testers have been with me through every episode, and I’m especially grateful for you.

I’m grateful for the early adopters of the series. At times I wondered whether Laura and I had lost our minds in devoting a year to such a risky venture. But many of you have taken them, and you seem to have found them valuable. “I took Carol’s online class modules prior to the [Rockport Immersive] workshop and found them to be great preparation,” Beth D. wrote. “I don’t think I could have absorbed all that complicated and practical information while painting plein air on location. The modules were very brief and concise yet enlightening.” Thank you, Beth.

From Step 4: the Essential Grisaille

In appreciation of you all, here’s a code for 30% off one of the Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters. Choose from:

STEP 1: THE PERFECT PALETTE

STEP 2: THE VALUE DRAWING

STEP 3: THE CORRECT COMPOSITION

STEP 4: THE ESSENTIAL GRISAILLE

Just type THANKYOU30 in the coupon code. And thank you so much!

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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How I fell in love (with a boat)

American Eagle in Drydock, 12X16, $1159 unframed.

Shortly after I moved to Maine, I presented myself at the North End Ship Yard in Rockland to ask if I could paint. It was spring, and the annual rite of fit out was just starting. This is when the windjammers are lifted out of the water, their hulls scraped and painted, and below-the-waterline repairs done. Large wooden vessels spend all year in the water, and each boat spends just a few days on the rails. If they pass their Coast Guard inspections, they are allowed to sail another season.

It was there that I met Captain John Foss of American Eagle, and Captains Doug and Linda Lee of Heritage. They’ve co-owned the shipyard for almost fifty years. They are tolerant of artists and allowed me to mooch around the yard all spring.

When that season ended, Captain John said, “Why don’t you go out with us on our last cruise? You can see what this is all about.” I foolishly brought oil paints, which got all over his beautifully-finished deck, but he’s a very even-tempered fellow.

Schooner and double rainbow. That’s almost as good as a unicorn!

The next year, we started our watercolor workshop, because the paint is easier to get off the fittings.

I think American Eagle is the best-looking schooner in the Maine Windjammer fleet. (The ketch Angelique comes a close second.) I’m not saying that just because I sail on her. Some schooners, like Angelique and Heritage, are modern reproductions of 19th century designs. Others are repurposed 19th century working boats. They tend towards the ruffles and ribbons of the Edwardian age.

In contrast, American Eagle was built in 1931, part of the last generation of the Gloucester schooner fishing fleet. She has an elegant, austere silhouette. I’d almost call her Art Deco, she’s so sleek. The graceful arc of her prow, which is all that shows in American Eagle in Dry Dock, is a hint that the whole of her is equally graceful.

That first fit out impressed me with the amount of sheer, hard graft the captains put in readying their boats for the water. Of course, they don’t do it alone; each year they get a new crop of youngsters working as deckhands or messmates. (If I’d known such a gig existed when I was 18 or 21, my life would have been very different.)

Trina Ross, Savra Frounfelker, and Donna Gray playing at ‘Three Men in a Boat.’

Before they ever go out, these hands scrape, strip, varnish, paint, caulk, lug, climb… in short, any difficult physical labor you can imagine, they do. And the captains are right there with them, even up past an age when any sane person would have retired.

What I didn’t realize was that life on the water is as strenuous as life in the winter. Not only does the crew handle the ship (and there are no labor-saving devices on board), they also prepare meals and serve passengers. They take turns staying awake at night to keep watch, because the schooners anchor in deep water.

Everything is done by hand on a windjammer. That’s Mike Prairie holding the line.

Two years ago, Eagle went out with a new captain, Tyler King, who is the same age as my youngest kid. I’d sailed with him as John’s mate, but that’s different from having all the responsibility for boat, crew and passengers on his young shoulders. On our first cruise together, I watched him do a quick evasive maneuver with utter calm and competence. He’s an excellent sailor and a sharp cookie.

The chances that I can convince my husband I need a sailboat are slim to nil. Realistically, I can’t even take out the skiff I own. But I’m blessed to be able to go cruising during my watercolor workshop, and I don’t have to do any of the heavy lifting.

