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North of Livingston I follow the Shields River, a small winding river running parallel to the Crazy Mountains.  I often drive up old gravel ranch roads toward the mountains.  This is austere country, dry empty prairie interspersed with patches of juniper. I love this country for its stark solitude. The mountains form a long island reef rising out of waves of grass. The geographic distinction between mountain and hilly plain is abrupt and absolute.  Though a challenge to paint, I feel an artistic kinship to this country. I return often because I want to speak about this place, not because I feel confident to do so.

The Last Five Minutes of Glory
The Last Five Minutes of Glory
A portrait of the little artist

Even with the plethora of local choices I still get restless; then I travel with the whole family. We camp and I paint early in the mornings and again in the evenings. (If I time it right, I return to camp just as the coffee is brewed and the boys are up!) Usually I reserve the middle of the day to hike and explore with my three boys.

One of my favorite mental images is my four year old, Jasper, emerging from the studio clutching his paintbrushes and balancing a stack of paint tubs between his left hand and his chin. He’d even managed to put his paint smock on. “I’m ready to go!” he declared. He’d overheard me tell Lynelle that I was heading out to paint on location. What could I do?  He was determined to come with. So we all loaded up and drove to a fishing access on the Yellowstone River.

All five of us set up on the banks of the river and painted, even little Isaak.  It was about the best day in “the office” that I’ve had.

Family painting adventure
A trio of artists

Sometimes the prospect of painting the landscape seems absurd.  Light will always slip through my fingers.  Who can comprehend a mountain or explain a river?  And yet it all haunts me.  Sometimes I get angry.  Completing a good painting is like trying to tell a woman that you love her, and it just comes out sounding foolish.  Shakespeare would have said it better. . . and then I go out painting on location and watch my friend cheering like a dumb frat boy, and I feel exactly the same.  We’re just happy to be here, happy to try to comprehend the mystery that God mixed into all that beauty.  Ultimately a sense of gratitude motivates me.  We can pad our lives with every comfort and convenience, and still the sun rises and reflects off of rock and snow, floods the valleys and tracks westward.  Seasons change with or without witness.  I want to be there, to remember and respond.