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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.

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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?

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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.)

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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.

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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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Monday Morning Art School: searching for meaning in Sedona

Winter Lambing, 36×48, oil on linen, $6231 framed includes shipping in continental US.

I’m in Sedona, AZ, painting in the 19th annual Sedona Plein Air Festival. I’ve written many times about how the question of meaning bedevils me. This place, with its crystals, vortexes, ley lines, and spiritualism ought to be chock full of meaning, but it’s not. That stuff is too glib and superficial for me.

For artists tucked into a corner of the Sedona landscape, it can be relentless. Casey Cheuvront was painting on a rocky promontory when a woman stopped in front of her to give her clients a spiel about the magnetic energy of the rocks. Another guide talked about how we were in a direct line between Cathedral Rock and Airport Mesa, which apparently confers special powers. Meanwhile, I was discussing reincarnation and non-attachment with a lovely gentleman from Princeton, NJ.

Midnight at the Wood Lot, oil on canvasboard, 12X16 $1,449.00 framed includes shipping in continental US.

Starting with an overarching concept like Sedona’s famous spirituality can easily veer into the sophomoric. That doesn’t mean that art can’t use symbols, metaphor, and allegory to convey deep layers of meaning. It’s just best to avoid the trite.

To me, one of the most important reasons to paint en plein air is to celebrate God’s creation. That has an emotional resonance with me; I am constantly struck anew by the variety and beauty of this world. Can I translate that in my paintings in a way that evokes an emotional response? Only if I paint something that also resonates with my viewers’ experiences and perspectives. Just as I am left cold by new age spirituality, others may be unable to engage with my deep feelings about the created world.

Lonely cabin, 8X10, oil on canvasboard, $652 framed includes shipping in continental US.

Ultimately, all we have is our own personal perspective. Our experiences, beliefs, and values add depth and authenticity to our creative expressions. That doesn’t mean I need to be overt about my ideas. They color my perception, and those who think the way I do will, hopefully, find my work relatable.

Of course, none of this works without paying attention to the formal elements of design. All meaning rests on technical skill. You may feel something deeply but be unable to communicate that to your viewer because you don’t have a cohesive visual language.

The Late Bus, 8X6, oil on canvasboard, $435 framed includes shipping in continental US.

Yesterday, Hadley Rampton and I demoed together at the Sedona Arts Center. It was an interesting way to do it, because our styles are very different, and the audience asked pertinent questions. When I finished, I asked the people watching what I should name my painting.

“How does it make you feel?” a man asked me.

“Oh, larky, I think, because I had a lot of fun painting it.”

“That’s not what it conveys to me at all,” he said. “To me, it’s pensive.”

Sometimes, what you think you’re painting is not at all what comes through. Other times, there is ambiguity or multiple tracks of meaning within the same painting. Viewers derive their own associations, and they may in fact be what you were thinking subconsciously all along. Although I’m having fun at this event, I have some serious matters clouding my immediate horizon.

The opposite of subtlety is intentional storytelling, where you’re crafting a narrative that’s explicit and easily comprehensible. Since a painting is essentially a snapshot that captures a moment in time, you must work to tell the before and after. Narrative painting can convey complex ideas, sometimes better than words can.

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Fallow fields

Autumn farm, oil on canvasboard, $1449 framed includes shipping and handling 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.

I painted this fallow field in the late autumn. Torrential rain was forecasted starting at midday, so I took off to paint before dawn. That didn’t help much; pour it did, in that kind of deep soaking rain that only autumn can provide.

Same subject, Lisa BurgerLenz

This was an opportunity to test a favorite hypothesis of mine: that location doesn’t matter as much as subject and style. I know painters who jealously guard their ‘special’ painting locations. I’ve always done the opposite. No two painters look at things the same way, and various paintings of the same site will all come out very different.

Kirkwood Preserve is a lovely, rugged patch of fallow fields and old trees, but fearing an imminent washout, we stayed close to our cars. That meant that four of us chose to paint exactly the same view: Nancy Granda, Lisa BurgerLentz, Bobbi Heath, and me.

Four paintings could not be more similar in subject outside a sip-and-paint, and yet they are very different. Even though they’re all roughly the same composition, they each have their own tonal range, level of abstraction, and brush or knife work.

Same subject, Nancy Granda

I am again reminded of the Arthur Rubinstein statement that I quoted on Monday: “Nothing in art can be the best. It is only… different.”

