Beach Bumming

 

Ontario Sky

A day at the beach used to mean a beach towel, transistor radio, and enough sun tan oil to coat an elephant. Today my beach requirements are more likely to involve a French easel, wide brimmed hat, and enough oil paint to cover several canvases —and oh yes, a tree for shade. Lake Ontario is not noted for its beaches, but unbeknownst to most, there is a tiny stretch of shore near Wilson that contains enough sand to qualify as such. By any respectable beach standard, this beach is marginal; it is too narrow to hold much of a crowd, and too stony for easy barefoot walking, yet it is wide enough to set up an easel under a leafy tree canopy right at waters edge. Perfect.

Recently my husband  and I had the good fortune to stumble upon a nature center in Erie, PA. A documentary film titled “The Mysteries of the Great Lakes” intrigued us enough to sit down and watch it. Partially filmed from a low-flying helicopter, I was awestruck by miles and miles of deep green forest that set off the intense sapphire blue of these glacier carved lakes. Magnificent rocky cliffs cascaded into the water and the whole effect was one of pristine wilderness. Call it an “ah ha” moment, or what ever, the impact of these glorious images have forever changed my perception of these fresh water jewels. Although the lakes still look untouched from the air, we all know –or should know– about the ravages of abuse they’ve suffered over the past two hundred years.   Lake Ontario, once teeming with wild-born Atlantic Salmon, lost them all to nineteenth century pollution and over-fishing.

One muggy morning in August I set up my easel on the shore of my newly discovered beach. As if on cue, a family of brilliant white swans emerged from a point near the end of the beach where Twelve Mile Creek empties into Lake Ontario. I say that optimistically because very often there is not enough water in the creek to empty into anything. As this little creek winds its way from Pekin to Wilson, it almost touches the back corner of our property. In the spring it roars mightily with melting snow and spring showers, but as summer wears on, weedy grasses take over and the water dries to a trickle. Early last fall I was dumfounded when I saw huge fish wiggling and splashing over rocks in the in the shallow water. There was barely enough water to cover their backs but apparently they were on a mission to swim up stream at all costs. My neighbor, Sam, told me later lake salmon swim up Twelve Mile Creek to spawn. (I also learned later that these are stocked fish, not native.)

What is it about water that is so soothing to the spirit? The enveloping atmosphere of a beach can sweep you up into it, and allow you to become part of it if only for a brief spell; the sound of waves breaking on the sand, a backdrop of soft blues and greens, and water stretching as far as the eye can see.  How do I get to the essence of this beautiful place without being cliched? Through a thin film of pinky- gray haze I could make out the faint outline of the Toronto skyline. It appeared to hover just above the horizon. An uneasy note crept into my consciousness reminding me that this tiny paradise of a  beach may not remain so forever.

Recently forty one yearling wild-born Atlantic salmon were found in the Salmon River at the eastern end of Lake Ontario in New York.  This is a milestone, but, can we stay the course?  —has our collective conscience been stirred enough to do the right thing, and do we have enough fortitude to place the well being of people and wild life over irresponsible squandering of natural resources to make a buck?

Sidewalk Cafe

               Elevator Alley

 

August 2009
It’s dubbed “Elevator Alley” and over the years many artists have painted here, in what is now an historic grain elevator   district in Buffalo. A small band of painters gathered here on a cool morning in June to try our hand at painting these monolithic constructions of concrete and steel.

We shared the mornings work over lunch in our impromptu sidewalk cafe. Our back ground music was the drone of industrial engines; the scent of baking Cheerios from a nearby factory filled the air; local residents offered a friendly hello and smiled at our little gathering as they strolled by with children in hand.

It is easy to understand why these silent giants have captured the hearts and  imaginations of ensuing generations, and to understand why most folks are reluctant to see them gradually disappear over the years. They are like old friends, an integral part of the colorful history of this region.

Tifft Nature Preserve

Safe Haven

 

When we held our planning meeting last February someone suggested that we paint at Tifft Farm. Of course I had heard about it over the years —brown field turned nature preserve. Sounded rather, well –uninviting.

On a cool July morning, I pulled into the gravely parking area at Tifft Nature Preserve. Draping my painting gear over my shoulder, I followed a gritty dirt road that paralleled a large  pond half filled in with cattails.  Strewn along its shore were huge ice-age boulders on which several fishermen hunkered  hopefully over  fishing lines that hung limp in the still water. The roar of construction on Fuhrmann Blvd grew distant and the relief of solitude swept over me as I walked along.

Famous for being the first nature preserve in the country to emerge from a brown field, Tifft Farm started out as a dairy farm in the early eighteen hundreds. (Reportedly, customers favored milk from Tifft Farm because less water was added to it!)  However, because of its proximity to Buffalo and Lake Erie, it was inevitable that industry would cast a longing eye towards its sandy shores. By the 1970’s, Tifft Farm hadn’t been a farm in well over a century, and the property had degenerated into a general dumping ground where smokey fires frequently burned. When city officials announced plans to spread  two million pounds of solid waste over the entire property, a group of local folks came up with the unprecedented inspiration to turn this  wasteland into a nature preserve.  Knowing the area was critical to migratory birds, and with a couple of strong voices leading the way, they gathered enough political muster to begin a tentative dialogue with city officials; eventually compromises  were reached, and the long process of restoring the land began. That was 40 years ago.