Remember to bookmark December 1 for our first Virtual First Friday, starting at 7 PM. I think it’s going to be a gas.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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I’m thankful for you, dear readers

Primary Shapes, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $435 includes shipping and handling in the continental US.

First among the many things for which I’m thankful are you, the people who read my blog and are part of my community. This blog started almost two decades ago as a very clunky essay on WordPress, with almost no readers and rather stilted writing. That was back when my website was called Painter of Blight as a cruel mockery of Thomas Kinkade. We should not speak ill of the dead, and, anyway, I outgrew sophomoric humor. I think.

From there I migrated to Blogger, then to the Bangor Daily News, then back to Blogger and finally home to my own website. I’ve never totally understood the mechanics of moving a blog, which is why only the last move really worked, and why you’ll occasionally come across an old post where the pictures have disappeared.

American Eagle in Drydock, 12X16, $1159 unframed includes shipping in continental US. Do I have a crush on this boat? You bet I do!

Some years I barely wrote at all; others I wrote five days a week. Today this blog goes out to thousands of readers three times a week. It has a very high open rate by industry standards, and that’s down to you. Thank you.

It’s also reposted on social media, where, paradoxically, most people make their comments. (Hint: if you post them here, they last forever. However, you usually must wait for me to approve them. Any website that raises its head above the parapet is prone to denial of service attacks. Then there are the goofballs who think they can plug unrelated websites in the comments. That’s why our security is so high.)

A blog is a partnership between writer and reader. It wouldn’t happen without the input, questions, and ideas that you readers send me. Amazingly, I’ve never been stumped for an idea; right before the well runs dry, one of you always contacts me about something and-bam-there’s another post.

American Eagle rounding Owls Head, 6×8, oil on archival canvasboard, $348 unframed.

I used to write these ideas down in a tiny 35¢ notebook I referred to as my iPod touch. Amazingly, a tiny notebook can still be had for 35¢, but now I store our bright ideas in my computer.

I have a few obsessions besides painting. They are general history, art history, and the gender pay gap in the arts. You’ve traveled down many rabbit holes with me, from this potted history of the art model to the story of Vincent Van Gogh’s sister-in-law.

Today I talked to someone who asked me if I really planned on working until 80. “Yes,” I told him, “If my health holds out.” Some days I’m tired, some days I’m discouraged, but overall I have a tremendous amount of fun doing this gig. Thank you so much.

If you get my newsletters, you know that I’m offering a discount for all workshops for 2024. In appreciation for all my readers, I’m extending that to anyone who reads my blog anywhere. Just use the code EARLYBIRD at checkout to save $25 on your registration fee (except Sedona; but it’s still a great deal). This offer is good until the end of the year.

“Bracken Fern,” 12X9, oil on canvasboard, $869 framed.

Save the date

I’m planning an online party on Friday, December 1, at 6 PM. More details soon, but you won’t want to miss it.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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I’m thankful, how about you?

Skylarking II, 18X24, $1855 unframed or $2318 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

For the professional artist, marketing is our most important job. People often say, “But you’re doing what you love!” Sadly, artists must buy groceries and pay mortgages and taxes just like everyone else. And while my friend derives great satisfaction from being a surgeon, nobody expects her to work for free.

One can’t sell in America without engaging with Black Friday. In the past, I’ve made haphazard efforts toward Black Friday Sales, but they aren’t a good fit for me. I loathe shopping and Black Friday most of all. My products (paintings and painting instruction) don’t fit the model of Kohl’s or Macy’s, which have limitless items they can mix and max in the advertisements they’ll barrage you with this month.

“Skylarking,” 24X36, oil on canvas, $3,188 unframed or $3985 framed, includes shipping in continental US.

On Friday, I had a brainstorm that will radically change my blog for the remainder of November. Instead of focusing on Black Friday, why not explore thanksgiving?

For years, I publicly counted my blessings every November. This year, I’ve been a little shaken on my pins. Mired in worry, I completely forgot about that practice. But it’s never too late to start practicing gratitude.

Breaking storm, 48X30, oil on canvas, $5,579 framed includes shipping in continental US.

