I live in the old home.  On well remembered land beside a very fine creek.  It is a home that has always and ever provided.  It continues still.

A light summer fog slowly rolls up the valley crossing the farm.  A soft wind whispers the evening near.  All things are possible and I think of paintings that do honor the soil.

I tend to work at night.  I’m a night painter.  Even those paintings here that were created outside under open skies in the broadest of daylight are twilight paintings nonetheless.  All are oil on canvas hewn with brush, knife and lever.

These are terra paintings.  I know these forests. I know the dirt roads connecting them; the old trade routes.  I have sat quietly at dawn and waited.  The light through the wood is a trick of the eye.

The Ozarks are ancient.  In their once glory they surmounted the land.  Now they are the face of elder hills.  These paintings are of a time in a land of busted mountains, of fields of timbers of endless distraction.  Yet my interest lies less with hills, less with time or trails or stands of Elm.  My interest is in bending the light back towards Babel, if indeed that is the prism.