blog 2009

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Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Coop dropped by this morning.

One less pigeon in the world.

I watched him eat his breakfast in strips, glancing over his shoulder as the garbage truck roared by.

He flew away with the leftovers clutched in his talons. Nothing goes to waste.

A few minutes went by and the pigeons swooped back down to the seed scattered on the ground. It was only a couple of metres away from the carnage.

Business as usual.

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Stumpy tries to pretend she's one of the mourning doves.

She stays out of their way.

She's hoping they'll let her hang around with them.

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Stumpy has only one feather in her tail.

That makes things kind of hard when you're a bird.

Monday, December 14, 2009

The last minute Christmas deadlines were driving me totally nuts. Everything was pissing me off real bad.

It looked slushy, rainy and cold outside but I didn't care. I went for a run in the forest.

I headed to the trail where I got lost and tried to figure out where I went wrong. It didn't work. I got lost again. I ended up running in a big circle.

Luck was just not on my side.

But then again, maybe it was. The icy ruts had softened up under a cover of snow giving just the right amount of tooth to my snow trekkers — the spikes I slip over the treads of my running shoes. They give me terrific stability and confidence in every icy and snowy condition you can imagine.

The best thing is, very few people know their secret powers.

Which meant there wasn't a single soul on the trails when I ran and ran for miles and miles in the drizzle and sloppy snow, just hearing the clump clump clump of my shoes.

They are my winter life savers.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Winter weather arrived with a vengeance last week. Rain turned to snow and a flash freeze turned the trails to almost unwalkable rut-filled slippery ankle-twisters.

Yesterday I left for the forest about 4:30 thinking I'd take a short quick walk along a new trail. But I got lost and by the time the sun set, I was about three kilometres away from home. Thankfully, reflected light off the snow got me home.

Boy were my feet sore.

There were three pods of deer along the way, about a dozen all together. When I stopped, stood still and waited, the deer slowly relaxed and walked right by me like I was just another tree.

They remind me of frisky tame goats.

A lonely little sparrow has been hanging around the feeder on the back porch, sheltered from the brutal winds and blowing snows of the last week. She flies only short distances and it's hard for her to walk. She must have been injured in a hawk attack.

She sits and waits out the storms, retreating for cover in a panic when the pigeons descend and bully her out of their way.

Her mates have all deserted her.

A snowflake landed on her head the other day.

I call her Stumpy.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

The ground is hard and frozen today. A noticeably cold breeze.

Snow dusted the neighbourhood last night. It stuck around long enough to show that a skunk had wound its way along the edge of the pond.

I love snow. It preserves history and whispers its stories to the wind.

It gives up its secrets, if one cares to look.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

These short dark dreary days are made for thinking.

For almost 10 years, I've been living and working in a crowded subdivision in a small city. The forest, just next door, is where I escape day after day. The woods have been my sanctuary.

I love my townhouse and my south-facing yard but still, there have been some tough days. I'm continually disrupted by all the goings-on. The neighbours aren't very nice. But the worst thing is that the forest is being violated more and more when I visit. It's hard to watch. Garbage. Drugs. Dog bites. Dead deer. The other day, a loony drunk guy doing a disgusting thing behind a tree.

When you're a woman and live alone, there's a certain amount of trepidation whenever you step out the door. When you're an artist and you observe the minutia of the world around you, it's painful to see the stupid things that are unleashed by the thoughtless. You want to get away from it all and have a few minutes to yourself, unspoiled. A small thing, but everything.

When I paint, invariably my exterior and interior world manifest themselves in my work. I don't want my art to be dark. I want my paintings to provide a transcendent experience. In practical terms, to be able to do that an artist must be hopeful.

My secret obsession for these last many years has been reading the real estate listings for properties near the lake. The last few summers were spent at B & B's at various spots around Ontario, watching the water, sketching, photographing. But really, dreaming about living there. I am renewed and at peace near waves and surf. I love to swim and the comfort of the water.

I spent summers growing up at a waterfront cottage. Then my parents sold it and bought a condo in Florida. Fort Lauderdale never could hold a candle to Lake Huron.

Does one ever choose to make life by the lake a reality? Or is it like so many things, better when just a fantasy?

Does age make a difference? I will be 50 next year. A milestone.