What’s in it for you?

For much of my adult life, I believed the ‘black dog’ of depression was my lot. My father and grandmother both died of it, and I experienced significant trauma as a child. Psychologists reinforced the idea that my depression needed management, not banishment.

I’m not saying that the simple act of counting my blessings cured my depression-it was a far bigger transition than that. (And if you want to hear it, you’ll have to email me, because I’m not getting into it on a public forum.) But counting my blessings played a tremendously big part of making me the larky person I am today.

Larky Morning at Rockport Harbor, 11X14, on archival drymounted linen, $869 unframed includes shipping in continental US.

But don’t take my word for it:

  • Many studies have shown that expressing gratitude can lead to increased happiness and reduced symptoms of depression. Gratitude helps shift our focus from what we lack to what we have, and that promotes a more positive mindset.
  • Studies have also shown that gratitude improves our physical health. Grateful people have stronger immune systems, lower blood pressure, and a decreased likelihood of developing illnesses.
  • Gratitude strengthens our relationships. We all tend to like people who acknowledge and appreciate our good points, far more than the person who carps at us. Expressing gratitude fosters a sense of closeness and connection.
  • Gratitude leads to increased resilience during challenging times. It allows individuals to reframe difficult situations and find silver linings, promoting a more adaptive response to stress and adversity.
  • Cultivating an attitude of gratitude enhances our emotional well-being. Regularly acknowledging the things we are thankful for can lead to more joy, optimism, and contentment. This, in turn, contributes to our overall sense of well-being and satisfaction.
  • Gratitude prepares your brain to be altruistic. Grateful individuals tend to be more empathetic and generous. As you can imagine, this can create a positive cycle of kindness and giving in one-on-one relationships and collective activities. (This cycle of kindness, by the way, is one of the main things I value in my church.)
  • Gratitude and self-compassion are integrally related to mindfulness. Gratitude involves focusing on our present blessings. This helps reduce the chatter of anxiety, promoting a more balanced state of mind. That quiets the voices that tell us we’re insufficient, unqualified, or just plain bad.

For the rest of November, my Monday and Wednesday posts will focus on thankfulness. Fridays will still be about paintings, to fulfill a promise to my business partner Laura.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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Main Street, Owls Head

Main Street, Owls Head, 16X20, oil on gessoboard, $1,623 unframed, includes shipping in continental US.

Before I get into this, we’ve updated all our 2024 workshops. We’ll be sending out coupons with discount codes soon; if you’re not on my mailing list already, sign up in the box to the right.

Each week until the end of the year I’ll be giving you a behind-the-scenes look at one of my favorite paintings. These are paintings that are available for you to purchase unless otherwise noted.

Plein air painters sometimes avoid work by endless texting about possible locations. Or, we can get into our cars and drive around, but with gas hovering at $4 a gallon that hasn’t been practical. A good artist can make a painting with the thinnest tissue of material, so you know that when we do that, we’re ducking something.

The empty house with the wild lupines, private collection.

I can almost always persuade Eric Jacobsen to come out to Owl’s Head. It has great fishing shacks and a stellar working harbor. The tiny hamlet of Owls Head has resisted the tarting up that’s marred parts of midcoast Maine. Plus, the Owl’s Head General Store has reopened and my sources say it is as good as ever.

A view of the same house from below on a very foggy day; I have no idea where this painting has larked off to.

There’s a house in Owl’s Head that’s been empty for around eight years (I heard it recently changed hands again; may this time be the charm.) I don’t know its specific story, but the phenomenon of the abandoned house has always bothered me. Sometimes it’s about lack of jobs in an area, or getting behind on taxes. Equally, it can be caused by friction between heirs, divorce or other ructions, which tear away at property as much as they tear away at human beings. But a house is a middle-class person’s biggest asset, so letting one moulder seems all wrong.

This is not a painting of that abandoned house. Rather, I painted it from that house’s front yard. I’d intended to paint the house itself once again, but as Eric and I stood scoping our vistas, I realized that I’d always wanted to paint the view downhill. That hip-roofed foursquare house is a coastal Maine gem, and its owners have carefully preserved its charm.