I decided to paint a field filled with clusters of bright yellow blossoms. It sloped up a hill dotted with clumps of trees that rustled in the faint breeze. As if on cue, a group of energetic eight-year olds surrounded me as soon as I set up my easel. So much for solitude! Obviously part of a nature study group, I enjoyed listening to their lively banter while their teacher cajoled them into making some sort of leafy head band. Nearby two young people intently studied what appeared to be a clump of weeds.  I could hear their animated voices earnestly trying to discern the exact species of a particular wild flower, using actual botanical Latin names. I was impressed. I thought the Latin names only appeared in garden catalogues.

I came to the preserve  that day to paint with friends, and in the process came away with renewed appreciation of the regenerative power of nature. At the time I had no idea that beneath the brightly flowered field lie all the dangers of buried toxic waste.  I applaud that little band of folks who had the foresight to recognize the ecological importance of Tifft Farm, and because they possessed the grace and vision to pay it forward, the legacy of the preserve lives on.

A Pedigreed Tomato?

 

Last Years Ordinary Plum Tomatoes

 

For those of us who grew up thinking the supermarket was the  only source of food, the  very thought of taking a hand in growing ones own bordered on  ludicrous!  Me? Grow tomatoes and get my hands dirty?  I’d have to nuts!

It’s safe to say that I came to gardening through the back door. It took a handful of pumpkin seeds tossed carelessly on a compost pile to astonish me with the ease at which they flourished with no attention at all from me.  Still, I resisted. The ease of the supermarket is a powerful lure, indeed. However, there is a caveat connected to this word ease ---namely, it leads to total dependency on others to provide food for my table, others who do not necessarily have my best interests at heart. So, is it ludicrous or necessary to grow ones own tomatoes?

While browsing through isles of tomato seedlings in my favorite greenhouse earlier this spring, the word “heirloom” caught my eye. The accompanying picture tucked in the pot showed a golden yellow tomato with the name “Brandywine.” That’s cool, I thought, so I bought it, wondering  if this heirloom tomato would taste like its name.  (A quick search on the internet revealed that yes indeed, tomatoes have a very long history, and if their genes have not been monkeyed with, they are considered heirlooms by tomato experts.)

A serendipitous side effect of the current economic mess may very well be a renewed (or new) interest in vegetable gardening, of all things. Terms like “recession garden” and “urban farm” are the latest buzz words that nod toward a deepening awareness of the precarious food  system corporate America has created for us.  I love the idea that vegetable gardens and tree farms are sprouting on vacant urban lots. Kudos to the folks that have the guts to change the the face of the urban landscape!

Only when we get over the idea that manual labor is somehow beneath us, we will be free to exalt in the pleasure of physical work, and the rewards it brings to health of mind and body. And besides  isn’t it just a little bit empowering to know you don’t have to depend entirely on some corporate conglomerate for your dinner?

OK, what does this have to do with landscape painting, anyway? 

Gathering

April 2009

Over the Lake

 

With two of the Great Lakes at our doorstep, lake winds frequently blow across the farm fields of Cambria. One cold April morning eleven artists gathered, determined to brave strong winds and paint the emerging spring landscape.  As puffy purple-gray clouds raced along the horizon of Lake Ontario, gusts swirled around the house and  barn making shelter difficult to find. Some of us crept into the cow shed hoping to find relief from the wind; others found a refuge of sorts on the front porch.  No mater where we we tried to hide, the sharp cold bit through layers of sweatshirts and fleece.

  
Towards noon we drifted, one by one, into the kitchen ready to settle for warmth and a mug of steaming hot coffee. Gathering around my grandmother’s ancient oval dining table, one that stretched out long enough to accommodate all of us, our conversation glided from laughter to profound seriousness in a matter of minutes.

Always in our hearts, and on the tip of our tongues, art threads its way in and out of the conversation. It amazes me how artists manage to relate everything to art. A seemingly small thing, such as passing a plate of bizzells around the table, inspired a discussion on --- you guessed it --- the art of bizzell making. It seemed everyone had a story or a tip to share for making perfect bizzells.

In spite of the nasty weather, some amazing work emerged on this cold April morning.  Something speaks out through the painting when working in a place outside the studio, adding  another dimension to the work. As plein air painters, the ever changing back drop of community and new locations infuses itself into our work along with the people we meet; and when we look back over the paintings we created on this day, we will remember the laughter and stories that we shared.

Transitioning

 

 

                        Under Cover

 

Grumbling about winter seems to be a universal chorus that I have trouble understanding --- until the last two weeks in March, that is; then cold March winds seem to have more bite than a January snowstorm, without the beauty of snowdrifts piled high.