Computers and the Internet have made it possible to work anywhere, theoretically. In reality, a certain physical presence is still required. The commute to work — a few times a month — from Lake Huron is an hour and a half. At what point do you decide that an extra long commute is worth it? And winters. There would be many days of lake effect snow that would make it impossible to drive.

I have elderly parents who don't live far away. They depend on that, although they don't like to admit it. My other siblings rarely communicate with them.

Juggling so many balls. Why do things have to be so complicated?

Last week I saw a nice lot in Grand Bend on the shores of Lake Huron. On one side, you could see a pond. On the other, a little river snaked by. You could walk just around the corner to where a path led into a magnificent provincial park.

Even though the sun was dropping in the sky, I parked my car, stepped onto that path and walked and walked and walked for miles it seemed. It was nice soft half-sandy ground. The path began to follow a river. A flock of geese honked noisily and landed on the water. A big bird flushed out from a cluster of cedars. And then all of a sudden, it was quite dark. I turned around and tore back up the path all the way back to the car, a good half hour run. Yikes. Sweaty.

It took two hours to drive home from there. I didn't notice the time go by at all.

As soon as I stepped in the door of my warm familiar house, I threw all my clothes into the washer and jumped in the shower.

But my mind was somewhere else, thinking about that flock of geese on a dark river.

Friday, November 27, 2009

More piles of feathers in the yard then the other day, a shredded rabbit.

The culprit:

A Cooper's Hawk. He was so beautiful.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

People have been basking in the sun and mild temperatures for more than a week now. Very unexpected.

The wildlife has been taking advantage too, sometimes to their peril. A sharp shinned hawk has been closely monitoring the birdfeeders all day long, scaring away even the smallest of birds.

He got more than one meal though.

One little red squirrel didn't seem especially intimidated by the hawk when he found one of my "squirrel-proof" feeders. I'm sure he thought it was custom-made just for his situation. He was just barely able to squeeze in and out of the wire cage.

I hate to think what will happen the day he eats too much.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

The last few weeks I've been working on some landscapes from Parry Sound, and mulling over Pat's portrait in the back of my mind. Plain and simple, how do you paint someone's portrait?

We're so lucky we live in the 21st century. There are many sources of information where we can research without ever leaving the warmth of home: a documentary on television, lots of great Internet sites.

In previous generations, artists had to travel hundreds of miles to view exhibitions. Or else they had to visit or live in art hot spots like New York, London, Toronto and Montreal to see the latest creations of the art world and get inspired.

With portraiture, there is the traditional furniture-store style of straightforward narrative, with a reasonable reproduction of likeness and a moderately pleasing colour palette. Something to prettify the wall.

Then there are the artists who rise above that, and give a little piece of themselves in every painting.

Bravo TV has a wonderfully interesting series called The Artist's Life. One segment featured Burlington, Ontario artist Heather Horton who specializes in poignant portrayals of her friends and family. The backgrounds in Horton's paintings play an important role and help tell the story. I love the air of mystery that infuses her works.

St. John's, Newfoundland artist Grant Boland is another portraitist whose work I love. I first saw Boland's work at the Toronto International Art Fair which I make a point of attending annually. He paints on panel instead of canvas, making it easier to blend brush strokes. Boland is a master of realistic rendering. The pensive moodiness is just fabulous.

   Self Portrait, 2004

      Reproduced with permission from the artist

I've always been drawn to those who step away a little from the mainstream. Or a lot.

The other day TVO televised a fascinating documentary on British artist Francis Bacon, whose Triptych sold for about £43 million (US $86,281,000) in 2008. How lucky we were to be able to see film footage of the artist himself, talking about his life and his motivation. This would not have been possible a generation or two ago.

Bacon is famous for his portraits — nightmarish interpretations of subjects often borrowed from paintings of the past, decorated with depictions of blood, raw meat and screams.

I was very interested in his background techniques, his process of blending texture, space and imagery. Bacon said that chance played a big part in his painting process, although he was known to use preparatory sketches as well.

Bacon's scandalous lifestyle and sadomachochistic themes played a big role in his art. At the time, it was without precedent. It also seemed to reflect the nihilism that embodied the second half of the 20th century. Collectors snapped up Bacon's paintings, particularly at the end of his life. Bacon was one of the rare artists who was able to live to enjoy some wealth from the sale of his paintings.

I don't agree with Bacon's philosophy. But my hat goes off to him. He lived his life fearlessly and wasn't afraid to express himself with the utmost naked honesty, right in the face of critics and social norms.

Courage is a rare quality in these days of homogenized standards and watered-down ethics.

Bacon must have felt that a few million £ was pretty nice pay-back.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

During these grey days of fall, sometimes it seems like it's only getting colder and wetter and sadder, day by day.

Today was a little warmer although overcast. I grabbed my camera before I went out to see if it was as bad as it looked.

Nothing ever is, when you're actually outside.

Uncomfortable weather only forces you to look more closely in front of you. There are lots of gems to be found.

Daylight hours are so much shorter now and just like everyone else, you're trying to get your fix of the outdoors before the sun goes down.

The magic hour seems to be 3 p.m. After that, the forest is packed with walkers, dogs, joggers and cyclists running amok.

Were there any birds in all this racket going on? I wondered. It was pretty late in the season. Maybe they were all gone south for the winter.

Sure enough, my old pal from the spring the Pied Billed Grebe was in the Southcreek Pond all by himself.

There were Golden Crowned Kinglets, too, flitting around the trees. You could barely hear their tiny little peeps over the din of traffic. Those darn flighty birds never properly sit still for a minute. Although this one did.

Much to my surprise, there was a Blue Heron at another pond on the trail, sure that he was blending in with the background.

He was.

Just for a minute, I managed to find a lovely silent moment of beauty.

It was already dark by the time I got back. Those July sunsets at 9 p.m. seem like another world.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

I had been pretty ill for about five weeks in July and couldn't do much in the studio. Then work started getting busy in August and before I knew it, four months had gone by.

Finally I picked up my brushes again today and tried to finish a peony study I had started in June. I like working wet-on-wet but the paint had dried. It didn't look like it was going to be much fun but I thought I'd give it a shot anyway.

I rubbed some colour into the background with my finger. I had gloves on, of course. Safety first.

It was nice, a glow that set off the foreground.

I filed away this effect for future reference.

I love the vibrancy of colours. Their hues and tones and combinations produce a palpable effect in people.

We all have varying degrees of synesthesia I believe.

Monday, October 12, 2009

I spent the day reformatting this blog.

More people than I ever thought have told me they enjoy reading it. I had no idea anyone would spend time reading this diary so I have been so pleasantly surprised. Like so many artists, I feel I have difficulty communicating with people face to face. Some days I feel my whole life has been spent compensating.

I feel so rewarded when someone finally understands me.

Here I am trying to show what it is like being an artist. As you can see, a lot of it is tied up with the world around us. We all are natural beings, affected by the cycles of nature right down to the hourly changes in the weather. Often we are not aware of it, but the world of forces, plants and animals have more influence in our lives than anything else.

Most of us celebrate it. Even on the coldest days in winter, people are outdoors hiking, skiing or shoveling snow, just for the heck of it.

Or just watching and enjoying.

If they're an artist, they're preserving that feeling in a work of art so they can think about it even more.

That's what I try to do. Sometimes, the results are disappointing. Other times, they're not so bad.

The most wonderful times are when someone else gets it, too. Like you.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

It's hard work being an artist sometimes.

The Parry Sound trip was difficult, no doubt about it. Cold early mornings to catch the best light, eating on the run, unfamiliar surroundings, awkward facilities. It took adjusting.

And just the basics. I'm sure I wore the same rumpled jeans and wool hat and socks for four days in a row. As for refreshment breaks, let's just say I became an expert at packing a thermos. And finding secluded spots in the woods.

My rental cottage had only water pumped straight from the lake. The surrounding roads were single lane gravel trails really, partially washed out by potholes and streams, with blind turns and 45 degree slopes. Sayonara the suspension on my poor car.

I was always afraid I'd meet another vehicle. What then? Someone would have to back up into the woods. Without hitting a tree. Good luck.

Thank goodness, it never happened. All that finger-crossing and praying must have worked.

Loons calling out their mournful cries were always the backdrop, even when I looked out the kitchen window.

At night it was so quiet, your ears practically hurt. It felt good though.

Parry Sound is full of weathered rocks and an amazing assortment of beautiful lichens and mosses. The forest is full of them.

I never ran into a bear although they are everywhere, apparently. I never left any food lying around outside.

Even the highways are gorgeous.

But if I saw one more darn inukshuk, I thought I would rip my hair out.

Why is it that we humans have to mark our territory everywhere we go? Nothing has a legitimate existence unless it's surveyed, staked, numbered, sold, bought, and taxed. Even in the most ridiculously remote places: on a rock in the middle of a tangled forest northwest of Parry Sound.

"Survey Monument. Penalty For Removal 6 Yrs. Imprisonment."

The loveliest place I came across was Snug Harbour where the morning light was magical and the air was warm and welcoming even on a miserable day. It was perfectly named.

By the last day, I had had enough of rocks, drizzle and desolation. I was aching to see Algonquin Park before I left.

Even though the two regions are only about 100 km apart, the difference is like night and day. All of a sudden, the colours become electric.

It has to do with Algonquin's steep hills, thick boreal forest and rapid contrasts in temperature. All it takes is one or two nights of plus four or six temps. Then voila, the next day the landscape is transformed into a Group of Seven painting.

You just can't take a bad photo in Algonquin Park.

You may have noticed this shot was taken from the middle of the road. Do not try this at home kids. Especially at the height of fall colours. The leafers are mad drivers and they were everywhere at this time of the year, darting from lookout to lookout like crazed treasure-hunters.

My advice: avoid the busloads and trail parking lots at all costs. My best sketches and shots were taken at the side of Highway 60, parked safely in the small pull-off spots near railings.

Or better yet, visit during weekdays when the leafers are occupied with more important things like making money in the big city.

It was nice to see the knowing smiles when I stopped and caught some fabulous views.

But if I stayed too long, sure enough there would be an avalanche of gawkers pulling off the road and parking just in front of me, wanting to photograph the exact same view. Sometimes they wouldn't even know what they were photographing, so they'd ask me.

There was only one thing to do. Just when they were some distance away from their cars, I'd pull a U-ey and head in the opposite direction. Then hide my car behind a tree.

I left Algonquin Park mid-afternoon to avoid sitting behind all those slow campers and dawdling buses. It was a drive straight back home, through three and a half hours of stop and go traffic, pelting rain, rush hour, tedium and complete exhaustion.

I had a lot of great new material. But boy, was I was glad to get back. First thing, I drank a big glass of cold water straight from the tap.

Sweetie was already waiting for me on the back step.

Monday, September 28, 2009

A massive flock of grackles filled the sky at sunset.

The great big flocks of birds at this time of the year are so moving. All those individuals acting in concert for the sake of the whole. There is something musical about it, seriously. Mysterious, too.

I always think of fractals when I see those swelling shrinking transforming clouds of birds.

Friday, September 25, 2009

There was a minor stir in the local world of birding.

Pat let me try out her old 200 mm lens last week. I left the camera sitting beside the window.

This funny looking blackbirdy bird stopped by for a visit. He ate some bread and had a nice little bath in the big saucer I leave on the ground for the sparrows.

That was a pretty strange looking blackbird, I thought. Maybe a grackle and a flicker got together?

I grabbed my camera just when he dipped his beak in the water. When I posted the photo online they told me it was a Rusty Blackbird, kind of unusual for the area. People sounded excited.

That old lens sure came in handy. Especially when I thought of attaching it to my camera. What a good idea that turned out to be.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

One of my favourite parts of the province is Lambton County bordering the southern shores of Lake Huron. The weather is warmer, the skies are bigger and brighter and everything feels so light on your shoulders.

Port Franks just south of Grand Bend is particularly nice and quiet, with some of the best sandy beaches around. It's a great place to forget about your problems.

I always check out the shallow pools formed by the creek emptying into the lake.

Checking out puddles is a habit from childhood that I never gave up.

Sure enough there were five Sanderlings having a pit stop and recharging their batteries.

Just like everyone else.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

I groaned when I saw the first dead leaves lying on the boardwalk. Fall had arrived in the forest already.

How sad.

No point in fighting it. I just enjoyed being gloomy.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

When you love the outdoors and nature as much as most artists do, it's hard living in the city some days.

Today I escaped from work and went for a walk in the forest behind my house for exactly one hour.

I heard: 3 sets of backup beeps, 1 car horn, 2 school buzzers, 11 airplanes, 1 screaming child, 1 dog barking at me, 2 Bluejays, 14 Chickadees, 1 Flicker, 5 Canada Geese, 1 Cardinal, 1 million katydids and the wind rustling continuously through the trees.

I saw: 17 pieces of casually thrown garbage, 2 piles of broken glass, 1 abandoned campfire, 3 piles of garbage lying more than 1 year, 2 unleashed Rottweilers roaming through the forest, 1 large dog chasing a deer, 2 dogs churning up Turtle Pond, 1 harried father with a stroller, toddler and unleashed hound, 3 dirty looks as I scribbled on my scrap of paper, 4 abandoned bags of dog poop, 3 walkers and 1 jogger fully respecting the rules, and 22 Canada Geese, 24 Mallards and 1 Painted Turtle in the South Creek Pond.

I saw a Black Throated Blue Warbler and this Magnolia Warbler

and this beautiful migrating dragonfly resting in the sun.

I guess it was worth it.

Sunday, September 12, 2009

It's so hard to stay inside when the sun is shining all day long ... Finally, after a summer of rain and clouds it was warm and fine.

Pat Hogge and I went birding yesterday to the Brighton constructed wetlands — actually, they're open sewage lagoons — and Presqu'ile Provincial Park. It's more than a two hour drive from Guelph east along the 401 through Toronto, and the traffic can be murder. But when you finally get there, it's worth it.

I can't get over how waders and shorebirds love smelly algae and those odorous sewage lagoons. The stinkier the better. Why? Why? One of life's little mysteries.

I finally saw the Virginia Rails at the lagoons. Everyone had seen them but me. They are a beautiful shade of rusty brown blending into grey.

We spent the whole day watching and photographing birds. Pat got some good ones, like this beautiful Northern Parula.

We saw a ton of warblers. They were darting around in the trees behind the lighthouse at Presqu'ile, eating bugs. I saw a Wilson's Warbler, a lifer for me. It has a distinctive black cap. Pat got a photo.

There was the cutest little Black and White Warbler in tree right in front of our faces. He didn't mind stopping for just a minute and posing.

We spent the last few minutes before sunset at Owen's Point on the beach, scoping out a few shorebirds and admiring the sunset. They have a great area for resting migrating shorebirds fenced off from the rest of the beach. How considerate.

Couldn't ask for a more perfect day.

This is the day I will remember in January when I'm watching the weather forecast and wishing it would please stop snowing.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Got my first commission today. I'll be painting a portrait of Pat and her beautiful horse Abbey. She's an Appaloosa, but small and dainty.

Abbey is a holy terror, according to Pat. I can hardly believe it. She was smart as a whip and worked hard when Pat's son Aaron put her through her dressage moves. You could see it was difficult for her to control her own heavy body and make those tiny little moves. She was sweating hard underneath her saddle when they released her leathers.

They let her munch on some juicy grass and dandelions as a reward. Pat says it's too fattening for her but Abbey sure did love that stuff.

She really deserved it.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Everything was tossed aside the last week because it is the height of fall bird migration. Those flighty little warblers are everywhere feeding on berries and wild grapes and the bugs as they make their way through the woods. I was there every morning, sleep deprived and exhausted. I really wanted to see the last beautiful birds of the year as they headed south on their journeys of more than a thousand miles, to places like west Florida, Mexico and the Caribbean. That's a great way to spend winters but it sure is dangerous crossing those darn Great Lakes.

My birding partner Pat and I went to Rock Point Provincial Park, south of Dunnville, Ontario, to check out the shorebird migration. The park sits on a 350 million year-old slab of petrified silt that still contains the remains of ancient corals.

The shorebirds were so cute and little. They are amazingly cheerful. I don't know why because most of them fly from the Arctic Circle and Hudson Bay thousands of miles south, then back again in the spring. I am filled with admiration for their strength and bravery. If only humans could be like them.

They weren't afraid of us sitting right there while they were gobbling away like mad at the bugs and stuff in the very stinky algae that accumulates in the sheltered inlets of the point. The birds are only about 3 inches long: pretty hard to see and a bugger to identify. There were semipalmated plovers, semipalmated sandpipers, white rumped sandpipers, least sandpipers, Baird's sandpipers and lots more that I just kind of threw up my hands in exhaustion over. I was getting bleary-eyed and a bad case of scope head.

It was strange weather, hot and cold at the same time, and half way through the afternoon, Pat told me to turn around and look. It was a water spout that grew smaller then bigger as we watched it. Okay Pat, I said, what's our escape plan? If it hits land, she said, run like hell.

Whoa. Good idea.

Thankfully, it disappeared.

Friday, August 14, 2009

It was deadline day with the newspaper and normally frantic around the office. Not today. Summer had finally hit southern Ontario. I sat in the shade under the overhang of the redbud tree and just enjoyed being cool.

Sweetie, my pet chipmunk, paid me an unexpected visit. She quietly climbed up the fence, straddled a branch of the redbud tree and landed spread-eagled on my head. Of course, I immediately thought some horrible vampirish creature was gripping my hair. Panic! I flung it to the ground in disgust then, realizing it was Sweetie, apologized profusely. She still looked like her feelings were hurt.

Sorry about that, Sweetie.

Don't ask why I feel the need to apologize to an animal. Out loud.

Here she is afterwards, eating sunflower seeds on my knee. I was forgiven.

Gosh, those kooky animals.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

It was one of those stinking hot days when it was trying to rain all day long with no result, except to make it unbearably humid. Then suddenly at supper time it did rain a little. Everybody was outside walking around in the cool air, getting a respite.

The fields and parks all around were blanketed with a heavy mist just before sunset. I couldn't resist running away from the computer for an hour and getting some shots of that effect, with the sun's last rays piercing the gloom in the forest just behind the Southcreek pond.

I live in a neighbourhood of mostly old people who never venture outdoors except in their cars. It's that post-war generation mentality, I think, people who just aren't environmentally friendly. The outdoors is a place to be avoided at all cost, even if your house backs onto a conservation area. What a pity they can't enjoy times like this.

On the other hand, how glad I am that I can be alone in the forest.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Here I am staring out the window at work, dreaming about being outdoors, sketching, hiking, taking photographs for my next series of paintings … maybe a more rugged location with some serious rocks and shoreline …

Darn it anyway, why do people have to work for a living?

I had the bug and I just couldn't stand it any more. So I spent the whole day surfing the Internet, looking at places to rent in Haliburton. I found this nice cottage right on the water on Loon Bay, here:

Booked it for three nights and now it's paid for.

I can hardly wait for September 29.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

The number one rule about going for a walk in the forest: don't forget your camera.

I learned this the hard way today when I walked through the Hanlon Creek forest and arrived at the abandoned fields. They were filled with swaths of white and pink from all the daisies and the vetch, with bright yellow splotches of black-eyed Susans. It was gorgeous, even more so because there wasn't a soul around except me and the butterflies. Camera, camera, where was my camera? Of course it was right where I'd left it — on top of the filing cabinet at home.

I trekked all the way home and came back again for this shot. Tenacious or nuts, you choose.

The light was just right, even though it was noon. An even cloud cover allowed me to get all the colours without a lot of shadow.

On the way back I ran smack into the twin fauns right on the trail, leaping about with the happiness of just being born. Crazy loveable deer on crack.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

It's my first show ever at Art-On-The-Street in downtown Guelph. There were just scads of cool people: art students, yummy mummies and gorgeous dads with cute kids in strollers. Artsy retired couples, hipsters, scenesters, performers. The Sonic Playground was just up the street where kids beat up percussion displays. It was just marvellous. In theory. My nerves were kind of shattered by the end of the day. But I was so pooped, I hardly noticed.

Here's a great view of the festival shot by my friend Irv Donald.

Everything in my booth had this eerie blue glow. That's what you get when the Price Club runs out of white tents.

All's well that ends well though. A lovely Guelph woman named A. W. was my very first customer. I was so glad it was her because her daughter is an artist and A. W. totally gets it. She bought Smoke Lake, Algonquin. She said it reminded her of the family cottage near Huntsville.

It had just finished drizzling that morning at Algonguin Park when I did the sketches and reference photos for that painting. The sun was trying to come out and the mist was rising off the lake. There was a touch of chill in the air, but I hardly felt it. Algonquin Park was the most beautiful park I'd ever seen.