WHEN YOU BEST BELONG AMONGST WILD FLOWERS
16 X 20 oil on linen panel
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
This painting is about something we have all experienced...when you are working on a job or task that has every concievable thing going wrong with it, and you feel like you are doomed, and the job can never be completed. I recall once as a small boy I was helping my father, Ome, and uncle, Bryan, building a house . they had just started the job, and had all the basement concrete forms in place, ready to pour the basement walls. It was a large house, setting in an alfalfa field yards from a make shift dirt road. the pour was going great, about two thirds completed, when the concrete truck delivering the mix, got too close to the excavation hole, causing the dirt bank to collapse allowing this huge truck to fall into the basement, breaking the forms on one side of the house to, causing some twenty yards, which is a damn large amount of wet concrete, to flow out into the excavation. My uncle had to call for a crane to lift the truck out of the hole, and while waiting on the crane, we all formed a bucket brigade to lift all that wet concrete out of the basement before it set up rock hard. We put bulkheads in to keep as much mix as we could inside the broken forms. Eventually everything was repaired, the truck was removed and the pour was completed. The house is still standing in perfect condition today, sixty years after this incident. My poor father and uncle were exhausted for a week after from working so hard to deal with the mess. I also remember one time during wheat harvest. We were custom cutting wheat, only in those days we had old combines and even more ancient trucks to haul the grain into town. One of the trucks, a 2-ton 1948 Chevy, fully loaded, was being turned around in the field when it got stuck in a big lake like mud puddle. My great uncle, who was driving, made the mistake of popping the clutch when trying to get the truck unstuck, and he snapped a rear axle in two. The old John Deere combine wasn't powerful enough to pull the fully loaded truck out of the mud. We didn't dare dump hundreds of bushels of wheat in the water, so my uncle Jess and I decided to fix it right there in a mud puddle in the middle of an enormous field, maybe fifteen miles from any town. We pulled the broken axle out of the rear wheel hub, took off the differential cover and drained that oil to remove the pieces of broken axle, and drove twenty miles to a farmer we knew who had a similar truck in his junkyard where we pulled the axle from it, brought it back out to the wheat field, and proceeded to put everything back together. All in all it took us two and a half days to get that truck out and driven into town dumping the grain at the Coop elevator. This was two days of laying in water and mud, breaking loose old rusted bolts and swearing like drunken sailors on leave. Like my Dad and Bryan and a basement full of wet cement, we got it done.
That is what this painting is about....forced into situations we aren't sure we can handle, dreaming up solutions, and ignoring impossibilities, gettin' 'er done!
16 X 20 oil on linen panel
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
This painting is about something we have all experienced...when you are working on a job or task that has every concievable thing going wrong with it, and you feel like you are doomed, and the job can never be completed. I recall once as a small boy I was helping my father, Ome, and uncle, Bryan, building a house . they had just started the job, and had all the basement concrete forms in place, ready to pour the basement walls. It was a large house, setting in an alfalfa field yards from a make shift dirt road. the pour was going great, about two thirds completed, when the concrete truck delivering the mix, got too close to the excavation hole, causing the dirt bank to collapse allowing this huge truck to fall into the basement, breaking the forms on one side of the house to, causing some twenty yards, which is a damn large amount of wet concrete, to flow out into the excavation. My uncle had to call for a crane to lift the truck out of the hole, and while waiting on the crane, we all formed a bucket brigade to lift all that wet concrete out of the basement before it set up rock hard. We put bulkheads in to keep as much mix as we could inside the broken forms. Eventually everything was repaired, the truck was removed and the pour was completed. The house is still standing in perfect condition today, sixty years after this incident. My poor father and uncle were exhausted for a week after from working so hard to deal with the mess. I also remember one time during wheat harvest. We were custom cutting wheat, only in those days we had old combines and even more ancient trucks to haul the grain into town. One of the trucks, a 2-ton 1948 Chevy, fully loaded, was being turned around in the field when it got stuck in a big lake like mud puddle. My great uncle, who was driving, made the mistake of popping the clutch when trying to get the truck unstuck, and he snapped a rear axle in two. The old John Deere combine wasn't powerful enough to pull the fully loaded truck out of the mud. We didn't dare dump hundreds of bushels of wheat in the water, so my uncle Jess and I decided to fix it right there in a mud puddle in the middle of an enormous field, maybe fifteen miles from any town. We pulled the broken axle out of the rear wheel hub, took off the differential cover and drained that oil to remove the pieces of broken axle, and drove twenty miles to a farmer we knew who had a similar truck in his junkyard where we pulled the axle from it, brought it back out to the wheat field, and proceeded to put everything back together. All in all it took us two and a half days to get that truck out and driven into town dumping the grain at the Coop elevator. This was two days of laying in water and mud, breaking loose old rusted bolts and swearing like drunken sailors on leave. Like my Dad and Bryan and a basement full of wet cement, we got it done.
That is what this painting is about....forced into situations we aren't sure we can handle, dreaming up solutions, and ignoring impossibilities, gettin' 'er done!
STUDY; HOW WE STRUGGLE FOR OUR DECENCY
9 x 12 oil on linen
available thru Settlers West Miniatures Show Tucson, AZ Feb. 10, 2024
I could go stark raving mad if I dwelled too long on what appears on the news today. The lying, cruelty, fear mongering, self-serving bullshit...it makes one ill being exposed to such an endless litany. I don't have any answers for or against this horrible behavior. I do know that if I get to know a person and not be unerved to look them in the eye, I can participate in conversation where I LISTEN to the other person. LISTENING gives VOICE to everyone I meet. Hard as it is to do, this seems to me as a place to start if we hope to put these days of mistrust and hatred behind us. That is what I was thinking about as I painted this...I recall evenings spent out on this north Texas back road, overcome with a calmness and peace I am unable to describe, but a feeling I truly wish to bring to all my personal relationships and encounters.
9 x 12 oil on linen
available thru Settlers West Miniatures Show Tucson, AZ Feb. 10, 2024
I could go stark raving mad if I dwelled too long on what appears on the news today. The lying, cruelty, fear mongering, self-serving bullshit...it makes one ill being exposed to such an endless litany. I don't have any answers for or against this horrible behavior. I do know that if I get to know a person and not be unerved to look them in the eye, I can participate in conversation where I LISTEN to the other person. LISTENING gives VOICE to everyone I meet. Hard as it is to do, this seems to me as a place to start if we hope to put these days of mistrust and hatred behind us. That is what I was thinking about as I painted this...I recall evenings spent out on this north Texas back road, overcome with a calmness and peace I am unable to describe, but a feeling I truly wish to bring to all my personal relationships and encounters.
HILL COUNTRY WALKIN' ROAD
24 x 30 oil on linen
available thru Briscoe Museum "Night of the Artists" Art Show and Sale, San Antonio, TX March 22-23, 2024
As I get older, the way I remember my past is changing. In my younger days I often reflected more on the exciting action filled days in my life, making ridiculous “recollections” of what I was all about. As I’ve aged into the days of moon bleached hair, I lesser and lesser relate to the exciting happenstances of youth, and fondly recall my more contemplative experiences. The quiet moments; watching the moonrise, listening to the wind of a fair spring evening, the sound of the drip of a blue shale spring while sitting in the shade of a sun bleached summer afternoon, sundown light on the weathered surface of an old adobe, of a single weather scarred tree in a vast plain in the shadow of the Bighorn mountains. More and more these moments are most precious in my mind, and they become sharper and more distinct in their clarity as I accumulate years. That is what this painting is about, that quiet time when all seems right and good, eternal, as if all the great Cosmic answers lie before you.
24 x 30 oil on linen
available thru Briscoe Museum "Night of the Artists" Art Show and Sale, San Antonio, TX March 22-23, 2024
As I get older, the way I remember my past is changing. In my younger days I often reflected more on the exciting action filled days in my life, making ridiculous “recollections” of what I was all about. As I’ve aged into the days of moon bleached hair, I lesser and lesser relate to the exciting happenstances of youth, and fondly recall my more contemplative experiences. The quiet moments; watching the moonrise, listening to the wind of a fair spring evening, the sound of the drip of a blue shale spring while sitting in the shade of a sun bleached summer afternoon, sundown light on the weathered surface of an old adobe, of a single weather scarred tree in a vast plain in the shadow of the Bighorn mountains. More and more these moments are most precious in my mind, and they become sharper and more distinct in their clarity as I accumulate years. That is what this painting is about, that quiet time when all seems right and good, eternal, as if all the great Cosmic answers lie before you.
Where Once Another Age Has Passed
20 x 24 oil on linen
available thru Briscoe Museum's "Night of the Artists"
March 23-24, 2024 San Antonio, TX
This is inspired by a small study I painted called Night Watch. I want to develope this idea further....how egocentric our individual lives are perceived from our personal viewpoints when held up against the long timeline of humanity. Yes, we hold the present, many did the same in the past, and many more shall do so in the future, when our present lives have become dust on the wind.
20 x 24 oil on linen
available thru Briscoe Museum's "Night of the Artists"
March 23-24, 2024 San Antonio, TX
This is inspired by a small study I painted called Night Watch. I want to develope this idea further....how egocentric our individual lives are perceived from our personal viewpoints when held up against the long timeline of humanity. Yes, we hold the present, many did the same in the past, and many more shall do so in the future, when our present lives have become dust on the wind.
ALWAYS A CLOCK-WAYS TURN
30 x 40 oil on canvas
available thru "NIght of the Artists" show and sale
Briscoe Museum, San Antonio, TX 3/22-23/24
Texas cattleman Charles Goodnight claimed the best way to bring stampeded cattle back under control was to get them to slowly turn to the right, which he called a clock-ways turn, in smaller and smaller circles until they calmed. I don’t think there is any significance “in turning to the right”, but there is in the idea of problem solving problems with patience and easing into solutions... avoiding trying to head them off directly. I know there are too many times when we leap to answers and solutions to problems we only vaguely have identified or understood. Often these hastily and slopingly arrived at solutions only make the problems worse. In the recent past we have seen this happen on a regular basis. Better to heed the wisdom of an old time cowman, developed from a life in the saddle.
30 x 40 oil on canvas
available thru "NIght of the Artists" show and sale
Briscoe Museum, San Antonio, TX 3/22-23/24
Texas cattleman Charles Goodnight claimed the best way to bring stampeded cattle back under control was to get them to slowly turn to the right, which he called a clock-ways turn, in smaller and smaller circles until they calmed. I don’t think there is any significance “in turning to the right”, but there is in the idea of problem solving problems with patience and easing into solutions... avoiding trying to head them off directly. I know there are too many times when we leap to answers and solutions to problems we only vaguely have identified or understood. Often these hastily and slopingly arrived at solutions only make the problems worse. In the recent past we have seen this happen on a regular basis. Better to heed the wisdom of an old time cowman, developed from a life in the saddle.
Like Utah Carroll, Will You Miss Me Once I’m Gone?
48 x 60 oil on canvas
available thru Sanders Gallery, Tucson, AZ
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I think we all sometimes ponder our place in posterity…the remainder of time after we are gone from this beautiful spinning planet. Not to think it will make any difference to ourselves once we are gone, in the present most of us find comfort in believing that our brief presence here in existence will not immediately be swallowed up by vagaries and tyranny of time, that at least for a brief time favorable memories of our lives will be remembered by those that come after us. I am not wise enough to have any answers, only that the generosity and kindness of our human spirit leaves a gift of immeasurable value for all mankind.
Utah Carroll was the heroic cowboy in an old cowboy ballad, credited with saving the life of a small girl, Varro, or in other examples, Lenore, from death by stampeding cattle. In most versions of the ballad Utah dies with six guns blazing, dropping the charging cattle before being trampled by the herd. The ballad most likely originated in Texas or Mexico as in older versions there are a number of Spanish references. The author being unknown, the song does reflect a strong myth about the courage and unselfishness that we today endear to our beliefs about the "Cowboy". In the monumental anthology "Trail Drivers of Texas" compiled in 1921 from first hand accounts of men who had driven cattle on the old Texas cow trails, there are many stories of death on the drives. The most common form of death was being struck by lightening followed by snake bite, drowning, and accidents during stampedes. I have visited numerous grave sites of these victims, often in remote and forgotten places. I suspect that from such arose the ballads like Utah Carroll, to memorialize a fallen comrade/friend, earning wages on a dangerous uncertain endeavor
In my life I was involved in a number of "accidents" on horse mounts "going down" with me. I was taught at an early age that when such things happen the first thing you try to do is get out of the stirrups, so you don't get drug to death. I am sure that this binding lesson has not changed in a hundred and fifty years. If you carry this theme to a metaphor for surviving todays' "accidents/misfortune" may we all survive the fall and avoid bing drug to death. The danger of Utah Carroll's demise is never far from our twenty first century existence.
48 x 60 oil on canvas
available thru Sanders Gallery, Tucson, AZ
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I think we all sometimes ponder our place in posterity…the remainder of time after we are gone from this beautiful spinning planet. Not to think it will make any difference to ourselves once we are gone, in the present most of us find comfort in believing that our brief presence here in existence will not immediately be swallowed up by vagaries and tyranny of time, that at least for a brief time favorable memories of our lives will be remembered by those that come after us. I am not wise enough to have any answers, only that the generosity and kindness of our human spirit leaves a gift of immeasurable value for all mankind.