Fishing boat at Owl’s Head, private collection.

Eric set up looking uphill, and I set up looking downhill. This is where I developed my own version of Ken DeWaard’s Park-N-Paint, where I sit in a lawn chair in the bed of my truck with my feet up on a box. It’s so relaxed that Colin Page once asked me, “Carol, can’t you at least look like you’re working?”

That illusion of inertia must work, because when I was done, Eric said, “that’s great, Carol.” For once I agreed with him. It remains one of my favorite paintings.

Main Street, Owl’s Head is 16X20 and available for $1623. The whiff of seawater and sunlight is included free.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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When you overdo it

My kit in happier days, at the Red Barn Gallery in Port Clyde. Come to think of it, Port Clyde has also seen happier days.

There’s healthy hard work, and then there’s the point at which efficiency rapidly descends into chaos. I must have been at that point on Saturday because, after carefully wrapping frames and paintings at the end of the 19th Annual Sedona Plein Air Festival, I managed to lose my painting pack. Although my paints and pochade box were in my suitcase instead of in the pack, it’s still a big issue. I’ve contacted the Sedona Arts Center and my car rental firm to see if either has it. Until they respond, I wait.

My exhaustion comes not just from my teaching and painting schedule but from the hours spent filming and editing Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters. Four are done; the fifth is almost in the bag. My intention was to finish them by the end of this calendar year, but that’s looking impossible.

My kit going canoeing in Camden Harbor.

Exhaustion has many harmful effects on the human brain, including cognitive impairment, emotional instability (quit saying that; I’m fine!), reduced attention span, impaired judgment, and a greater risk of accidents. Add to that the stress I alluded to here, and I had set up a perfect storm. However, I still don’t know how I could have missed a full-sized backpack full of painting tools as I was packing to come home.

“When life hands you lemons, make lemonade,” my husband told me. “Tell your reading audience what was in that pack and why you have those things.”

Eric Jacobsen and I were trudging up Beech Hill in the early spring when he noticed I was carrying my gear in a crummy old messenger bag. “You have good backpacks for hiking,” he pointed out. “Why don’t you buy one for painting, which you do every day?” That’s why I bought a Kelty backpack. Although expensive, it’s paid for itself many times over. The exact model I have is no longer made, but this is a close approximation. It’s sized for women, but they make a similar pack for men. If I’m carrying a small pochade box, I can hike long distances without hurting my elderly back.

My seedy but functional pochade boxes rely on a Red Devil scraper to keep them going. I don’t clean them, I just scrape out any paint that’s started to get sticky.

Two years ago, my students got sick of me telling them, “you need good brushes for watercolors, but you can paint with sticks in oils,” and bought me this fantastic set from Rosemary & Co. I added a few Isabey Chungking bristle brushes and three long-handle flats for laying in flat fields of color. Needless to say, I have great sentimental attachment to that brush set.

The only other important thing is my brush-washing canister, but I misplace them so often it hardly signifies.

In the miscellany category, there’s my Bristol-board sketchbook-my dearest friend-and a mechanical pencil from Staples. Eric Jacobsen also recommended this Princeton Catalyst wedge for moving paint around (I swear it only cost me $2 last year). I have a marking stylus given to me by my friend and monitor Jennifer Johnson, and a 4″ plastic putty knife I use as a straight-edge. Then there’s my Red Devil scraper, key to keeping my pochade boxes in their seedy but workable condition. And of course, there are bottle caps I use instead of palette cups, assorted S-hooks and other random hardware, and painting rags.

The problem with losing my sketchbooks is that I never know what drawings are in them. This appears to be a sketch of my depleted firewood pile.

I had pulled my paints out along with my pochade box, but my pack still held my lucky 1-pint Gamsol bottle, which has been refilled endlessly and has traveled around the world with me. There was also a small bottle of stand oil.

Last but certainly not least, there were these inexpensive mesh bags I bought from Amazon last year on the advice of Casey Cheuvront. They keep me organized-can’t you tell?