I’m in Sedona for the 19th annual Sedona Plein Air Festival I’m conflicted, because as much as I love Sedona, I adore the northeast at this time of year. As I drove south on Wednesday, I was struck once again by the panoply of jewel tones in which nature dresses our landscape this time of year.

Same subject, Bobbi Heath

The gold tones of this painting pair perfectly with Autumn Farm, Evening Blues, which I featured last Friday. The execution was nearly as dramatic, as we were painting in sheeting rain.

You can buy this painting by clicking through here. I promise you rain doesn’t come with it.

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When life blindsides us

Tilt-A-Whirl, oil on canvasboard, $869 framed. Includes shipping in continental US.

I had an extremely tight schedule this week. I leave for Sedona Plein Air at noon today, and I needed to finish recording video for Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters. I’m a person with one-day, one-week, one-year, and five-year plans, and I’m running behind.

I’m also a list-maker. When my schedule is overloaded, I just drop my gaze and focus on the next task. How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.

Deadwood, 30X40, oil on linen, $6231 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

That’s where I was on Monday morning when we received a phone call that suddenly changed everything. (It’s not my news to share, but we and our family are fine, and that’s what matters.) My carefully-calibrated projections have been knocked sideways.

I needed to start a whole-life pivot while discharging my immediate responsibilities, all the while coping with that horrible buzzing in the head that accompanies extreme stress. By the grace of God, I did it, but it wasn’t easy.

By Tuesday, I was a little more sanguine. “This is not the first time I’ve been blindsided,” I told my husband. The accidental deaths of two of my siblings as teenagers and my two cancer diagnoses were much worse shocks.

The Logging Truck, 16X20, oil on canvas, $2029 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Being blindsided is different from run-of-the-mill bad news. When artist Kevin Beers lost thirteen paintings in the devastating Port Clyde fire on September 28, he had no warning of the disaster that was about to crash down. One minute, he was larking along, and the next, his body of work was gutted.

Being blindsided has an instant physiological effect. Your flight-or-fight response kicks in, adrenaline pumps and your mind races. At that moment, it’s hard to take any action, let alone sensible action.

There are silver linings to most clouds, although they sometimes take years to realize. I often muse about writing a book called “100 Best Things About Having Cancer.” Since it didn’t kill me, my first cancer was liberating. I stopped doing things I didn’t want to do. I finally did something about the psychic damage caused by my sister’s and brother’s deaths. You could say that cancer allowed me to finally be happy.

The day I learned I was having twins was a good shock. However, it had its moments. My husband was in grad school so I was the primary wage-earner. I spent three months on bed rest and was hospitalized for five weeks. I did lots of worrying, and none of my fears came true. We waste a lot of time worrying in this life.

Ravening Wolves, oil on canvas, 24X30, $3,478.00 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Perhaps it’s true that challenge helps us develop resilience; I don’t know. My personal philosophy is that God has never let me down yet, and he won’t start now. Of course I have my moments just like everyone else; I frequently echo Doubting Thomas in prayer: “Lord, suspend my disbelief!”

Last Sunday, we had a visiting preacher named Gary Bolton. His vision is absurdly large, to plant new churches across Ireland (thereby neatly sidestepping the Protestant-Catholic divide). It would be so easy for him to lose heart and falter, but he’s applying the same logic I mentioned at the beginning of this post: How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.

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Monday Morning Art School: it’s all in the preparation

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

When I’m teaching workshops and classes, I frequently ask students, “What’s your takeaway lesson here?” Last week my workshop students got a deep dive into two artists’ working method: Andrew Wyeth‘s, through a guided tour of the Farnsworth Art Museum, and Colin Page‘s, from the maestro himself.

“Painting is easy,” Colin said. “It’s the preparation that’s hard.” I smiled, because that’s something I frequently say as well. Wyeth didn’t whisper it from beyond the grave, but his methodology is spelled out in the museum. For his studio paintings, he was a consummate draftsman who made many sketches and paid meticulous attention to detail.

Bracken Fern, 12X9, oil on canvasboard, $869 framed includes shipping in continental US.

Students frequently ask me how to achieve loose brushwork. My first question is why they want that, as it’s not a universal value. Rather it’s a question of style. Linear painting is based on line and boundary; the artist sees in clear shapes and outline. Painterly painting focuses on the interactions of masses, shadows, and merged shapes. An example of a contemporary linear landscape painter is Linden Frederick. An example of a contemporary painterly landscape painter is Kevin Macpherson. Neither style is ‘better,’ they’re just different. And there are many painters (including me) who work in the middle somewhere.