During winter months, when the thought of frozen paint on the palette keeps me indoors, I hunker down in my studio  like a tiny mole snug in his underground burrow.  This is when I paint the quiet colors of winter and indulge in the longer process of painting on canvases too large to drag along on plein air excursions. Come April, however, when the robins start chirping me awake at 6:00 AM and the first green buds appear on lilac bushes, I can’t wait to don my mud boots and join the robins outdoors.

My country neighbors have cut their teeth on  planting trowels, and my friend Don is no exception. He has gardened for most of his seventy plus years, and still cultivates two vegetable gardens, whereas  I muddle around trying this and that, hoping to find my gardening voice. When Don talks about his gardens, my ears perk up and my attention rivets to his words, hoping he’ll drop a few pearls of gardening wisdom.  

The other day he told me he’s testing his pea seeds by sandwiching them between damp paper towels to see which  ones will sprout.  Saves time, he says.

Even though this April has been unusually cold, our conversation spurred me to take a look at my own garden where I found, much to  my delight, new raspberry canes and bright red rhubarb poking up through left over dried leaves.  The garden is not waiting for me and I love that about perennials --- they have an internal clock and know when it’s time to get to work.

And where are my pea seeds?  As an experiment last summer,  I purposefully left some pea pods on the vine to dry in the hot summer sun. Their beautiful pea green color bleached out to an insipid pale beige, and the pods turned tough and leathery; inside the peas shrank and grew hard as tiny marbles. Not convinced they were beyond redemption, I stuffed them in an envelope along with a small prayer for a miracle next spring.

History Counts.

 

 

                                 

                                    Michigan Street Bridge

Generations have passed since Joseph Dart built the first grain elevator in here in Buffalo, NY. Little did he know in 1842 that the elevators  he envisioned would spawn a radical new architectural vocabulary that continues to leave us in awe of their magnitude. Bypassed by alternative marketing routes, these beauties fell into quiet decrepitude.  Folks seem to never tire of conjuring up reincarnations for them; everything from five star hotels to ethanol plants, is fair game for the imagination.

Along the south shore of the Buffalo River, in the heart of Buffalo’s grain elevator territory, the Swanie House Tavern  remains alone guarding the corner of Michigan and Ohio Streets; neighboring buildings have long since disappeared. As planned, I meet several friends there on a crisp morning in September. It is our first time painting in this industrial neighborhood, and we wonder what secrets it holds.

Down by waters edge, as we purposefully unpack our painting gear, our eyes automatically shift to the looming grain elevators across the river.  Their presence is palpable; we sense their weariness, see their vacant eyes.  Each of us will see them differently; each of us will tell a different story.  We begin. 

Stocking Up

 

           

                 Waiting

 

Twelve Mile Creek passes by our property on its meandering way to Lake Ontario, and is the inspiration for many of my oil paintings.  Morning walks along its banks keep me in tune with the seasons, clear my head of daily chatter, and deepen my appreciation of nature’s ways.

Every once in a while I run into my neighbor, Sam, working in his wood lot, working at keeping things tidy. Neatly stacked fresh cut cords of wood dot the area waiting, to be called into service.

Although in his early eighties, Sam talks passionately about his trees and manages his woodlot with the attention of a micro-manager. Most likely sometime this year he will cut the ancient box elder tree in this painting, and use the wood to heat his home next year. The tree is dying, he says, and must be cut. It will leave a deep scar along the creek bank, but  . . . irrationally I plead silently for Sam to spare this tree, for to me, because if it’s magnificent size,  it speaks of days gone by when human hands were not always a threat.

Plein Air Painting

 

                  Keepers of the Creek

 

“Plein air” is a fancy French term that simply means outdoors or fresh air. In America, outdoor painting and sketching came into it own during the 1800’s with the invention of the paint tube; artists of every stripe, suddenly released from studio confines, were free to roam the countryside and paint wherever they chose.

Hudson River School painter Asher Durand advised, “The most valuable study has been under the open sky. Go forth and listen to nature’s teaching,  while from all around earth and her still waters,  and the  depth  of air,  comes a still voice.”            

For decades abstract art has dominated the art world, forcing any type of figurative work to the back corner. In recent years, however,  a  resurgent interest in landscape painting is propelling an unprecedented number of artists out their studio doors, to explore and absorb nature’s teaching first hand. Perhaps our growing awareness of the fragility of the earth is giving landscape painting a new meaning and a new purpose. 

Beginnings

Touch of Gold

As a plein air painter I paint the old fashioned way as did Frederick Church and Asher Durand, who hiked into woods and across fields carrying their precious paints and brushes. I like to think I have their nineteenth century spirit and am as tough as they were, but truth is, I'm a fair weather outdoor painter; with the first blast of arctic air in November, I head to a warm studio, hot coffee in hand.

My studio is housed in a great old dairy barn that came complete with a family of raccoons, ten thousand ladybugs (no lie), and the smell of cows in the tractor shed. Rain poured through where roof shingles had once been, and winter winds howled through weathered old barn boards, yet it still stood proud, waiting for someone to care. ( . . . but that is another story)