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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Monday Morning Art School: collaboration

Our team: Jacqueline Chandra, me, Lydia Gatzow and Kathleen Gray Farthing.

Collaboration is not usually an exercise for plein air painters, but occasionally an arts organizer will come up with a madcap scheme where teams of four will create a painting together in a short period of time. This is something that Sedona Plein Air does; the paintings are sold at $250 and the money used to raise funds for the art center. The staff likes to throw us curve balls, like ‘paint with your mouth’ or ‘paint with a packing peanut’. That said, the difference between last year’s and this year’s paintings was amazing. It all came down to the ten minutes we were allowed for planning.

Yes, there was a value sketch. I don’t leave home without it.

Design the project

We were divided into groups and given ten minutes to design and plan our 18X24 painting. That included choosing the subject, designing the composition, and setting the order in which we would paint (which defined each participant’s tasks). Jacqueline Chanda transferred our sketch to the canvas, I did the color-blocking, Kathleen Gray Farthing built up form, and Lydia Gatzow did the finishing flourishes. We each had 15 minutes for our section.

Maintain open communication

A madcap project like this doesn’t require Zoom calls, emails, or texts, thank goodness. Communication proved very simple; although we expected each other to fetch and critique as we went, there was little need for the latter. We all did our sections with a minimum of fuss.

My final wall at Sedona Plein Air. I set out to paint ten paintings, and ten got done.

Set realistic deadlines

That wasn’t a problem here, because the organizers had already agreed that each team of four trained monkeys would produce a finished 18X24 painting in an hour. The only way for this to work was for us to focus on our established goal in the fifteen minutes we were allotted. Call that ‘achieving milestones,’ if you must. In the real world, a deadline is a great way to avoid overworking.

Respect each other’s work

In other versions of this game, I’ve been frustrated when subsequent artists spent their fifteen minutes redoing earlier ideas instead of refining them. Some revision is necessary, because in the heat of the moment, one doesn’t always do it right. But wholesale reworking of another’s ideas is terribly disrespectful, not to mention a waste of time.

I had a great week, and painting within the peace park was among its highlights.

Document the process

Whoops, I didn’t do that. Wish I had.

Celebrate achievements

For us this just involved a lot of whooping and hollering, but more measured recognition is necessary in every real collaboration. We recognized each other as hardworking peers, so there was no buried conflict to be exposed. There’s nothing like one artist with a towering ego to sour a collaboration.

Resolve conflicts amicably

We didn’t have any conflicts, but if we had, we’d have just talked them out on the spot. It’s possible for people to become terribly ego-invested in a cooperative project, with one or more people secretly believing they’re the driving force and their partners are just useful idiots. Nip that thinking in the bud.

Promote the heck out of your collaboration.

That’s what I’m doing right here, folks! (The painting is already sold, but there’s always next year.)

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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Beauchamp Point in Autumn

Beauchamp Point, Autumn Leaves, 12X16, framed, oil on archival canvasboard, $1449 includes shipping in continental US

Each week until the end of the year I’ll be giving you a behind-the-scenes look at one of my favorite paintings. These are paintings that are available for you to purchase unless otherwise noted.

Ken DeWaard, Eric Jacobsen and Björn Runquist all live near me. In a normal year (unlike this one, where I’m tied to the studio making Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters), we paint together a lot. Not only are they very funny, they’re also quite tall, so I have artists to look up to.

Beauchamp Point (Autumn Leaves) was painted on a sunny fall day with Ken, on the dirt road that circles Beauchamp Point. It’s very much a local watering hole-I mean that literally, since there’s a protected swimming area with great smooth granite rocks on which you can sun yourself after your salt water dip. At the very tip of the point, there’s a land preserve that you can only access by paddling.

Spite House, located on Beauchamp Point in Rockport. Built around 1806 in Phippsburg, Maine by Thomas McCobb, this lovely colonial mansion was loaded onto a barge in 1925 and towed up the coast by tugboat. It was bought by Donald Dodge of Philadelphia who wanted it moved to Beauchamp Point in Rockport, where he planned to reside in the summers. Even the foundation was taken down and marked for re-setting on the new site. (Courtesy Digital Maine)

However, Ken is a disciple of a method he calls Park-N-Paint, which means that we never stray from our cars. I appreciate that, since my painting pack weighs about 40 lbs.