Utah Carroll was the heroic cowboy in an old cowboy ballad, credited with saving the life of a small girl, Varro, or in other examples, Lenore, from death by stampeding cattle. In most versions of the ballad Utah dies with six guns blazing, dropping the charging cattle before being trampled by the herd. The ballad most likely originated in Texas or Mexico as in older versions there are a number of Spanish references. The author being unknown, the song does reflect a strong myth about the courage and unselfishness that we today endear to our beliefs about the "Cowboy". In the monumental anthology "Trail Drivers of Texas" compiled in 1921 from first hand accounts of men who had driven cattle on the old Texas cow trails, there are many stories of death on the drives. The most common form of death was being struck by lightening followed by snake bite, drowning, and accidents during stampedes. I have visited numerous grave sites of these victims, often in remote and forgotten places. I suspect that from such arose the ballads like Utah Carroll, to memorialize a fallen comrade/friend, earning wages on a dangerous uncertain endeavor
In my life I was involved in a number of "accidents" on horse mounts "going down" with me. I was taught at an early age that when such things happen the first thing you try to do is get out of the stirrups, so you don't get drug to death. I am sure that this binding lesson has not changed in a hundred and fifty years. If you carry this theme to a metaphor for surviving todays' "accidents/misfortune" may we all survive the fall and avoid bing drug to death. The danger of Utah Carroll's demise is never far from our twenty first century existence.
TRAVELLERS ON THE CAMINO REAL
24 x 30 oil on linen panel
available thru Settlers West Gallery's Great American West Show, Tucson, AZ
Last Friday I camped in a "Dark Zone" with a 3/4 moon...it was unbelievably bright. When I got home I immediately painted this while the night view was still fresh in my mind.
When Spain and Mexico still governed what is today California, Texas, and the modern American Southwest, the Spanish speaking settlements in these areas were some of the most isolated places on the planet. The nearest European contact was in Mexico City, a distance of over 1000 miles, depending where you were at in this vast country. All manufactured and trade goods had to be brought to this area on horseback, over a difficult and dangerous terrain. There were basically three different routes of El Camino Real (the King's Road) from Mexico City into this deep interior. El Camino de California went north thru present day Yuma, Arizona and then north to the missions on the California coast, ending at Mission San Francisco Solano. The Camino Real de los Texas crossed the Rio Grande near present day Laredo, travelling to Bexar (today's San Antonio) and ending at the Sabine River in east Texas. The El Camino Real de Tierra Adento (the interior King's Road) stretched from Mexico City north into New Mexico terminating at San Juan Pueblo. This route was also known as the Silver Road. All of these routes followed ancient Native American footpaths established as trade routes over many centuries of use. They were primarily traveled by horseback and pack mule, as the routes were very difficult and rough to bring wagons or carts over. If you lived in any of these early European settlements, your only contact with the outside world was thru these long and dangerous paths.
I painted this to allow one to think about isolation. Myself, I practically live a hermits life. My isolation is not caused by vast dangerous distances, yet I seem to avoid a great deal of contact with fellow human beings, particularly people I don't share political or cultural beliefs with. I have very fragile "Camino Reals" with such people, and I am not sure that is such a good thing. It is so easy to distrust someone and their beliefs and values when you don't have much personal experience with them; I allow too much anecdotal innuendo to influence my take in this kind of situation. This is not a good thing. In many ways I am like some settler isolated from the rest of the world, unwilling to take the risks of a journey on my CAMINO REAL.
STUDY #2; WHERE O' WHERE IS MY SLEEPY EYED BOY
16 x 20 oil on linen
available thru Insight Gallery Fredericksburg, TX
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
The idea for this piece was inspired by John Prine's song, The Sleepy Eyed Boy. I listened to Maura O'Connell's recording of the song over and over while painting this study. I have been thinking about my great grandfather Brase, who being orphaned, struck out alone onto the Western Plains, driving cattle, far from any home he had ever known. I watch my son Zachariah, and see that far away look in his eye, and like myself, had he been born in the days of his great great grandfather, would have followed the wind thru the buffalo grass. These modern times limit that kind of wanderlust, but not for an expansion of the spirit and mind.
I admire individuals who choose to walk a different path, or who refuse the path pressured to follow by others...i think of these as sleepy eyed ___________. I am fortunate to be facebook friends with Becky Patterson, daughter of Hondo Crouch, founder of Luckenbach TX fame, a family of sleepy eyes that profoundly affected my understandings of life; that your path is chosen by the direction your boots are headed, and whether you walk into, or with the wind. That is about the extent of suggested route a sleepy eyed can tolerate!
LADS, RIDE LIGHTLY, A HEYS SADDLE
16 x 20 oil on linen panel
available thru Insight Gallery, Fredericksburg, TX
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I return to this story and subject matter again and again, infatuated with the power of storytelling. I was told this story in a beer joint in Trinidad, Colorado one Saturday night about fifteen years ago. I met a rancher from south Texas buying cattle here in Colorado. Discovering we had some common friends from that vast country, I bought him a beer and he proceeded to relate this “story”.
What is most curious about this tale is that it was related to me by a rancher living and ranching today...and the event happened over one hundred and thirty years ago! A good example of how an incident can become ingrained within a community and becomes part of the local folklore!
In the 1870's Captain Leander McNelly organized a "special force" of Texas Rangers to bring law and order to an area in south Texas known as the Nueces Strip. A robbery occurred in San Antonio to a good friend of McNelly's, David Heyes, saddle-maker. He was robbed of ten of his hand made saddles and a string of mules. McNelly was furious about the crime and instructed his rangers "if you see anyone riding a Heyes saddle, shoot first and ask questions later!" At the end of a month's "investigations", his rangers turned in eighteen saddles, eight more than were reported missing!
To add further irony to the tale, the rancher remarked to me at the end of the story "Ya'll know, to this day no one knows if any of those eighteen saddles were stolen ones!"..... RANGER UP!
Texas philanthropist and all around good guy, Jack Guenther, told me his grandfather remembered this incident. Cowboys in the area were so worried if riding a Heyes saddle and of offending McNelly that they rode into the Ranger camp, left their saddle with the Rangers, and rode away bareback! Another twenty first century person holding on to an ageless narrative.
16 x 20 oil on linen panel
available thru Insight Gallery, Fredericksburg, TX
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I return to this story and subject matter again and again, infatuated with the power of storytelling. I was told this story in a beer joint in Trinidad, Colorado one Saturday night about fifteen years ago. I met a rancher from south Texas buying cattle here in Colorado. Discovering we had some common friends from that vast country, I bought him a beer and he proceeded to relate this “story”.
What is most curious about this tale is that it was related to me by a rancher living and ranching today...and the event happened over one hundred and thirty years ago! A good example of how an incident can become ingrained within a community and becomes part of the local folklore!
In the 1870's Captain Leander McNelly organized a "special force" of Texas Rangers to bring law and order to an area in south Texas known as the Nueces Strip. A robbery occurred in San Antonio to a good friend of McNelly's, David Heyes, saddle-maker. He was robbed of ten of his hand made saddles and a string of mules. McNelly was furious about the crime and instructed his rangers "if you see anyone riding a Heyes saddle, shoot first and ask questions later!" At the end of a month's "investigations", his rangers turned in eighteen saddles, eight more than were reported missing!
To add further irony to the tale, the rancher remarked to me at the end of the story "Ya'll know, to this day no one knows if any of those eighteen saddles were stolen ones!"..... RANGER UP!
Texas philanthropist and all around good guy, Jack Guenther, told me his grandfather remembered this incident. Cowboys in the area were so worried if riding a Heyes saddle and of offending McNelly that they rode into the Ranger camp, left their saddle with the Rangers, and rode away bareback! Another twenty first century person holding on to an ageless narrative.
Study of Travelers on the Camino Real
12 x 16 oil on linen board
available thru Legacy Gallery Small Painting Show Scottsdale, AZ
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
When Spain and Mexico still governed what is today California, Texas, and the modern American Southwest, the Spanish speaking settlements in these areas were some of the most isolated places on the planet. The nearest European contact was in Mexico City, a distance of over 1000 miles, depending where you were at in this vast country. All manufactured and trade goods had to be brought to this area on horseback, over a difficult and dangerous terrain. There were basically three different routes of El Camino Real (the King's Road) from Mexico City into this deep interior. El Camino de California went north thru present day Yuma, Arizona and then north to the missions on the California coast, ending at Mission San Francisco Solano. The Camino Real de los Texas crossed the Rio Grande near present day Laredo, travelling to Bexar (today's San Antonio) and ending at the Sabine River in east Texas. The El Camino Real de Tierra Adento (the interior King's Road) stretched from Mexico City north into New Mexico terminating at San Juan Pueblo. This route was also known as the Silver Road. All of these routes followed ancient Native American footpaths established as trade routes over many centuries of use. They were primarily traveled by horseback and pack mule, as the routes were very difficult and rough to bring wagons or carts over. If you lived in any of these early European settlements, your only contact with the outside world was thru these long and dangerous paths.
I painted this to allow one to think about isolation. Myself, I practically live a hermits life. My isolation is not caused by vast dangerous distances, yet I seem to avoid a great deal of contact with fellow human beings, particularly people I don't share political or cultural beliefs with. I have very fragile "Camino Reals" with such people, and I am not sure that is such a good thing. It is so easy to distrust someone and their beliefs and values when you don't have much personal experience with them; I allow too much anecdotal innuendo to influence my take in this kind of situation. This is not a good thing. In many ways I am like some settler isolated from the rest of the world, unwilling to take the risks of a journey on my CAMINO REAL.
12 x 16 oil on linen board
available thru Legacy Gallery Small Painting Show Scottsdale, AZ
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
When Spain and Mexico still governed what is today California, Texas, and the modern American Southwest, the Spanish speaking settlements in these areas were some of the most isolated places on the planet. The nearest European contact was in Mexico City, a distance of over 1000 miles, depending where you were at in this vast country. All manufactured and trade goods had to be brought to this area on horseback, over a difficult and dangerous terrain. There were basically three different routes of El Camino Real (the King's Road) from Mexico City into this deep interior. El Camino de California went north thru present day Yuma, Arizona and then north to the missions on the California coast, ending at Mission San Francisco Solano. The Camino Real de los Texas crossed the Rio Grande near present day Laredo, travelling to Bexar (today's San Antonio) and ending at the Sabine River in east Texas. The El Camino Real de Tierra Adento (the interior King's Road) stretched from Mexico City north into New Mexico terminating at San Juan Pueblo. This route was also known as the Silver Road. All of these routes followed ancient Native American footpaths established as trade routes over many centuries of use. They were primarily traveled by horseback and pack mule, as the routes were very difficult and rough to bring wagons or carts over. If you lived in any of these early European settlements, your only contact with the outside world was thru these long and dangerous paths.
I painted this to allow one to think about isolation. Myself, I practically live a hermits life. My isolation is not caused by vast dangerous distances, yet I seem to avoid a great deal of contact with fellow human beings, particularly people I don't share political or cultural beliefs with. I have very fragile "Camino Reals" with such people, and I am not sure that is such a good thing. It is so easy to distrust someone and their beliefs and values when you don't have much personal experience with them; I allow too much anecdotal innuendo to influence my take in this kind of situation. This is not a good thing. In many ways I am like some settler isolated from the rest of the world, unwilling to take the risks of a journey on my CAMINO REAL.
STUDY; NIGHT WATCH
11 x 14 oil on linen panel
available thru Legacy Gallery Small Painting Show Scottsdale, AZ
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I never tire of painting images of cowboys taking night watch over a herd of cattle. There is something eternal and restful about them, as if for a brief time the only thing in your existence is you, the moon and the stars.
When my grandfather was a boy there still remained vestiges of the Teepee people on the vast plains they once called their home. Mostly it was place names, now lost to time, that had been named by the People. Teepee rings, the stones that the People used to hold down the bottoms of their teepees, were still common and not yet covered up by the sands of time. On the Old Camp Grounds would be seen metates, large flat grinding stones. sometimes the ancient fire pits were still visible. On the large old cottonwoods the bark was still worn smooth like silk, from thousands of buffalo rubbing against them, known as Buffalo trees. I have painted one of these vestiges here in this Night Watch painting, to remind all that this green valley was once used by a different people.
11 x 14 oil on linen panel
available thru Legacy Gallery Small Painting Show Scottsdale, AZ
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I never tire of painting images of cowboys taking night watch over a herd of cattle. There is something eternal and restful about them, as if for a brief time the only thing in your existence is you, the moon and the stars.
When my grandfather was a boy there still remained vestiges of the Teepee people on the vast plains they once called their home. Mostly it was place names, now lost to time, that had been named by the People. Teepee rings, the stones that the People used to hold down the bottoms of their teepees, were still common and not yet covered up by the sands of time. On the Old Camp Grounds would be seen metates, large flat grinding stones. sometimes the ancient fire pits were still visible. On the large old cottonwoods the bark was still worn smooth like silk, from thousands of buffalo rubbing against them, known as Buffalo trees. I have painted one of these vestiges here in this Night Watch painting, to remind all that this green valley was once used by a different people.
STUDY; THE NEXT THING Y'ALL KNOW, YER BOUND FOR HEAVEN
11 x 14 oil on linen panel
available thru Legacy Gallery Small Painting Show, SCottsdale, AZ
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Many years ago I was known as the "painter of red roofs"...even having some magazines writing about such nonsense. I recall being inspired by a red roof ranch house I once observed silouetted against the sapphire blue Sangre de Cristo mountains down in New Mexico. I suppose that is what set me off on a long period of painting red roofs. Satisfying the thought that you can teach an old dog new tricks, I left them for a long time until I realized I have just completed, not realizing during the actual crime, that the last two pieces I have recently painted are red roof paintings. I can't explain it, other then I long ago learned to leave sleeping dogs lie. So there you have it, oh my oh my, is it time to man the life boats?
11 x 14 oil on linen panel
available thru Legacy Gallery Small Painting Show, SCottsdale, AZ
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Many years ago I was known as the "painter of red roofs"...even having some magazines writing about such nonsense. I recall being inspired by a red roof ranch house I once observed silouetted against the sapphire blue Sangre de Cristo mountains down in New Mexico. I suppose that is what set me off on a long period of painting red roofs. Satisfying the thought that you can teach an old dog new tricks, I left them for a long time until I realized I have just completed, not realizing during the actual crime, that the last two pieces I have recently painted are red roof paintings. I can't explain it, other then I long ago learned to leave sleeping dogs lie. So there you have it, oh my oh my, is it time to man the life boats?
