For the far greater part of my life, writing, and not visual art, has been my calling card. I’ve ghost-written for university presidents and developed proposals for multi-million dollar “asks” of prospective donors; I’ve researched intensive scholarly articles for academic journals and pounded out thirty galley-inches of newspaper copy within forty-five minutes under the strictest of deadlines. Poems, short stories, and even a short-story collection have found their way to the printed page. On but a few occasions do I recall a blank sheet of paper (or, more likely these days, a blank computer screen) proving formidable and stopping me dead in my tracks.

That gift (and I think of it as nothing less) to write quickly and effectively comes quite easily to me. It always has. Somewhat humorously, it started when a child as a way of keeping me quiet during church services: My mother would hand me a pad of paper and a pencil, and I would write fictitious summaries of Detroit Tigers or Green Bay Packers games, right down to creating a box score. Small wonder, then, that my first professional job was as a sports writer for a daily city newspaper.

There have been a few occasions where writing has proved daunting, however. I can recall sitting frozen before a newsroom computer terminal when faced with writing a feature story on a star girls’ basketball player at a local high school. How well I remember Jerry Miller, one of the most gifted writers I’ve ever come across, recognizing writer’s block in this fresh-out-of-college reporter, suggesting we take a walk to a neighborhood five-and-dime for snack food, and along the way there and back gently coaxing me past my impasse. Whether I went over, under, around or through that momentary obstruction, I don’t recollect, but on the rare occurrence where I’ve been stymied by a blank page since then, I think back to that moment, to Jerry’s gracious empathy and reassurance, and I manage to begin writing.

My foray into painting in oils has had similar moments where there’s been a seemingly-impenetrable hitch in the giddy-up. Barb Reich, one of the many supportive members among the Plein Air Painters of Northwest Michigan (PAPNWM) group with whom I’ve spent the past spring, summer and fall, bolstered me through my first plein air outing last May; confronted with a blank panel, and no longer looking at a photo but rather encountering a literal cliff face before me, I was paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of the endeavor. How does one reduce three dimensions to two? But eventually I began to brush paint on linen. The result was far from a masterpiece, but it was yet another hurdle overcome. 

Just last week, seven months later, I found myself painting at night on the sidewalk in front of the Traverse City Opera House; inside was a public reception for an exhibition where fifteen of my paintings were displayed alongside those of eleven other artists from PAPNWM. Lori Feldpausch, another group member, painted outdoors also, each of us bundled in the 28-degree cold. I dove right into the painting with no hesitation, even as I chatted with passersby and had a photo op with Santa Claus himself.  More “firsts” for me: painting a nocturne, painting in cold weather, displaying my paintings in an extended public exhibition. These “firsts” followed another first this summer: the first of four plein air competitions in which I participated, whipping out paintings under deadline much like those newspaper sports articles I cranked out so many years ago.

Such “firsts” have been markers along my nearly-a-year of painting in oils. This blog on my website is another first, and I'm eager to bring my love of writing to bear as I record and share my painting thoughts and experiences. The written word, both read and scribed, has been fundamental to my life; painting, too, feels that way currently. The act of writing has often caused me to lose track of time, to become spellbound by the process and all but unconscious of the product. Painting offers the same effect, whether the brushstrokes and painting-knife slashes are measured or, at times, a bit frenzied. The product continues to evolve almost unconsciously, but the process itself is absorbing, compelling. My hope with this blog is to convey, as best I can, the fascination I continue to discover in working with this medium. Thank you for sharing in that development with me. 

Even Santa is an Art Critic