On this sparkling autumn day, the shadows were long and the sun was brilliant and warm. Ken painted the shadows on the rising forest slope. I looked down the road itself. There was almost no traffic, because very few tourists realize how lovely Maine is in October.

Rockport harbor is little changed from the time this postcard was made, as it’s home to many wonderful wooden boats even today.

The colors were brilliant, with every leaf picked out in jewel tones. As ever, I was reminded that we artists only produce a poor approximation of God’s handiwork. However, there’s something to be said for the way we interpret it. Plein air painting is truly a cooperative venture between nature and man.

You can buy this painting by clicking through here. I might even throw in directions to our secret swimming hole.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025:

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What I’ve accomplished so far this week

I wish I could remember the title of this piece.

We’re down to the final stretch at the 19th annual Sedona Plein Air Festival. At this point, I haven’t the energy to wax philosophical, so I’ll just tell you a little story about each of these paintings, in the order in which I completed them.

I can’t remember the title of the painting above. It was the first one I painted, and the first one I’ve sold. This is the painting where Casey Cheuvront and I were entertained by a series of spirit guides, which I wrote about here. I remain stubbornly unenlightened.

Early Light, 11X14, oil on archival canvasboard.

Early Light is of the building next to the Sedona Arts Center. To my eyes, it’s the most authentic building in downtown Sedona. The Jordan Family built it of red rock in 1938 to house their retail operations; their former fruit-processing barn is now part of the Sedona Arts Center. I doubt they could envision that it would one day offer Intuitive Psychic Readings or Reiki, Energy and Chakra Balancing, among other things. It’s 11X14, oil on archival canvasboard, available through Sedona Arts Center.

Dusk at the Merry-Go-Round, 11X14, oil on archival canvasboard.

Since my rental car was upgraded to a Jeep, Ed Buonvecchio, Casey and I decided to drive up Schnebly Hill Road. This track used to be the road to Flagstaff; today it’s barely fit for a high-clearance Jeep. It took us an hour to get to our destination, and we barely had teeth left. Heading down in the failing light, I realized I only had my sunglasses with me. Casey watched for obstacles while I steered. “Did you see that person on the side of the road?” she asked me. Ahem.

“It’s actually a little smoother if you take the washboards a little faster,” Casey told me. So, I did. “I didn’t mean the rocks!” she cried. Dusk at the Merry-Go-Round is 11X14, oil on archival canvasboard, available through Sedona Arts Center.

Pensive, 8X10, oil on archival canvasboard.

Pensive is an 8X10 which I did as a demo on Sunday, in concert with Hadley Rampton. “How did you feel when you were painting it?” a member of the audience asked.

“Larky,” I answered.

“That’s not larky; it’s pensive,” he replied. I didn’t realize I was pensive; I thought I was having a great time, but sometimes your subconscious has a mind of its own. Available through Sedona Arts Center.

Peace, 8X16, oil on archival canvasboard.

I’ve been praying for peace for Israel and Ukraine. My friend told me that there were prayer flags along the trail near the Amitabha Stupa and Peace Park. Frankly, I was attracted to the bright colors fluttering among the piñons and junipers, but why not pray for peace while you’re painting in a peace park? Peace is 8X16, and available through Sedona Arts Center.

The Beauty of the Rocks, 11X14, oil on archival canvasboard.

The Beauty of the Rocks is 11X14, and was painted along Oak Creek behind L’Auberge de Sedona, which is a very swank resort. There’s one classic view, looking upstream, but I painted that last year. Why not drop down into a fissure and paint the diagonal gap in the rocks instead? Of course, I couldn’t back up to look at my work without killing myself, so I periodically called to Laura Martinez-Bianco to ask her if passages needed changing. This committee approach to painting apparently works; I’m pleased with both the color and composition.

I have to select three pieces for judging. Although I’ve still got two more days to paint, I’m interested in your opinion. What do you like best, and why?

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