WHERE LIES THE WELL THAT ONCE FILLED MY CUP
20 x 24 oil on linen panel
available thru Eiteljorg Museum "Night of the Artists" 2023 Indianpolis, IN
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
https://eiteljorg.org/exhibitions/quest-for-the-west/
There is a danger as one grows older of being complacent about the present and present circumstance. Instead it is easy to become wistful for things in the past, or what we wish the past to have been. Or as Mark Twain once said "I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened." It doesn't matter if it is our dreams or our troubles, time puts a damper on accuracy, and memory plays a soft hand. We are best served with the immediacy of the present moment, and all the paraphenalia that rolls down the road before us. I will always visit the intention of days gone by, but I carry a big stick for the snakes of deception.
STUDY OF CHURCH IN MOONLIGHT
11 x 14 oil on linen panel
available thru Cawdrey Gallery, Whitefish, MT
I painted this as a demo for an art group...showing my approach to controlling the palette when painting a nocturne. This church is in the San Luis valley of southern Colorado. It is the church of San Acacio, constructed in 1842 and the oldest standing church in Colorado. Years ago the church was renovated by the parish, led by a dear friend, Father Pat Valdez. I can't think of this church without thinking of Father Pat, and how a man of quiet demeanor and kindness of heart, can leave such an indelible affect upon a community. Oh, but could we all leave such beautiful testimonial of our passing through this life...what a treasure our existence would reflect.
11 x 14 oil on linen panel
available thru Cawdrey Gallery, Whitefish, MT
I painted this as a demo for an art group...showing my approach to controlling the palette when painting a nocturne. This church is in the San Luis valley of southern Colorado. It is the church of San Acacio, constructed in 1842 and the oldest standing church in Colorado. Years ago the church was renovated by the parish, led by a dear friend, Father Pat Valdez. I can't think of this church without thinking of Father Pat, and how a man of quiet demeanor and kindness of heart, can leave such an indelible affect upon a community. Oh, but could we all leave such beautiful testimonial of our passing through this life...what a treasure our existence would reflect.
STUDY OF HARRY
9 X 12 oil on linen panel
available thru Eiteljorg Museum"Night of the Artists" 2023 INdianpolis, IN
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
https://eiteljorg.org/exhibitions/quest-for-the-west/
I had an old rancher friend up north of the Spanish Peaks near Bozeman , Montana. His name was Harry Figgins. He had lived on this ranch his entire life. I would paint on the ranch and Harry would come out and watch me. We would later set around on his front porch and talk, Harry sharing stories about the old days of ranching in the Gallatin valley, me remarking about the art world I traversed in. As the gentrification of Bozeman slowly spread towards his ranch, Harry would remark that in his youth he knew every family in the valley, but not so much now. He hardly knew anyone in the present, as almost all the old family ranches had been sold and developed into luxury second home “country” mansions, the new occupants having little in common with Harry or the life he knew. After Harry’s passing the same thing happened to Harry’s Clear Creek Ranch; the ranch was sold and divided, the old ranch buildings torn down, and gigantic log-cabin monsters raised to replace them. I lost any desire to return to Harry’s old stompin’ grounds, instead I return to Harry and his legacy with my heart and memory. I grasp the memories of that unassuming old man and the treasures he brought into my life, and I am so thankful I have been granted a little time to still plant those good seeds of mankind. I only paint his place now in my memory, like this springhouse his father built in 1913. The new luxury log mansions I leave to a different artist from a different time.
9 X 12 oil on linen panel
available thru Eiteljorg Museum"Night of the Artists" 2023 INdianpolis, IN
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
https://eiteljorg.org/exhibitions/quest-for-the-west/
I had an old rancher friend up north of the Spanish Peaks near Bozeman , Montana. His name was Harry Figgins. He had lived on this ranch his entire life. I would paint on the ranch and Harry would come out and watch me. We would later set around on his front porch and talk, Harry sharing stories about the old days of ranching in the Gallatin valley, me remarking about the art world I traversed in. As the gentrification of Bozeman slowly spread towards his ranch, Harry would remark that in his youth he knew every family in the valley, but not so much now. He hardly knew anyone in the present, as almost all the old family ranches had been sold and developed into luxury second home “country” mansions, the new occupants having little in common with Harry or the life he knew. After Harry’s passing the same thing happened to Harry’s Clear Creek Ranch; the ranch was sold and divided, the old ranch buildings torn down, and gigantic log-cabin monsters raised to replace them. I lost any desire to return to Harry’s old stompin’ grounds, instead I return to Harry and his legacy with my heart and memory. I grasp the memories of that unassuming old man and the treasures he brought into my life, and I am so thankful I have been granted a little time to still plant those good seeds of mankind. I only paint his place now in my memory, like this springhouse his father built in 1913. The new luxury log mansions I leave to a different artist from a different time.
STUDY OF MIDNIGHT ON THE WATER
11 x 14 oil on linen panel
.I return to this theme often, the mystery of night gathered by the perpetuity of a flowing stream. This reminds me of infinity, or perhaps the closest I can come to thinking about an unknowable thing.
11 x 14 oil on linen panel
.I return to this theme often, the mystery of night gathered by the perpetuity of a flowing stream. This reminds me of infinity, or perhaps the closest I can come to thinking about an unknowable thing.
STUDY; THE LAST RIDE OF UTAH CARROLL
16 x 20 oil on linen panel
available thru Eiteljorg Museum "NIght of the Artists" 2023 Indianapolis, IN
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
https://eiteljorg.org/exhibitions/quest-for-the-west/
Utah Carroll was the heroic cowboy in an old cowboy ballad, credited with saving the life of a small girl, Varro, or in other examples, Lenore, from death by stampeding cattle. In most versions of the ballad Utah dies with six guns blazing, dropping the charging cattle before being trampled by the herd. The ballad most likely originated in Texas or Mexico as in older versions there are a number of Spanish references. The author being unknown, the song does reflect a strong myth about the courage and unselfishness that we today endear to our beliefs about the "Cowboy". In the monumental anthology "Trail Drivers of Texas" compiled in 1921 from first hand accounts of men who had driven cattle on the old Texas cow trails, there are many stories of death on the drives. The most common form of death was being struck by lightening followed by snake bite, drowning, and accidents during stampedes. I have visited numerous grave sites of these victims, often in remote and forgotten places. I suspect that from such arose the ballads like Utah Carroll, to memorialize a fallen comrade/friend, earning wages on a dangerous uncertain endeavor
In my life I was involved in a number of "accidents" on horse mounts "going down" with me. I was taught at an early age that when such things happen the first thing you try to do is get out of the stirrups, so you don't get drug to death. I am sure that this binding lesson has not changed in a hundred and fifty years. If you carry this theme to a metaphor for surviving todays' "accidents/misfortune" may we all survive the fall and avoid bing drug to death. The danger of Utah Carroll's demise is never far from our twenty first century existence.
16 x 20 oil on linen panel
available thru Eiteljorg Museum "NIght of the Artists" 2023 Indianapolis, IN
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
https://eiteljorg.org/exhibitions/quest-for-the-west/
Utah Carroll was the heroic cowboy in an old cowboy ballad, credited with saving the life of a small girl, Varro, or in other examples, Lenore, from death by stampeding cattle. In most versions of the ballad Utah dies with six guns blazing, dropping the charging cattle before being trampled by the herd. The ballad most likely originated in Texas or Mexico as in older versions there are a number of Spanish references. The author being unknown, the song does reflect a strong myth about the courage and unselfishness that we today endear to our beliefs about the "Cowboy". In the monumental anthology "Trail Drivers of Texas" compiled in 1921 from first hand accounts of men who had driven cattle on the old Texas cow trails, there are many stories of death on the drives. The most common form of death was being struck by lightening followed by snake bite, drowning, and accidents during stampedes. I have visited numerous grave sites of these victims, often in remote and forgotten places. I suspect that from such arose the ballads like Utah Carroll, to memorialize a fallen comrade/friend, earning wages on a dangerous uncertain endeavor
In my life I was involved in a number of "accidents" on horse mounts "going down" with me. I was taught at an early age that when such things happen the first thing you try to do is get out of the stirrups, so you don't get drug to death. I am sure that this binding lesson has not changed in a hundred and fifty years. If you carry this theme to a metaphor for surviving todays' "accidents/misfortune" may we all survive the fall and avoid bing drug to death. The danger of Utah Carroll's demise is never far from our twenty first century existence.
El Paso, Una Puerta Haint (the passing, a haint door)
48 x 60 oil on canvas
available thru Sanders Gallery, Tucson, AZ
This is my final piece in the "Haint Door" series I have been working on. Haint blue is the color that the peoples in the Gullah country of South Carolina and the Spanish speaking people of the Southwest United States paint their windowsills and doors. To some this color protects their homes from evil spirits and witches, or 'haints', because the haints think the blue is water, which is something they can't cross! To other people the haint blue color protects their homes because it is the color of God's eyes, which repels evil and bad luck. I am infatuated with custom, tradition, and myth. Our lives are listless and unconnected without them, and it is easy to lose our humanity when living in ignorance of legend and saga. As with most of my work, I am at heart a ghost walker, in battle with the ravages of time. This is how I imagine Canyon Road in Santa Fe to have existed before automobiles, tourism, and the conformity of television altered our existence and living traditions.
48 x 60 oil on canvas
available thru Sanders Gallery, Tucson, AZ
This is my final piece in the "Haint Door" series I have been working on. Haint blue is the color that the peoples in the Gullah country of South Carolina and the Spanish speaking people of the Southwest United States paint their windowsills and doors. To some this color protects their homes from evil spirits and witches, or 'haints', because the haints think the blue is water, which is something they can't cross! To other people the haint blue color protects their homes because it is the color of God's eyes, which repels evil and bad luck. I am infatuated with custom, tradition, and myth. Our lives are listless and unconnected without them, and it is easy to lose our humanity when living in ignorance of legend and saga. As with most of my work, I am at heart a ghost walker, in battle with the ravages of time. This is how I imagine Canyon Road in Santa Fe to have existed before automobiles, tourism, and the conformity of television altered our existence and living traditions.
Everything I Ever Wanted To Say
20 X 24 oil on linen panel
available thru Cawdrey Gallery, Whitefish, MT
I don't remember where I first saw this light. It was many many years ago. I recall I was in a mountain valley, and a storm was coming down hard off the mountain. I also remember being in a hurry to find a paved road as it looked like I was due for a gully washer, and I didn't want ot get stuck in the middle of nowhere's mud. Despite the hurry, I stopped for about ten minutes to watch the light change as the storm swept across the valley, thinking many thoughts, one of which was I wanted to etch this moment in my mind, I didn't want a camera to interfere with what I was feeling.
I was thinking about how transitory everything in our lives is. We live in an existence of constant change, the great Cosmic River never satisfied with damming up and staying put as still water. I thought about the many things from the past I still missed, days and people now gone, even places changed to a point of not recognizing them any more. That is the tyranny of time...though it provides us with a hope for the future, it takes apart and away things held close to our hearts in the present, rapidly turning them into the past tense. That is what this painting is about, or at least about a young man who waited for the days of grey hair to paint his thoughts.
20 X 24 oil on linen panel
available thru Cawdrey Gallery, Whitefish, MT
I don't remember where I first saw this light. It was many many years ago. I recall I was in a mountain valley, and a storm was coming down hard off the mountain. I also remember being in a hurry to find a paved road as it looked like I was due for a gully washer, and I didn't want ot get stuck in the middle of nowhere's mud. Despite the hurry, I stopped for about ten minutes to watch the light change as the storm swept across the valley, thinking many thoughts, one of which was I wanted to etch this moment in my mind, I didn't want a camera to interfere with what I was feeling.
I was thinking about how transitory everything in our lives is. We live in an existence of constant change, the great Cosmic River never satisfied with damming up and staying put as still water. I thought about the many things from the past I still missed, days and people now gone, even places changed to a point of not recognizing them any more. That is the tyranny of time...though it provides us with a hope for the future, it takes apart and away things held close to our hearts in the present, rapidly turning them into the past tense. That is what this painting is about, or at least about a young man who waited for the days of grey hair to paint his thoughts.
KEEP A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW
24 x 30 oil on linen panel
AVAILABLE THRU SETTLERS WEST GALLERY'S GREAT AMERICAN WEST SHOW
This has been a rough year for me. I survived life threatening illness and then major surgery. I was in and out of the hospital numerous times, and was bedridden much of the year. It seemed like health wise it was just one thing after another. To add to the trauma, several old friends passed away during this same period, all of them my same age. I have been depressed, very depressed. What has kept me going and looking to the future has been my wife, family, and the support of many friends…without whom I do not know where I would be. That is what this painting if about. That and the gratitude I feel for still breathing the air of this blessed beautiful planet.
I had an old rancher friend up north of the Spanish Peaks near Bozeman , Montana. His name was Harry Figgins. He had lived on this ranch his entire life, his father built this springhouse you see here in 1913. I would paint on the ranch and Harry would come out and watch me. We would later set around on his front porch and talk, Harry sharing stories about the old days of ranching in the Gallatin valley, me remarking about the art world I traversed in. As the gentrification of Bozeman slowly spread towards his ranch, Harry would remark that in his youth he knew every family in the valley, but not so much now. He hardly knew anyone in the present, as almost all the old family ranches had been sold and developed into luxury second home “country” mansions, the new occupants having little in common with Harry or the life he knew. After Harry’s passing the same thing happened to Harry’s Clear Creek Ranch; the ranch was sold and divided, the old ranch buildings torn down, and gigantic log-cabin monsters raised to replace them. I lost any desire to return to Harry’s old stompin’ grounds, instead I return to Harry and his legacy with my heart and memory. I grasp the memories of that unassuming old man and the treasures he brought into my life, and I am so thankful I have been granted a little time to still plant those good seeds of mankind.
HAINT DOOR
24 x 30 oil on linen
available thru Settlers West Gallery Summer Show 2023 Tucson, AZ
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I have been doing a number of versions of this idea...getting larger and larger as I go. the next version will be 48 x 60. As you get larger with a painting, a number of problems arise...namely you have a lot more canvas to cover, and a small brushstroke doesn't read all that well. In addition, Each time I approach the idea, I see slight changes to improve it compositionally and perhaps even its hypostatic content.
I did a sketch of Canyon Road in Santa Fe years ago, which is the basis for this nocturne. In South Carolina where the Gullah culture and dialect is prominent, doors and windows are painted blue, as they also do in old Spanish speaking settlements in New Mexico. Gullah refers to this color as "haint" blue, believed to keep witches and evil spirits from entering the home. Because of these supernatural powers accorded this color, I have painted this door haint blue,bathed in the mystery of a full moon.
24 x 30 oil on linen
available thru Settlers West Gallery Summer Show 2023 Tucson, AZ
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I have been doing a number of versions of this idea...getting larger and larger as I go. the next version will be 48 x 60. As you get larger with a painting, a number of problems arise...namely you have a lot more canvas to cover, and a small brushstroke doesn't read all that well. In addition, Each time I approach the idea, I see slight changes to improve it compositionally and perhaps even its hypostatic content.
I did a sketch of Canyon Road in Santa Fe years ago, which is the basis for this nocturne. In South Carolina where the Gullah culture and dialect is prominent, doors and windows are painted blue, as they also do in old Spanish speaking settlements in New Mexico. Gullah refers to this color as "haint" blue, believed to keep witches and evil spirits from entering the home. Because of these supernatural powers accorded this color, I have painted this door haint blue,bathed in the mystery of a full moon.
IF I HAD A BOAT I'D HEAD ON OUT TO SEA
30 X 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Available thru Buffalo Bill Art Show and Sale, Buffalo Bill Center of the West, Cody, WY Sept. 22-23, 2023
In this piece I was interested in painting high action to contrast with the silent calmness of night time. I was inspired by the song "If I had a Boat" by Lyle Lovett and am imagining someone who is currently wishing they had made some different life choices. Haven't we all been in this predicament? I certainly have, many more times than once. I am always interested in the rounder's ways, and the eternal search for redemption.
30 X 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Available thru Buffalo Bill Art Show and Sale, Buffalo Bill Center of the West, Cody, WY Sept. 22-23, 2023
In this piece I was interested in painting high action to contrast with the silent calmness of night time. I was inspired by the song "If I had a Boat" by Lyle Lovett and am imagining someone who is currently wishing they had made some different life choices. Haven't we all been in this predicament? I certainly have, many more times than once. I am always interested in the rounder's ways, and the eternal search for redemption.
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, T
VAQUERO
16 x 12 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I am enthralled by the brilliance of light in many of Frederick Remington's day scenes. I studied his palette carefully and attempted to create this brilliant sort of glaring light. A vaquero is a Mexican cowboy, or rather a cowboy of Spanish speaking descent. Reading the 1619 PROJECT it is very apparent we take a great deal of our history for granted or ignore or are ignorant of it altogether. Did you know that forty percent of the cowboys who drove cattle up the Texas cow trails were people of color? Almost everything about the American cowboy is derived from the traditions and skills of these Spanish speaking cattle workers, LOS VAQUEROS.
HEED THEE WELL WHEN WEST WINDS BLOW
30 x 40 oil on canvas
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
I remember as a boy my grandad Coony giving me this warning. It seemed the worst weather came to us off the Rocky Mountains especially from the northwest. My father was caught in a blizzard many years ago that moved in from such directions, and his little brother froze to death in the storm. I am carrying the warning further, to a metaphorical portent for the storms of our times. There are many "directions" I now watch very closely, keeping my father and grandfather in mind; heeding the omens of falsity and untruth, the harbingers of greed and avarice
30 x 40 oil on canvas
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
I remember as a boy my grandad Coony giving me this warning. It seemed the worst weather came to us off the Rocky Mountains especially from the northwest. My father was caught in a blizzard many years ago that moved in from such directions, and his little brother froze to death in the storm. I am carrying the warning further, to a metaphorical portent for the storms of our times. There are many "directions" I now watch very closely, keeping my father and grandfather in mind; heeding the omens of falsity and untruth, the harbingers of greed and avarice
RISING ON NESPESTE'
9 x 12 oil on linen
available thru Sanders Gallery, Tucson, AZ
I grew up on my Grandfather's farm in southeastern Colorado. The Arkansas River, with the old Santa Fe Trail rolling along beside it, was about a mile south of our farmhouse across a vast buffalo grass prairie. Either on horseback or on foot, I spent much of my time here, imagining buffalo hunts, oxen pulled wagons, of the prairies before the fences came. Living on a main migratory bird flyway, I witnessed this scene many times, vast numbers of waterfowl rising from the icy cold October waters. Nepeste' was a Comanche name for the Arkansas River meaning "big water". Bigger still were the dreams inspired by its' flowing waters.
This is the first painting I have completed in many weeks, having been laid up with foul health. I painted it from memory, looking forward very soon to some major surgery. I pray and hope for a return to good health and a great many more paintings stirring within this artist's heart and soul. Slainte'
9 x 12 oil on linen
available thru Sanders Gallery, Tucson, AZ
I grew up on my Grandfather's farm in southeastern Colorado. The Arkansas River, with the old Santa Fe Trail rolling along beside it, was about a mile south of our farmhouse across a vast buffalo grass prairie. Either on horseback or on foot, I spent much of my time here, imagining buffalo hunts, oxen pulled wagons, of the prairies before the fences came. Living on a main migratory bird flyway, I witnessed this scene many times, vast numbers of waterfowl rising from the icy cold October waters. Nepeste' was a Comanche name for the Arkansas River meaning "big water". Bigger still were the dreams inspired by its' flowing waters.
This is the first painting I have completed in many weeks, having been laid up with foul health. I painted it from memory, looking forward very soon to some major surgery. I pray and hope for a return to good health and a great many more paintings stirring within this artist's heart and soul. Slainte'
SUM BITCH, CAIN'T GO FISHIN' 'CAUSE FISH DRAW FLIES
40 x 30 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
This is my piece in this years Buffalo Bill Art Auction in Cody, WY, September 24th, 2022. This is the first time in years I won't be present for the Auction or painting in the Quick Draw. I can't begin to describe how disappointed I am, getting to see and visit with so many old friends, artists, and patrons. I have been very sick, but on the mend. It looks like I am headed for heart surgery in a few weeks. Needless to say I am weak and easily fatigued, and my wife won't allow me to travel. The prognosis is all very good, just going to take some time and healing. So may I raise a glass of good cheer, to all my dear comrades, that we may gather again in the near future.
I have always admired the down to earth lyrics of the late song writer Blaze Foley. His song "Good Cheeseburgers" was an inspiration for this painting. Most of us have known individuals, or been guilty of, coming up with ridiculous reasons for either doing or not doing something. We will dream up piles of bunk to justify our "Reasoning", rather than simply self-employing IFU's...( I F____ED UP) So here's to us all...and the fish we will never hook!
SUM BITCH, CAIN'T GO FISHIN' 'CAUSE FISH DRAW FLIES
40 x 30 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
This is my piece in this years Buffalo Bill Art Auction in Cody, WY, September 24th, 2022. This is the first time in years I won't be present for the Auction or painting in the Quick Draw. I can't begin to describe how disappointed I am, getting to see and visit with so many old friends, artists, and patrons. I have been very sick, but on the mend. It looks like I am headed for heart surgery in a few weeks. Needless to say I am weak and easily fatigued, and my wife won't allow me to travel. The prognosis is all very good, just going to take some time and healing. So may I raise a glass of good cheer, to all my dear comrades, that we may gather again in the near future.
I have always admired the down to earth lyrics of the late song writer Blaze Foley. His song "Good Cheeseburgers" was an inspiration for this painting. Most of us have known individuals, or been guilty of, coming up with ridiculous reasons for either doing or not doing something. We will dream up piles of bunk to justify our "Reasoning", rather than simply self-employing IFU's...( I F____ED UP) So here's to us all...and the fish we will never hook!
I HAVE ALWAYS LEARNED BEST BY OPEN GATES
16 x 20 oil on linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
My preference in art is work that represents symbolism, metaphor, allegory, something that encourages the painting to represent more than an image of itself. I call this having high hypostasistic content. Getting away from the big words, I am sturck with the pronounced assurdedness people today state and hold their beliefs and prejudices. It seems about ninety per cent of us, of all genders and persuasions, are convinced that we are "correct" about what we hold as truthful and fact. Those of opposite view we hold as misguided, ignorant, or downright untruthful. That may be, there certainly is a lot of chicanery in the world of today, but I am still mindful of something I heard in my youth; it went something like this: "You can cover much ground over a day of hard ride but remember, you can't ride a horse thru a shut gate". With that I will let you the viewer figure out what this painting is all about
Study: WHEN TOWNS SLOW DOWN
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I was born out on the Buffalo Range, the Great Plains. My great great grandparents came to these vast lands after the Civil War. They saw many changes there, from the Tepee People being being forced off it, to the decimation and disappearance of the buffalo, cattle replacing them. The history of this sea-like land is one of change, often violent, frequently painful, always poignant.
My great grandfather mourned the fencing of the prairies. My grandfather spoke of the land filling up with homesteaders, inspired by the Great Wheat Boom, turning over much of the sod with the plow, then watching their dreams destroyed by the wrath of the Dust Bowl, the Dirty Thirties. This influx of dreamers, in prodigious numbers, encouraged the emergence of many farming towns across the Plains, with accompanying support businesses: blacksmith shops, banks, mercantiles, drugstores, etc. Even with the Depression and the Dust Bowl caused exodus, these towns managed to survive thru the Second World War, when electricity and paved roads came to many of the isolated communities spread out across immeasurable isolation and distances. My family always alludes to this time as the coming of Modern Times. This modernization came at a cost...the automobile and good roads made travel easier across great distances to find more selection and cheaper prices for goods and supplies. We no longer needed the local small town merchants. Slowly and steadily these small businesses went out of existence, to the extent that today many of these small communities are mere ghost towns, buildings vacant and falling into disrepair. I grew up near one such community, Bristol, Colorado, and my dear friends still acquainted with the town, will attest to its slow inevitable decline. It doesn't matter what the community; a manufacturing town in the Rust Belt, a mill-town in the Northeast, an oil town in the Panhandle, modernization and globalization have forced economics to grow too large for the small local community, at least in many instances. We have replaced the nature of small local community with something on a larger "grander" scale; I don't know, maybe something like LARGER TRIBES ? I am an artist, practically a hermit, genuinely self-absorbed. I have not the wisdom to either understand what has happened or suggest what can be done about it. I just know things changed, and it makes me sad and that is why I have painted this.
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I was born out on the Buffalo Range, the Great Plains. My great great grandparents came to these vast lands after the Civil War. They saw many changes there, from the Tepee People being being forced off it, to the decimation and disappearance of the buffalo, cattle replacing them. The history of this sea-like land is one of change, often violent, frequently painful, always poignant.
My great grandfather mourned the fencing of the prairies. My grandfather spoke of the land filling up with homesteaders, inspired by the Great Wheat Boom, turning over much of the sod with the plow, then watching their dreams destroyed by the wrath of the Dust Bowl, the Dirty Thirties. This influx of dreamers, in prodigious numbers, encouraged the emergence of many farming towns across the Plains, with accompanying support businesses: blacksmith shops, banks, mercantiles, drugstores, etc. Even with the Depression and the Dust Bowl caused exodus, these towns managed to survive thru the Second World War, when electricity and paved roads came to many of the isolated communities spread out across immeasurable isolation and distances. My family always alludes to this time as the coming of Modern Times. This modernization came at a cost...the automobile and good roads made travel easier across great distances to find more selection and cheaper prices for goods and supplies. We no longer needed the local small town merchants. Slowly and steadily these small businesses went out of existence, to the extent that today many of these small communities are mere ghost towns, buildings vacant and falling into disrepair. I grew up near one such community, Bristol, Colorado, and my dear friends still acquainted with the town, will attest to its slow inevitable decline. It doesn't matter what the community; a manufacturing town in the Rust Belt, a mill-town in the Northeast, an oil town in the Panhandle, modernization and globalization have forced economics to grow too large for the small local community, at least in many instances. We have replaced the nature of small local community with something on a larger "grander" scale; I don't know, maybe something like LARGER TRIBES ? I am an artist, practically a hermit, genuinely self-absorbed. I have not the wisdom to either understand what has happened or suggest what can be done about it. I just know things changed, and it makes me sad and that is why I have painted this.
She Comes From My Mother the Mountain
24 x 30 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I have recently been listening repeatedly to a song written by Texas songwriter Townes Van Zandt titled “Our Mother the Mountain”. It is a haunting story of falling in love with a siren:
"So walk these hills lightly, and watch who you're lovin'
By mother the mountain I swear that it's true
Love not a woman with hair black as midnight
And her dress made of satin all shimmerin’ blue”
I am fortunate to have lived in the days of the great Texas troubadours, Townes, Steve Earl, Guy Clark and many others, for me like living through the age of Shakespeare and the great English poets.
24 x 30 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I have recently been listening repeatedly to a song written by Texas songwriter Townes Van Zandt titled “Our Mother the Mountain”. It is a haunting story of falling in love with a siren:
"So walk these hills lightly, and watch who you're lovin'
By mother the mountain I swear that it's true
Love not a woman with hair black as midnight
And her dress made of satin all shimmerin’ blue”
I am fortunate to have lived in the days of the great Texas troubadours, Townes, Steve Earl, Guy Clark and many others, for me like living through the age of Shakespeare and the great English poets.
SWEET BABY JAMES
48 x 36 oil on canvas
available through Sanders Galleries, Tucson
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I hope this painting represents the naivete' by which so many of us apporoach life and the circumstances of daily living. We let myth and pomp line the nestings of our lives, ignoring the harsh realities that actually flavor and color life; that is we allow this ignorance to exist in the future tense, but it blooms in the "intelligence" of looking backward in time. Aye, we can celebrate in the romanticism of the cowboy, until the cattle stampede and the faithful mount uncorks a violence that adds to the tempest and the thin line between success and failure.
Open Gate with Crows
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
This painting actually represents some interesting history. I sketched this barn on location south of Cartersville, Georgia. This particular farm still had original 19th century buildings on it, remarkable for this area because virtually everyhting was destroyed as General Sherman passed through in 1864-65 on his "March to the Sea" to break the backbone of the Confederacy. This farm was preserved because Sherman had attended West Point with the farmer's son, and had once visited the place as a young man. He ordered his troops to leave the farm unscathed out of respect for his former friends.
Crow sybolism includes cleverness, teamwork and transformation. Because of their high intelligence the crow spirit animal is sacred and revered. I think they are a suitable substitute for putting cowboys in a painting! I think they are great partners for the symbolism of an open gate!
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
This painting actually represents some interesting history. I sketched this barn on location south of Cartersville, Georgia. This particular farm still had original 19th century buildings on it, remarkable for this area because virtually everyhting was destroyed as General Sherman passed through in 1864-65 on his "March to the Sea" to break the backbone of the Confederacy. This farm was preserved because Sherman had attended West Point with the farmer's son, and had once visited the place as a young man. He ordered his troops to leave the farm unscathed out of respect for his former friends.
Crow sybolism includes cleverness, teamwork and transformation. Because of their high intelligence the crow spirit animal is sacred and revered. I think they are a suitable substitute for putting cowboys in a painting! I think they are great partners for the symbolism of an open gate!
Trail Boss at Buffalo Gap
16 x 20 oil on linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
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Buffalo Gap, a natural pass on the old Great Western Cattle Trail,
lies south of present day Abilene, Texas. Since the Ice Age, this has been a natural passage spot from mammoths to buffalo to modern day motorists. Years ago I spent a lot of time here with my friends the Peughs, hiking the benches, imagining the ancient traffic that has passed through this mystical location.
16 x 20 oil on linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Buffalo Gap, a natural pass on the old Great Western Cattle Trail,
lies south of present day Abilene, Texas. Since the Ice Age, this has been a natural passage spot from mammoths to buffalo to modern day motorists. Years ago I spent a lot of time here with my friends the Peughs, hiking the benches, imagining the ancient traffic that has passed through this mystical location.
Study; How Can You Say that You're Lonely
9 x 12 oil on linen panel
available thru the 2022 Buffalo Bill Art Show miniatures
Cody, WY
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I have painted this as a study for a larger piece I will be painting for the Eiteljorg Museum. I reflect again and again on the early life of my great grandfather, Conrad Brase. Orphaned at an early age, he was seperated from his twin sister and sent from farm to farm as a hand and servant. Around the age of 12 he managed to run away from his predicament and crossed the country odd jobbing and walking. He ended up in Texas, where he gained employment as a cattle drover, first coming to Colorado driving cattle on the Goodnight Trail. Being a German speaker, "der anglish" was hard for him. He died long before I was born, but my grandmother, who married his son Coony, had fond memories of him; that he was quiet, soft spoken, and very kind. I think about his hard early life, stranded in a new land, no family to speak of. What were his days out on the vast plains like, espiecially at night riding night herd? What did he daydream, and what lanquage did he dream them in. Not many people think of him anymore, people and family who might have known him have all passed on. I still do, but what happens when I pass on? Will consideration of his long lonely days pass away, consumed by the unrelenting passage of time?
9 x 12 oil on linen panel
available thru the 2022 Buffalo Bill Art Show miniatures
Cody, WY
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I have painted this as a study for a larger piece I will be painting for the Eiteljorg Museum. I reflect again and again on the early life of my great grandfather, Conrad Brase. Orphaned at an early age, he was seperated from his twin sister and sent from farm to farm as a hand and servant. Around the age of 12 he managed to run away from his predicament and crossed the country odd jobbing and walking. He ended up in Texas, where he gained employment as a cattle drover, first coming to Colorado driving cattle on the Goodnight Trail. Being a German speaker, "der anglish" was hard for him. He died long before I was born, but my grandmother, who married his son Coony, had fond memories of him; that he was quiet, soft spoken, and very kind. I think about his hard early life, stranded in a new land, no family to speak of. What were his days out on the vast plains like, espiecially at night riding night herd? What did he daydream, and what lanquage did he dream them in. Not many people think of him anymore, people and family who might have known him have all passed on. I still do, but what happens when I pass on? Will consideration of his long lonely days pass away, consumed by the unrelenting passage of time?
Les Dindons; (the turkeys) Sometimes One Will Do What Must Be Done
30 x 24 oil on linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
Recently an old high school friend took me on a tour of his ranch, in southeastern Colorado, founded by his family in 1884. It is a beautiful place, with rolling prairies and spring fed stone lined canyons, some twenty to twenty five sections in size. His grandmother was running the ranch during the Great Depression, a time that people there, in the heart of the Dust Bowl, referred to as the "Dirty Thirties". Their springs were drying up, and the grass was rapidly disappearing. This steadfast ranch woman decided to sell all the cattle, as the land could no longer support them. She took that money and purchased 5,000 turkeys, and ran them free range on the depleted pastures, the turkeys thriving on the millions of locust that had descended upon the ravaged ranch land. In order to protect the birds from wolf and coyote predators, her sons and hired men safe-herded the turkeys on horseback, adding a new meaning to "cowboy". These brave and innovative actions saved the ranch during the worst of hard times! This story reminds me that there is a lot more to the WEST than cowboys and gunfights. The WEST I grew up around was a lot more than high heeled boots and stetson hats. It was more about surviving all the misfortune that could fall uopn this vast land, enduring with hard work, and luck! It was about grit in your teeth and spit in your eye. The shoot-em up Hollywood version of the OLD WEST was something that the people I was raised around had nothing to do with! I like to think I don't either.
My painting inspIration was a painting created by Claude Monet in 1876 titled Les Dindons.
30 x 24 oil on linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
Recently an old high school friend took me on a tour of his ranch, in southeastern Colorado, founded by his family in 1884. It is a beautiful place, with rolling prairies and spring fed stone lined canyons, some twenty to twenty five sections in size. His grandmother was running the ranch during the Great Depression, a time that people there, in the heart of the Dust Bowl, referred to as the "Dirty Thirties". Their springs were drying up, and the grass was rapidly disappearing. This steadfast ranch woman decided to sell all the cattle, as the land could no longer support them. She took that money and purchased 5,000 turkeys, and ran them free range on the depleted pastures, the turkeys thriving on the millions of locust that had descended upon the ravaged ranch land. In order to protect the birds from wolf and coyote predators, her sons and hired men safe-herded the turkeys on horseback, adding a new meaning to "cowboy". These brave and innovative actions saved the ranch during the worst of hard times! This story reminds me that there is a lot more to the WEST than cowboys and gunfights. The WEST I grew up around was a lot more than high heeled boots and stetson hats. It was more about surviving all the misfortune that could fall uopn this vast land, enduring with hard work, and luck! It was about grit in your teeth and spit in your eye. The shoot-em up Hollywood version of the OLD WEST was something that the people I was raised around had nothing to do with! I like to think I don't either.
My painting inspIration was a painting created by Claude Monet in 1876 titled Les Dindons.
On the Graveyard Watch
20 x 24 oil on oil primed linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I paint a number of “night watch” paintings. They seem mysterious and yet commonplace, anyone can identify with the quiet non-harried moments they represent. Both my grandfather and his father before him free-ranged cattle. Both were German speakers. I often think about their daydreams, and the language they dreamed in. What were their dreams in the long nights of watching cattle, did they come to pass, did the passage of time flow as quickly through their expansive lives as it does my current one? Did they hanker for days long past, or were they content with their present and an eternally star-filled sky?
20 x 24 oil on oil primed linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I paint a number of “night watch” paintings. They seem mysterious and yet commonplace, anyone can identify with the quiet non-harried moments they represent. Both my grandfather and his father before him free-ranged cattle. Both were German speakers. I often think about their daydreams, and the language they dreamed in. What were their dreams in the long nights of watching cattle, did they come to pass, did the passage of time flow as quickly through their expansive lives as it does my current one? Did they hanker for days long past, or were they content with their present and an eternally star-filled sky?
Study, Long Ago I Used to be a Young Man
9 x 12 oil on linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
I can guarantee that in my youth I spent a lot more time on the end of a long handled shovel than ever In a saddle. I grew up on the Great Plains, the "Great American Desert". Water was a most cherished item, and was always carefully watched over. My grandad Coony called caring for the water "Irgaten", and it took up a big part of our time in summer and fall. In Coony's youth he spent many lonely nights alone out on the prairie watching over his father's free ranged cattle. Though in my youth we ran cattle too, they no longer required constant attention. But the water did, and like my grandfather before me, you stayed with the water and slept in the fields. I recall one summer period when I never slept in the house for over two weeks, the ground and a pickup seat were my bedrolls. My grandfather died from a stroke that occurred when he was driving a tractor in the field. While preparing for and waiting for his funeral, I took care of the run of water he had also going on. I will never forget the pain and saddness of following his last footprints captured in the mud fof the irrigated fields. These footprints were hard to live with, and still harder to remember. They reminded me that our lives are like wind through the buffalo grass.
9 x 12 oil on linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
I can guarantee that in my youth I spent a lot more time on the end of a long handled shovel than ever In a saddle. I grew up on the Great Plains, the "Great American Desert". Water was a most cherished item, and was always carefully watched over. My grandad Coony called caring for the water "Irgaten", and it took up a big part of our time in summer and fall. In Coony's youth he spent many lonely nights alone out on the prairie watching over his father's free ranged cattle. Though in my youth we ran cattle too, they no longer required constant attention. But the water did, and like my grandfather before me, you stayed with the water and slept in the fields. I recall one summer period when I never slept in the house for over two weeks, the ground and a pickup seat were my bedrolls. My grandfather died from a stroke that occurred when he was driving a tractor in the field. While preparing for and waiting for his funeral, I took care of the run of water he had also going on. I will never forget the pain and saddness of following his last footprints captured in the mud fof the irrigated fields. These footprints were hard to live with, and still harder to remember. They reminded me that our lives are like wind through the buffalo grass.
Some Who Will Never Hoe Corn
30 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
ALISON KRAUSS, PATRICK BRAYER, JERRY DOUGLAS, RON BLOCK, BARRY BALES, and DAN TYMINSKI wrote and perform a wonderful song titled The Boy Who Wouldn't Hoe Corn. I have borrowed the title to push forward an observation I have made over the years. I was born and live in Colorado, a beautiful western state that has seen tremendous population growth. Most of this growth is accountable to special people, seeking a new and adventurous western lifestyle. I admire this desire to be WESTERN, to become WESTERNESSE (my term), to pursue a life where you expand your nature and opportunity. I think this painting perfectly represents that adventurous soul, following their dreams.
Now I personally have worked cattle, and I have hoed corn. I always liked the farming aspect of things, seeing things grown, with your eye to the skies and weather. I lived to go out checking cattle on horseback, where your heart and eye can expand in a multitide of directions. Other than that, tending to cattle wasn't all that great, at least for me. It was often dusty, dirty, and fraught with danger and peril...I don't know how many times I have been tail twisting some balky scouring cow up a loading chute and the sumbitch shits all over me, or the facefuls of squirting blood I've tasted when branding and dehorning. Every cowman I know who have spent their whole lives with cattle almost without exception have beautiful perfect-teeth smiles...on account of a mouthful of dentures from having teeth kicked in or punched out in some sort of cattle induced incident. I suppose if I were true to my calling, I would have a picture of a guy with a long handled irgaten shovel in a green field, with a title "The Boy Who Wouldn't Punch Cows" but then that doesn't sit well with the romanticism of the West, so I will go with what I called here in this picture!
30 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
ALISON KRAUSS, PATRICK BRAYER, JERRY DOUGLAS, RON BLOCK, BARRY BALES, and DAN TYMINSKI wrote and perform a wonderful song titled The Boy Who Wouldn't Hoe Corn. I have borrowed the title to push forward an observation I have made over the years. I was born and live in Colorado, a beautiful western state that has seen tremendous population growth. Most of this growth is accountable to special people, seeking a new and adventurous western lifestyle. I admire this desire to be WESTERN, to become WESTERNESSE (my term), to pursue a life where you expand your nature and opportunity. I think this painting perfectly represents that adventurous soul, following their dreams.
Now I personally have worked cattle, and I have hoed corn. I always liked the farming aspect of things, seeing things grown, with your eye to the skies and weather. I lived to go out checking cattle on horseback, where your heart and eye can expand in a multitide of directions. Other than that, tending to cattle wasn't all that great, at least for me. It was often dusty, dirty, and fraught with danger and peril...I don't know how many times I have been tail twisting some balky scouring cow up a loading chute and the sumbitch shits all over me, or the facefuls of squirting blood I've tasted when branding and dehorning. Every cowman I know who have spent their whole lives with cattle almost without exception have beautiful perfect-teeth smiles...on account of a mouthful of dentures from having teeth kicked in or punched out in some sort of cattle induced incident. I suppose if I were true to my calling, I would have a picture of a guy with a long handled irgaten shovel in a green field, with a title "The Boy Who Wouldn't Punch Cows" but then that doesn't sit well with the romanticism of the West, so I will go with what I called here in this picture!
Western Skies
9 x 12 oil on linen
https://eiteljorg.org/exhibitions/quest-for-the-west/
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I painted this while sitting under a gazebo on Whitefish Lake, Montana, while rain moved across the lake. Looking straight west you could see the sun breaking on mountains in the distance, a small fishing boat was heading home to safety. There was something magical about the morning, the light spectacular in a stormy kind of way. Sometimes there is great joy in capturing the ordinary, spur of the moment portions of our lives. They pass too quickly, and are too easily forgotten.
9 x 12 oil on linen
https://eiteljorg.org/exhibitions/quest-for-the-west/
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I painted this while sitting under a gazebo on Whitefish Lake, Montana, while rain moved across the lake. Looking straight west you could see the sun breaking on mountains in the distance, a small fishing boat was heading home to safety. There was something magical about the morning, the light spectacular in a stormy kind of way. Sometimes there is great joy in capturing the ordinary, spur of the moment portions of our lives. They pass too quickly, and are too easily forgotten.
Quakies
20 x 24 oil on linen
https://eiteljorg.org/exhibitions/quest-for-the-west/
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
The term "Quakies" was used when I was a boy to designate aspen trees, because their leaves shook or quaked from a passing soft breeze. Many years ago I sketched and painted this old adobe church in the area of Arroyo Seco, New Mexico. I don't know if it is still standing today. More than likely it has been vandalized into complete ruin, at the very least the soquete melting back into the earth it sprang from. That is sort of what this painting is about, the intransigent nature of the passage of time. Here in the United States we tend to let our past slip away, erode back into the forever past. You see this with our disregard for old things, buildings, places...if we do preserve them we label them as antique, turn them into tourist attractions, which drives them even further into an hazy past. For a ghost walker like myself, this is a bitter brew to swallow, when only my aging memory links today with the distancing past.
20 x 24 oil on linen
https://eiteljorg.org/exhibitions/quest-for-the-west/
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
The term "Quakies" was used when I was a boy to designate aspen trees, because their leaves shook or quaked from a passing soft breeze. Many years ago I sketched and painted this old adobe church in the area of Arroyo Seco, New Mexico. I don't know if it is still standing today. More than likely it has been vandalized into complete ruin, at the very least the soquete melting back into the earth it sprang from. That is sort of what this painting is about, the intransigent nature of the passage of time. Here in the United States we tend to let our past slip away, erode back into the forever past. You see this with our disregard for old things, buildings, places...if we do preserve them we label them as antique, turn them into tourist attractions, which drives them even further into an hazy past. For a ghost walker like myself, this is a bitter brew to swallow, when only my aging memory links today with the distancing past.
Study, A Saddle Will Never Lead Me to Where My Heart Lies
9 x 12 oil on linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I paint so many Cowboy/western things, I need a break. This scene is at a township called Inches, near Eyeries, west County Cork, Ireland...Western Ireland! As the name implies, should my fortunes be different, this is where I would choose to be. This land has a hold on me, has so my entire life. When I walk these lands, I feel I have known the place for ages, that 'things' lie hidden behind a veil, and voices speak to me, faint and partial, as if heard through the mists of the soft green rain. Much like the cowboy days, here in this land I ghost walk with ease, unfettered with reality, nurtured by the mysticism of the what-if and the un-seen.
9 x 12 oil on linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I paint so many Cowboy/western things, I need a break. This scene is at a township called Inches, near Eyeries, west County Cork, Ireland...Western Ireland! As the name implies, should my fortunes be different, this is where I would choose to be. This land has a hold on me, has so my entire life. When I walk these lands, I feel I have known the place for ages, that 'things' lie hidden behind a veil, and voices speak to me, faint and partial, as if heard through the mists of the soft green rain. Much like the cowboy days, here in this land I ghost walk with ease, unfettered with reality, nurtured by the mysticism of the what-if and the un-seen.
Crossing at Red River Station
30 x 40 oil on canvas
AVILABLE THRU ADOBE GALLERY, RUIDOSO, NM
The Chisholm Trail was a route that Texas cattleman used to trail their cattle north to the railroads in Kansas, and hence to eastern markets. It was used for over twenty years, millions of Texas longhorns finding their way to eastern markets, or new western rangelands. The principle crossing of the broad Red River, the southern boundery of the Indian Territory (Oklahoma) and the state of Texas, was at Red River Station, northwest of present day Nocona, Texas. Crossing a river with a herd of cattle was tricky business. One technique for balky cattle who did not want to enter the water was to drive them at high speed directly at the water, hoping to "stampede" them into and then across the water. Doesn't that sound a lot like how many of us deal with obstacles even today; putting our heads down and barging headlong into the problem!
Night Herd with Starry Night
24 x 30 oil on canvas
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
I paint a number of “night watch” paintings. They seem mysterious and yet commonplace, anyone can identify with the quiet non-harried moments they represent. Both my grandfather and his father, who worked cattle on the Goodnight Trail, free-ranged cattle. Both were German speakers. I often think about their daydreams, and the language they dreamed in particularly when out on the open range, alone under prairie moonlight. What were their dreams in the long nights of watching cattle, did they come to pass, did the passage of time flow as quickly through their expansive lives as it does my current one? Did they hanker for days long past, or were they content with their present and an eternally star-filled sky?
24 x 30 oil on canvas
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
I paint a number of “night watch” paintings. They seem mysterious and yet commonplace, anyone can identify with the quiet non-harried moments they represent. Both my grandfather and his father, who worked cattle on the Goodnight Trail, free-ranged cattle. Both were German speakers. I often think about their daydreams, and the language they dreamed in particularly when out on the open range, alone under prairie moonlight. What were their dreams in the long nights of watching cattle, did they come to pass, did the passage of time flow as quickly through their expansive lives as it does my current one? Did they hanker for days long past, or were they content with their present and an eternally star-filled sky?
Coming Home is Such a Ride
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I recall my grandfather telling me about the hard times during the GREAT DEPRESSION. He had no money for his family; what crops would grow, this was in the heart of the Dust Bowl, or livestock that stayed alive, there was no market to sell in, they were worthless. HIs only cash income came from work on the WPA. He would get to work one week a month for a dollar a day, room and board, and feed for his horses. HIs pay included him providing a team of horses. He rode his horses forty miles to the WPA work site, building a road. Then he would ride home. seven dollars in his pocket, HARD CASH. When I was a small boy we lived in a farm house east of Denver. My father had gone to Nebraska for a carpentry job, times were hard for us, though they tried to keep that from me and my brother. We didn't see him all winter, my mom keeping us warm cutting firewood and stoking the wood stove in the center of our home. It was such joy seeing him come back home, his great smile and laughter showing the longing he had for home. Later in life, I supported my family travelling the country selling art and craftwork at art festivals. Many is the time I ended a show with a whole country between myself and home, wishing with all my heart I was back with wife and family. I and my family have hard experience with having to leave home to support ourselves, and that blissul feeling of knowing that finally we can come home. That is what this painting is about....something I think many of us can relate to.
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I recall my grandfather telling me about the hard times during the GREAT DEPRESSION. He had no money for his family; what crops would grow, this was in the heart of the Dust Bowl, or livestock that stayed alive, there was no market to sell in, they were worthless. HIs only cash income came from work on the WPA. He would get to work one week a month for a dollar a day, room and board, and feed for his horses. HIs pay included him providing a team of horses. He rode his horses forty miles to the WPA work site, building a road. Then he would ride home. seven dollars in his pocket, HARD CASH. When I was a small boy we lived in a farm house east of Denver. My father had gone to Nebraska for a carpentry job, times were hard for us, though they tried to keep that from me and my brother. We didn't see him all winter, my mom keeping us warm cutting firewood and stoking the wood stove in the center of our home. It was such joy seeing him come back home, his great smile and laughter showing the longing he had for home. Later in life, I supported my family travelling the country selling art and craftwork at art festivals. Many is the time I ended a show with a whole country between myself and home, wishing with all my heart I was back with wife and family. I and my family have hard experience with having to leave home to support ourselves, and that blissul feeling of knowing that finally we can come home. That is what this painting is about....something I think many of us can relate to.
Those Who Have Known True Gods of Sand and Stone
30 x 24 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
The title for this painting was borrowed/inspired from the poem by Irish poet Patrick Kavanagh, "Raglan Road". The painting is about our participation in mythology, how none of us, despite our desires and wishes, can ever accurately portray the Old American West, as we never lived it. We are generations removed from those times, and at best our representations of those past times are through our personal prejudices and distortions
30 x 24 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
The title for this painting was borrowed/inspired from the poem by Irish poet Patrick Kavanagh, "Raglan Road". The painting is about our participation in mythology, how none of us, despite our desires and wishes, can ever accurately portray the Old American West, as we never lived it. We are generations removed from those times, and at best our representations of those past times are through our personal prejudices and distortions
Straw Boss; As Sand Passes the Hourglass
40 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
My grandfather, who helped raise me, foresaw ranching and farming moving away from small family holdings towards large corporate control and entities. He felt this change was inevitable, much as the great trail herds and unfenced prairies passed from the existence of his father before him. Change, the passing of eras, is a curse laid before us all. Change that can be slow and barely noticeable, or perhaps violent and quick. However change presents itself, its tyranny befalls us, we are never free from it. At least that is what this painting is about... the slow but sure, the always going away.
40 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
My grandfather, who helped raise me, foresaw ranching and farming moving away from small family holdings towards large corporate control and entities. He felt this change was inevitable, much as the great trail herds and unfenced prairies passed from the existence of his father before him. Change, the passing of eras, is a curse laid before us all. Change that can be slow and barely noticeable, or perhaps violent and quick. However change presents itself, its tyranny befalls us, we are never free from it. At least that is what this painting is about... the slow but sure, the always going away.
Long Rope on Caprock
30 x 40 oil on canvas
available thru Sanders Gallery, Tucson, AZ
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
When I was a boy my uncle Jess had an ancient hand woven rawhide rope and a pair of very large roweled Mexican spurs. The "larietta" must have been over sixty feet long. I couldn't believe anyone could throw a loop that bloody far. He said there were vaqueros who had no trouble using a "long rope"! So as a boy, that was one of the mysteries I came to ponder on. Many years later I saw a roper not only accurately toss a long rope, but could do all kinds of amazing catches, at amazing distances. Old timers called this skill "being "salty" with a rope!" I thought it magic, and led to my belief in the supernatural!
30 x 40 oil on canvas
available thru Sanders Gallery, Tucson, AZ
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
When I was a boy my uncle Jess had an ancient hand woven rawhide rope and a pair of very large roweled Mexican spurs. The "larietta" must have been over sixty feet long. I couldn't believe anyone could throw a loop that bloody far. He said there were vaqueros who had no trouble using a "long rope"! So as a boy, that was one of the mysteries I came to ponder on. Many years later I saw a roper not only accurately toss a long rope, but could do all kinds of amazing catches, at amazing distances. Old timers called this skill "being "salty" with a rope!" I thought it magic, and led to my belief in the supernatural!
As We Make the Clockways Turn
30 x 40 oil on canvas
available thru Sanders Gallery, Tucson, AZ
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Charles Goodnight, a Texas cattleman and trail blazer, once said that there was a technique to getting a stampeding cattle herd back under control. The trick was to get the cattle to run in a giant circle to the right, what he called "clockways". You kept trying to get the stampeding circle to run in smaller and smaller circles until the herd calmed down and were able to stop milling. I feel like we have ALL just been or are still in a wild stampede called COVID. Aid has finally got this "stampede" turned in a "clockways" direction and we are running in smaller and smaller circles, hopefully to a day when our blind dash has returned to a calming place on the trail.
30 x 40 oil on canvas
available thru Sanders Gallery, Tucson, AZ
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Charles Goodnight, a Texas cattleman and trail blazer, once said that there was a technique to getting a stampeding cattle herd back under control. The trick was to get the cattle to run in a giant circle to the right, what he called "clockways". You kept trying to get the stampeding circle to run in smaller and smaller circles until the herd calmed down and were able to stop milling. I feel like we have ALL just been or are still in a wild stampede called COVID. Aid has finally got this "stampede" turned in a "clockways" direction and we are running in smaller and smaller circles, hopefully to a day when our blind dash has returned to a calming place on the trail.
THE SILENCE OF A FALLEN STAR
22 x 30 oil on linen
available at the 2021 "Night of the Artists" Show,
Briscoe Museum, San Antonio, TX March 26-27, 2021
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I can recall in my youth being infatuated with cowboys. I was surrounded by them, many aged and remembering the days before the prairies were fenced. I lived on my grandfather's knee, immersed in stories of nights on the prairie, of traveling the plains with watersheds as the road map, inescapable accidents and injuries from ornery cattle. In my influential youth I strove to live up to the ways and means of these time-settled cowboys; "I grew up dreamin' of bein' a cowboy". The popular American Culture held the cowboy in high regard, from countless "western" movies and TV shows. I mean, for crying out loud, I once got to meet my long held hero.... Roy Rogers.
Sadly today, at least to me, in this current period of my life I refer to as my "days of gray", it seems the "cowboy" is not held in as high of esteem by the general public as he was in my earliest days. The noun, cowboy, has been turned into a present-day verb, denoting a tendency towards violent action. Western movies and TV shows are for all practical purposes out of favor and non existent, the public has no taste for them anymore. The present self-proclaimed "art critics" look down upon my work, judging it diminutive and historically redundant, like I give a whit what they think! The "cowboys" that filled and influenced my developing years were independent to high degree, honor bound to their "word", generous of heart, and used biting ironic humor in place of bragging and grandiose. They, "by god, had no tolerance for bullshit."
Yes, I believe it regrettable that we are losing one of our greatest symbols of America, and what we once believed in with such great faith. Our identity with the heroic cowboy, and all the mythos we once attached to this legendary figure, is being replaced. Replaced with a tolerance for lies, treachery, and greed. WE have created a new "heroic" character whose characteristics are built around ignoring truth for self-serving lies, no sense of honor or decency, the swagger of limitless boast, and a clenched grasp on personal/monetary gain. Winning at all cost is the new mantra, and that fierce sense of cowboy independence is being handed over, to be replaced by the unswerving loyalty to a single man, whom deserves being spelled with no capital letters! I have just stated the reason I painted this piece. Think hard about the title "THE SILENCE OF A FALLEN STAR".
22 x 30 oil on linen
available at the 2021 "Night of the Artists" Show,
Briscoe Museum, San Antonio, TX March 26-27, 2021
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I can recall in my youth being infatuated with cowboys. I was surrounded by them, many aged and remembering the days before the prairies were fenced. I lived on my grandfather's knee, immersed in stories of nights on the prairie, of traveling the plains with watersheds as the road map, inescapable accidents and injuries from ornery cattle. In my influential youth I strove to live up to the ways and means of these time-settled cowboys; "I grew up dreamin' of bein' a cowboy". The popular American Culture held the cowboy in high regard, from countless "western" movies and TV shows. I mean, for crying out loud, I once got to meet my long held hero.... Roy Rogers.
Sadly today, at least to me, in this current period of my life I refer to as my "days of gray", it seems the "cowboy" is not held in as high of esteem by the general public as he was in my earliest days. The noun, cowboy, has been turned into a present-day verb, denoting a tendency towards violent action. Western movies and TV shows are for all practical purposes out of favor and non existent, the public has no taste for them anymore. The present self-proclaimed "art critics" look down upon my work, judging it diminutive and historically redundant, like I give a whit what they think! The "cowboys" that filled and influenced my developing years were independent to high degree, honor bound to their "word", generous of heart, and used biting ironic humor in place of bragging and grandiose. They, "by god, had no tolerance for bullshit."
Yes, I believe it regrettable that we are losing one of our greatest symbols of America, and what we once believed in with such great faith. Our identity with the heroic cowboy, and all the mythos we once attached to this legendary figure, is being replaced. Replaced with a tolerance for lies, treachery, and greed. WE have created a new "heroic" character whose characteristics are built around ignoring truth for self-serving lies, no sense of honor or decency, the swagger of limitless boast, and a clenched grasp on personal/monetary gain. Winning at all cost is the new mantra, and that fierce sense of cowboy independence is being handed over, to be replaced by the unswerving loyalty to a single man, whom deserves being spelled with no capital letters! I have just stated the reason I painted this piece. Think hard about the title "THE SILENCE OF A FALLEN STAR".
Stille' Nacht; When Father Drove a Red Two-Board Studebaker
36 x 48 oil on canvas
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Most people are unaware that the Studebaker Company was a manufacturer of fine wooden horse drawn wagons long before they began producing automobiles and trucks. In this painting I am trying to depict the simplicity by which so many people combine the secular with the non-secular. When I have visited simple country adobe churches, I get the same grand feeling of God's presence within these walls of soquete, as I do in the vast soaring cathedrals of Europe. One overwhelms me with the sheer majesty of its intricate artwork and architecture, the other with its elegant sense of being "of the earth".
36 x 48 oil on canvas
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Most people are unaware that the Studebaker Company was a manufacturer of fine wooden horse drawn wagons long before they began producing automobiles and trucks. In this painting I am trying to depict the simplicity by which so many people combine the secular with the non-secular. When I have visited simple country adobe churches, I get the same grand feeling of God's presence within these walls of soquete, as I do in the vast soaring cathedrals of Europe. One overwhelms me with the sheer majesty of its intricate artwork and architecture, the other with its elegant sense of being "of the earth".
I Came to a Place Where the Lone Pilgrim Lay
36 x 48 oil on canvas
available thru Cawdrey Gallery, Whitefish, MTZ
In Memory of Tom Horn:
This is another of my feeble attempts to break down, to rage against the tyranny of time. I have fought this battle for a half century, yet my limbs grow slower, my hair more moon-bleached. I ponder as I apply brush strokes to the canvas, what thoughts pass through the viewer of this work a hundred years hence, two hundred years later? Will they know what I carry in my heart today? Am I on a great mandala of life, and will I return one day to this same experience, or am I adrift on a great "river" flowing endlessly through the Cosmos, heeding shoal water and seeking shoreline that is forever changing? A dear friend passed this week from the plague scourging our fair land. When and where will I hear his sweet self deprecating laughter again?
36 x 48 oil on canvas
available thru Cawdrey Gallery, Whitefish, MTZ
In Memory of Tom Horn:
This is another of my feeble attempts to break down, to rage against the tyranny of time. I have fought this battle for a half century, yet my limbs grow slower, my hair more moon-bleached. I ponder as I apply brush strokes to the canvas, what thoughts pass through the viewer of this work a hundred years hence, two hundred years later? Will they know what I carry in my heart today? Am I on a great mandala of life, and will I return one day to this same experience, or am I adrift on a great "river" flowing endlessly through the Cosmos, heeding shoal water and seeking shoreline that is forever changing? A dear friend passed this week from the plague scourging our fair land. When and where will I hear his sweet self deprecating laughter again?
Lone Star and the Sweet Promenade
40 x 40 oil on canvas
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I have painted this theme many times, from a visit to Texas over forty years ago. I was thinking of farming people, my Mother's soft panhandle accent, and our rapid descent into the twenty first century. In many ways I am not prepared for modernity, I don't know if I ever will. I don't know if I want to be. When a boy, living on my grandfather Coony Brase's farm, we would often take a late afternoon break from the heat of the day and travel three miles into the small farming community of Bristol to enjoy a cool “bot’el pop”. On numerous occasions a very old man, whom I only ever knew as old Tom, would ride into town horseback leading a whole bevy of children on horse back. He would take them to Felix Smith’s store where he would treat them to penny candy abundant on Felix’s shelves, and then without ceremony ride them the four miles back to the their homes and the tar paper shack he lived in. Later, as I grew larger and stronger, I would help my uncle Jesse Lee cut firewood to take to old Tom, which he burned in a stove made from a fifty gallon oil barrel, in his house with no electricity or running water. After my Uncle Jess died, I still continued the ritual of making sure Old Tom had wood to stay warm with, and he and I became good friends. Tom had been a cowboy on what was once known as the Colorado Trail, a cow trail that skirted the Colorado/Kansas state line, allowing Texas cattleman to avoid the quarantine on Texas cattle imposed by the state of Kansas. Tom had been born in a homestead dugout on the west Kansas plain, his father, a Confederate veteran proved up. Tom’s father had come to Kansas trailing cattle from Texas on the Chisholm Trail. Later Tom opened a barbershop in the notorious Trail City, on the stateline, and later moved to the Holly, Colorado area, working cattle and breaking horses. He joined the US cavalry around 1915, and rode with Black Jack Pershing and the US Army chasing Pancho Villa down into Mexico. One of his good friends was Henry Starr, the man who robbed the Amity Bank in 1907, and then escaped down into the Indian Territory, later becoming the state of Oklahoma. My grandfather Coony came to Amity a month after the bank was robbed, his father running the Livery Stable at Amity, and acquainted with Mr. Starr. My visits with old Tom were miracles of story telling and first hand accounts of an amazing life. In 1976 the Bicentennial wagon train came down the Santa Fe Trail, which ran below my grandparents’s place. I saddled up and rode with them for a ways. For several nights after the Train camped in Granada, and I picked up old Tom in my truck, he could no longer mount a horse, and took him down to enjoy the bar-b-que and fiddle and dance music later. I recall several of Tom’s old fiddling friends were featured, John Willhite, and Tip Warman. Old Tom had a great time. That was the last time I saw Old Tom. The next time I went over to his place, it was empty and silent. He was taken into a nursing home in Holly, and died shortly after. I never forgot the magic this old man brought to lives, at least to mine, and I wanted this to be remembered in a painting: that our humanity is best represented by very small events, perhaps never earth shaking in scope and scale, but forever representative of the best part of our intentions and nobility.
Heading the Point at Red River Station
30 x 40 oil on canvas
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
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Red River Station was an early cattle crossing on the treacherous Red River which separates southern Oklahoma, during the cattle drive heyday the Indian Territory, and north Texaas. The crossing was near the ghost town of Spanish Fort Texas, north of Nocona, Texas. It was here some six million head of longhorn cattle were driven on the Chisholm Cattle Trail to beef markets in midwest and eastern United States. The bulk of cattle drives occurred between 1866 and 1890. I was told many stories about the Trail and the cowboys who worked the cattle drives by the deceased Avril Waggoner, daughter of judge William Sides, justice of the peace in Spanish Fort during the Trail days and good friend of Enid Justin, a saddle maker/bootmaker who built a business in Spanish Fort providing saddle repairs and boots to the drovers pushing cattle up the trail, which was the founding of the Justin Boot Company. I painted this from a study I did of Texas cattleman Nelson Story, who in 1866 drove the first large herd of Texas longhornsfrom central Texas to the Gallatin Valley, Montana, a dsitance of almost 1700 miles!
Big Horn Moon
12 x 16 oil on linen
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I painted this from a day study, a dayturne, that I am fond of. I really enjoy reinterpreting things in the mystery and timelessness of the night.
12 x 16 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I painted this from a day study, a dayturne, that I am fond of. I really enjoy reinterpreting things in the mystery and timelessness of the night.
Study, Nelson Story
12 x 16 oil on linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Nelson Story, a Texas cattleman, drove the first herd of Texas longhorns over the Bozeman Trail into present day Bozeman, Montana. in 1866. After being stopped by Kansas jayhawkers near Baxter Springs, Kansas, he trailed west to Fort Leavenworth and on into Wyoming. Having first trail-blazed to Montana in 1863, Nelson had to avoid the US Army's not allowing him to proceed north from Fort Phil Kearney because of Indian hostilities. He accomplished this by sneaking his men and herd away at night, hurrying to get across the Tongue River. Constantly avoiding and skirmishing with Lakota warriors under Red Cloud, he eventually reached the Gallatin Valley in Montana.
12 x 16 oil on linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Nelson Story, a Texas cattleman, drove the first herd of Texas longhorns over the Bozeman Trail into present day Bozeman, Montana. in 1866. After being stopped by Kansas jayhawkers near Baxter Springs, Kansas, he trailed west to Fort Leavenworth and on into Wyoming. Having first trail-blazed to Montana in 1863, Nelson had to avoid the US Army's not allowing him to proceed north from Fort Phil Kearney because of Indian hostilities. He accomplished this by sneaking his men and herd away at night, hurrying to get across the Tongue River. Constantly avoiding and skirmishing with Lakota warriors under Red Cloud, he eventually reached the Gallatin Valley in Montana.
We the People
40 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
40 x 40 oil on canvas
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composition for an Approaching Storm
16 x 20 oil on linen
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Another just completed piece, this time I am after an allegorical piece about the West I grew up with and the West I find today. I could speak maudlin with a mushy egocentric story right about now, or perhaps I should leave the painting open to the free associations of viewers of the work. Yes, I believe in the latter, for the experiences of each of our individual lives lead to many different and wonderful story lines. If you don't mind sharing them, I'd appreciate it, or if not, thanks and enjoy!
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Another just completed piece, this time I am after an allegorical piece about the West I grew up with and the West I find today. I could speak maudlin with a mushy egocentric story right about now, or perhaps I should leave the painting open to the free associations of viewers of the work. Yes, I believe in the latter, for the experiences of each of our individual lives lead to many different and wonderful story lines. If you don't mind sharing them, I'd appreciate it, or if not, thanks and enjoy!
Rising With Still Water and Riders
48" x 36" oli on canvas
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I just finished this piece. I am attempting to portray an "eternal" moment, when the tyranny of time seems briefly stopped and the beauty of the moment endures towards an eternity. I am sure many of you understand and/or have experienced such moments. The splash in the water is a very important compositional element of the painting as its location is where both vertical and horizontal divisions…
Storm Rider, Study
22 x 30 oil on canvas
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I repeatedly paint stampede type paintings as I believe them a perfect symbol for our hectic 21st century lives.
22 x 30 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I repeatedly paint stampede type paintings as I believe them a perfect symbol for our hectic 21st century lives.
Lone Star with Lilacs, I only Came to Learn
16 x 20 oil on linen
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Hanging out down in Texas. I met a three fingered fiddle player named Orville Bess, who invited me to his place in the little town of Sunset, Texas. This is just about all there is or was to Sunset, yet it holds a dear spot in my heart from the lessons in humility and a fondness for "small" places I learned on this dusty road. Lilacs are one of the few plant species that survive on abandoned farms, ranches and homesteads out on the dry western plains after these habitations have been abandoned, some for many decades. AS if an obituary where written with aromatic forgiveness.
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Hanging out down in Texas. I met a three fingered fiddle player named Orville Bess, who invited me to his place in the little town of Sunset, Texas. This is just about all there is or was to Sunset, yet it holds a dear spot in my heart from the lessons in humility and a fondness for "small" places I learned on this dusty road. Lilacs are one of the few plant species that survive on abandoned farms, ranches and homesteads out on the dry western plains after these habitations have been abandoned, some for many decades. AS if an obituary where written with aromatic forgiveness.
