From inspiration to completion my process celebrates a quote by Camille Pissarro, a Impressionist

Blessed are those who see beauty in humble places.

Grief is a humble place, whether it is before loss and we know it is coming, or after loss. The seasons re-enact the story of the grief journey. What or who we love thrives in summer. Where rain and sun kiss, everything is green. All is well. Then, ever so slightly the earth tilts away from the sun. What we love is not as it should be or as we hoped it would be. Green fades. , Reds, yellows, blues meld into a plethora of color, fade to brown. Etched against the cool white of winter, brown waits. When what we love is gone, promise slumbers. Spring will come.

I collect natural and manmade ephemera that are textured by disuse, brokenness or aging. Their character contributes to a piece as subject, texture or markings in paint and other medium. Broken bits of tree bark or a broken key add pattern on art pages or underpaintings. A forgotten cabbage at end of summer or field of daisies in the backdrop of a mountain may be the next painting. Or, a singular humble place catches my eye. Perhaps it is a gnarled tree, or the anonymity of a farmer on his  tractor in the grandeur of green., or the innocence of a child silouetted against a beach at sunset.