When Arthur Rubinstein was asked if he believed people when they told him he was the greatest pianist of the 20th century, he replied, “Not only I don’t believe them, I get very angry when I hear that, because it is absolute, sheer, horrible nonsense. There isn’t such a thing as the greatest pianist of any time. Nothing in art can be the best. It is only… different.”

What is a universal value in art is assurance, and that rests on the back of solid preparation. Rubinstein joked that he was lazy and didn’t like to practice, but he still spent 6-9 hours a day at the piano. “And a strange thing happened. I began to discover new meanings, new qualities, new possibilities in music that I have been regularly playing for more than 30 years.”

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

The same thing is true of painting, as is its obverse-the less preparation you do, the more you’ll fumble in performance. And the more you must redraw, reposition, reset values, or restate, the less immediate and assured your brushwork will be. That’s as true in oils, acrylics and pastels as it is in watercolor.

What does that mean for the emerging artist? At a minimum, you should do a carefully-realized sketch, considered in terms of compositional patterns of darks and lights. This sketch should be moved to the canvas or paper accurately; if that requires gridding, then you should grid. Colors should be tested first for value, and then to how they relate to the overall key of the painting.

Sea Fog, Castine, 9X12, oil on archival canvasboard, $869 framed includes shipping in continental US

Yes, I know artists who don’t do these things. They can be sorted into two groups. The first are those who are very experienced. They’ve learned what corners they can cut (which are not the same for everyone). The second are impatient beginning and intermediate painters. They almost always fail in the preparation, and then they wonder why they’re flailing around in the painting stage.

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The Radnor Hunt

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.

Autumn Farm, Evening Blues, oil on canvasboard, $1449 framed, includes shipping in continental US.

I had horses as a kid, and I rode, but the kind of riding I did was generally country lanes or along the Erie Canal. My mare, Bess, had been trained to an English saddle and bit, so I rode her on an old hunt saddle. My gelding, Oscar, was trained to a Western saddle, so I rode him Western with a curb bit. Our third horse, Capricious, was too much for me, so I rode him as little as I could. I did do my first jump on him. It was inadvertent. I didn’t see the ditch, he did, and he flew over it beautifully.

I took enough riding lessons that my parents were pretty sure I wouldn’t fall off. After that they left me to get on with it. There was little style to my riding. I had no special clothes or boots. Our horses weren’t shod because we never rode on the road. In fact, much of their lives were spent turned out in our old orchard, where they’d get drunk every fall on rotting fruit.

I do love drawing and painting horses. This is Scout, my friend Roger’s horse. No sense fussing; he doesn’t know how to hold a pose.

As an avid reader of British literature, I always loved the idea of the hunt. However, the closest I ever got to it were the hunter-jumper classes at the Niagara County Fair. In field hunting, the riders are dressed with formal elegance, there’s a pack of baying hounds, and the horses are beautiful, muscular and brave. I always imagined them streaming along tree-lines and taking fences at a full gallop.

So when I had the chance to paint near the historic Radnor Hunt in Malvern, PA, I was thrilled. I would paint the landscape and when the horses appeared I would somehow limn them into my composition.

Few things have been more of a let-down. It was a weekday, so the riders were in ratcatcher, which is a nice enough combination of tweed and tan, but hardly the pinks (which are actually scarlet coats) or black-and-white of a formal hunt. I first spotted the riders as they picked their way slowly down a far hillside and crossed the road towards me. You can see them in my painting as little marks, if you look carefully.

The hounds didn’t seem particularly motivated to start with, and they promptly lost the scent (if they’d ever had it in the first place). Riders and horses trotted around aimlessly, a few taking soft jumps over a drainage ditch, while the huntsman tried his darndest to get the dogs organized. As the false starts dragged on, most riders pulled up in groups of two or three and chatted. Their horses cropped grass. Eventually it was apparent even to me that the subject of the hunt had outfoxed the dogs. They turned and headed back up the hill from whence they had come.

It’s easy to do a gesture drawing of a horse. You go at it just the same way you do with people.

It was hardly a scene from one of Anthony Trollope‘s novels, but I did get a cracking good painting out of it.

Yes, I romanticize horses.

Autumn Farm, Evening Blues is 12X16. $1449 includes shipping and handling in continental US. It’s a bargain compared to what a good hunter will cost you, and you won’t have feed, vet or farrier bills. Click here to purchase online.

Reserve your spot now for a workshop in 2025: