From the first light of day on this place there is a sense that catches me up and keeps me. A rooster crows, a conversation breaks out between birds in the oak tree outside of my bedroom window, and the cicada say moving things all in unison. And in every field on this place multiple scenes play out like moving canvases etched by an unknown hand whether anyone is looking or not. A daily rendering of exquisite pieces of sometimes warmblooded, fur covered art, this farm pulses with sight and sound all its own. These canvases are not fit to hang on a wall in some fine home, bought for a lot from some fine gallery. These fine works heave, breathe, walk and run. And this is just how I like it.
Whenever I touch a stark canvas with acrylic or oil there it remains, just paint scrawled helpless, unsteady on white. But when I, with charged anticipation, carry the seed to the garden and to the distinct and darkening brown soil it feels as if the world waits in breathless wonder at what this canvas will yield. And when I fill the spaces of grassy green with fine hoofed ones; browns, blacks and whites, or set a trio of soft spring geese afloat out in the pond, there is a hush in the air for me, the artist. I stand and stare at my work like children visiting a museum for the first time. When I add a rosemary hedge, a fig and some plump bronze hens, well then, I have done a great thing.
And it seems I am painting my world in the nicest sort of way.