DAYS OF ARTHUR
24 x 30 oil on linen
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Spending time in the Big Horn, Sheridan, Wyoming area, I was struck by the many wooded watersheds, often brushy and treed. It reminded me of my youth when I am my cousins spent hours on horseback, riding and playing in similar wooded and watered areas. One of our favorite games was to play "King Arthur", pretending to be the Knights of the Round Table, fighting dragons, evil knights and other such troublemakers. WE scurried across the countryside horseback on such adventures, having sword fights and generally slaying all we would encounter. My uncle put a stop to the realism when one afternoon he caught us joisting with long wooden poles made from split 2 x 4's, clad in in cardboard armor. "You damn boys, are you trying to kill each other?" was a final testament to our chivalry.
Leaving that sleeping dog lie, as I traipsed around the beautiful Big Horn country, I often found myself thinking about what a great place this was to grow up in, and if fortunate enough to be mounted, what a grand place for the adventures of Arthur!
24 x 30 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Spending time in the Big Horn, Sheridan, Wyoming area, I was struck by the many wooded watersheds, often brushy and treed. It reminded me of my youth when I am my cousins spent hours on horseback, riding and playing in similar wooded and watered areas. One of our favorite games was to play "King Arthur", pretending to be the Knights of the Round Table, fighting dragons, evil knights and other such troublemakers. WE scurried across the countryside horseback on such adventures, having sword fights and generally slaying all we would encounter. My uncle put a stop to the realism when one afternoon he caught us joisting with long wooden poles made from split 2 x 4's, clad in in cardboard armor. "You damn boys, are you trying to kill each other?" was a final testament to our chivalry.
Leaving that sleeping dog lie, as I traipsed around the beautiful Big Horn country, I often found myself thinking about what a great place this was to grow up in, and if fortunate enough to be mounted, what a grand place for the adventures of Arthur!
RANGERS PAUSE ON THE MEDINA
30 x 40 oil on canvas
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In our romanticized worlds we imagine all kinds of excitement and adventure when imagining the life and times of the Frontier Texas Rangers. However, like most things in life, our romantic notions are often contradicted by reality. Most of a Ranger’s life was spent traveling a vast land, in all sorts of weather, lack of sleep, poor food, and your butt rubbed raw by the saddle. That is what this painting is about, the REAL moments that mostly made up a Ranger’s life…just getting to and doing the job
Off the Caprock, Ropers' Wind?
18 x 24 oil on linen
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I wanted to paint something with the clear untarnished light of mid-day on the vast prairie, particularly for this show, something “truly western”. This is about as western as it gets, active horsemanship, salty cowboy skills with a rope. My grandad Coony, whose father came to Colorado trailing cattle on the Goodnight Trail, liked to joke that if you were roping something and missed, you were “catching wind”. Do you get the painting?
18 x 24 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I wanted to paint something with the clear untarnished light of mid-day on the vast prairie, particularly for this show, something “truly western”. This is about as western as it gets, active horsemanship, salty cowboy skills with a rope. My grandad Coony, whose father came to Colorado trailing cattle on the Goodnight Trail, liked to joke that if you were roping something and missed, you were “catching wind”. Do you get the painting?
Stemming the Bad Tide
30 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I return again and again to the theme of a cattle stampede. I like the symbolism it represents for today's twenty first century life, so hectic and chaotic, particularly with the dilemma of coronavirus pandemic threatening our lives.
I never witnessed a cattle stampede, although once, as a boy, my horse and I were dropped off in a large canyon pasture that I was unfamiliar with, our job to find missing cattle and drive them somewhere south to a set of branding corrals. By the time I found the cattle and gathered them up it was almost dark, and a large thunderstorm was blowing up out of the south. I really didn't know where the corrals were except somewhere to the south. The storm looked much like I have painted it here in this painting. The little quarter horse mare I was riding had been used to work cattle in this country, so I let her have her head, pushing the cattle in the direction she wanted to go. Finally through the wind and rain I spotted pickup headlights that were directing me towards the pens.
My Grandad later told me I did well to let the horse use its instinct to find the corrals, as in the old days cowhands would rely on "horse sense" to survive a night time stampede. Those thoughts never left me, and perhaps maybe that is a small reason why I am so attracted to painting stampedes today.
30 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I return again and again to the theme of a cattle stampede. I like the symbolism it represents for today's twenty first century life, so hectic and chaotic, particularly with the dilemma of coronavirus pandemic threatening our lives.
I never witnessed a cattle stampede, although once, as a boy, my horse and I were dropped off in a large canyon pasture that I was unfamiliar with, our job to find missing cattle and drive them somewhere south to a set of branding corrals. By the time I found the cattle and gathered them up it was almost dark, and a large thunderstorm was blowing up out of the south. I really didn't know where the corrals were except somewhere to the south. The storm looked much like I have painted it here in this painting. The little quarter horse mare I was riding had been used to work cattle in this country, so I let her have her head, pushing the cattle in the direction she wanted to go. Finally through the wind and rain I spotted pickup headlights that were directing me towards the pens.
My Grandad later told me I did well to let the horse use its instinct to find the corrals, as in the old days cowhands would rely on "horse sense" to survive a night time stampede. Those thoughts never left me, and perhaps maybe that is a small reason why I am so attracted to painting stampedes today.
Though Time Deals a Tough Hand, An Old Man on Horseback Once Knew their Names
18 x 24 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
When my grandad first came to Colorado as a young boy, his father ran a livery barn on the Santa Fe Trail where the non existant town of Amity once stood near the Arkansas river. They also free ranged cattle on the vast open prairies north of the irrigation canals that had just been finished. Later, before World War One, this open prairie was partially settled by homesteaders wishing to cash in on the Great Wheat Boom of the early 1900's. After the War, the wheat prices fell, and combined with the Depression and Dust bowl, every one of these homesteads were abandoned. As a boy my grandfather and I would roam this vast, unfarmed and uninhabited country, hunting coyotes and listening to my Grandad's stories about the "old days" of a once unbroken prairie. We would stop by the ruins of some homesteader's dreams, and Grandad would talk about who once lived here, when they came, and when they disappeared, perhaps even relating stories about the people who once lived here. He was always kind of wistful and sad as he shared these revelations. Now today, as I am becoming an old man, I understand the sadness Grandad felt when visiting these places from the past. I understand better the poignant nature of looking back far into the past, realizing you are ghost walking, and those days of yore have long passed on the river of time, never to return. That is what the painting is about, and of my coming of age.
When the Fences Rise, What Pastures Be Mine
16 x 20 oil on linen
A year ago I was invited by the Brinton Museum to stay out on a ranch west of Sheridan, WY and generate ideas for paintings. South of the ranchhouse I was staying in was a lone tree on a grassy rolling hillside. Behind the fence and to the side of it were "bob" wire fences, the tree being at the intersection of them. I was drawn again and again to walk out in the pasture and just watch this tree, and the many different interplays of light that shone upon it. I also thought a lot about fences, their symbolism and what they represent to many of us. One afternoon I watched a rain storm move in off the Big Horn Mountains, the light brilliant on the hillside, the southern sky moody with dark storm clouds, as if an onslaught of inevitable fate. I thought about the Lakota and Cheyenne peoples who once called this home, before the fences drove them into a different kind of existence. I thought about myself, and the predicaments most all humans find themselves in...how we get "fenced" and driven to circumstances not of our choosing, never sure what pastures we finally call home
16 x 20 oil on linen
A year ago I was invited by the Brinton Museum to stay out on a ranch west of Sheridan, WY and generate ideas for paintings. South of the ranchhouse I was staying in was a lone tree on a grassy rolling hillside. Behind the fence and to the side of it were "bob" wire fences, the tree being at the intersection of them. I was drawn again and again to walk out in the pasture and just watch this tree, and the many different interplays of light that shone upon it. I also thought a lot about fences, their symbolism and what they represent to many of us. One afternoon I watched a rain storm move in off the Big Horn Mountains, the light brilliant on the hillside, the southern sky moody with dark storm clouds, as if an onslaught of inevitable fate. I thought about the Lakota and Cheyenne peoples who once called this home, before the fences drove them into a different kind of existence. I thought about myself, and the predicaments most all humans find themselves in...how we get "fenced" and driven to circumstances not of our choosing, never sure what pastures we finally call home
THE RUSTLERS WERE ON US, COME THE LAST OF JULY
40 x 30 oil on canvas
available thru Insight Gallery, Fredericksburg, TX
Study in the Big Horn Country
5 x 7 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I spent ten days summer a year ago making studies for this show. I developed a lot of ideas for paintings and finally narrowed it down to six paintings. I liked this small study so much I am including it in the show. It is also the inspiration for the larger piece "Big Horn Moon".
5 x 7 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I spent ten days summer a year ago making studies for this show. I developed a lot of ideas for paintings and finally narrowed it down to six paintings. I liked this small study so much I am including it in the show. It is also the inspiration for the larger piece "Big Horn Moon".
The Watchman, Ken the Kid
18 x 24 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
The American West yet today, despite it being the twenty first century, is still filled with legendary western characters. One such character is a good ole' New Mexico fella by the name of Ken Schuster. Ken is the director of the magnificent Brinton Museum near Big Horn, Wy. The "Brinton" is an architectural masterpiece containing world class collections of Western Art and Native American items, set on the breathtakingly beautiful Quarter Cirlce A Ranch, at the base of the Big Horn Mountains in northern Wyoming. Ken not only oversees the Museum, but he also keeps an "eye" on the many historic buildings on the ranch. Having been the guest of Ken and wife Barbara on several occasions, I recall Ken rising several times from the supper table, grabbing a flashlight and heading out to "make sure those damn coyotes haven't broken into the hen house"! Which is to say he keeps an eye on everything from priceless artifacts and artwork, to the many facets of chicken production. The Museum as it now exists is the product of many years of labor on Ken's part, and his undying commitment to the culture and history of the American West. He deserves commemoration in a painting....I like to think of him as "Ken the Kid", a truly legendary western character!
18 x 24 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
The American West yet today, despite it being the twenty first century, is still filled with legendary western characters. One such character is a good ole' New Mexico fella by the name of Ken Schuster. Ken is the director of the magnificent Brinton Museum near Big Horn, Wy. The "Brinton" is an architectural masterpiece containing world class collections of Western Art and Native American items, set on the breathtakingly beautiful Quarter Cirlce A Ranch, at the base of the Big Horn Mountains in northern Wyoming. Ken not only oversees the Museum, but he also keeps an "eye" on the many historic buildings on the ranch. Having been the guest of Ken and wife Barbara on several occasions, I recall Ken rising several times from the supper table, grabbing a flashlight and heading out to "make sure those damn coyotes haven't broken into the hen house"! Which is to say he keeps an eye on everything from priceless artifacts and artwork, to the many facets of chicken production. The Museum as it now exists is the product of many years of labor on Ken's part, and his undying commitment to the culture and history of the American West. He deserves commemoration in a painting....I like to think of him as "Ken the Kid", a truly legendary western character!
Study of Ranch House and Approaching Storm
6 x 8 oil on linen
There are many walks of life that fail to survive the changing of times. I am a former shop teacher, a near extinct dinosaur. The small family farm and ranch are near gone, as are many trades and crafts. I suppose that is the story and history of humankind, though many of us failed to see through the advancing storms of change. This reminds me of an old Lakota saying..."our lives are like wind through the buffalo grass".
6 x 8 oil on linen
There are many walks of life that fail to survive the changing of times. I am a former shop teacher, a near extinct dinosaur. The small family farm and ranch are near gone, as are many trades and crafts. I suppose that is the story and history of humankind, though many of us failed to see through the advancing storms of change. This reminds me of an old Lakota saying..."our lives are like wind through the buffalo grass".
Study of a Rough Rider
8 x 6 oil on linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
I believe an image of a mounted cowboy charging at the viewer says a lot about the power of the myth of the cowboy and the "Old West" and its influences of modern American culture. That is why I return to this imagery again and again. I hope it inspires the viewer to examine their preconceptions about a lot things, not just the" Cowboy Way".
Study of a Trail Boss on a Cattle Drive
6 x 8 oil on linen
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I paint a lot of things about catttle drives. The idea of travelling across the vast distances of the prairie has always interested me, as were the stories I heard as a young boy from old timers who had crossed these immense lands on horseback, with stars as a guide.
6 x 8 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I paint a lot of things about catttle drives. The idea of travelling across the vast distances of the prairie has always interested me, as were the stories I heard as a young boy from old timers who had crossed these immense lands on horseback, with stars as a guide.
Buffalo Runners
40 x 40 oil on canvas
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One of my great great grandfathers, Jakob Meyer, was the first white settler in Red Willow County, in southwestern Nebraska. He supplemented he and his families’ meagre living by hunting buffalo on the Western Plains of Kansas and the Eastern Colorado Territory. He kept a journal and made maps of his hunts, which my grandfather used as a guide when he brought his family southwest into southeastern Colorado. There are many buffalo stories in my family, some about the noises and agility of Buffalo when they stampeded and ran. For instance, the big hairy beasts kept their wits about them, unlike stampeding cattle. Once my ancestor was caught diving a team and wagon when he drove head-on into a herd of stampeding buffalo. He jumped to the ground to hold his teams' head, and the buffalo herd split and swerved around him. It took thirty minutes for the running animals to pass him, the herd always staying about ten yards away from him and his team. An interesting fact about the American Buffalo, there were actually two distinct massive herds, a northern one, and a southern one. The northern herd ranged from their winter ranges along the Arkansas River to summer ranges north of the Platte rivers. The southern herd wintered on the ranges of south Texas and New Mexico, and moved north in the summer to the Smoky Hill ranges north of the Arkansas. Because these two great migrations occurred simultaneously, there was virtually no contact between the two groups, so little inter-breeding that they were each developing different genetic traits! Since “Night of the Artists” occurs at the Briscoe Museum in San Antonio, this is of course a painting of the southern herd. I verified that buffalo would stick their tongues out when running by the accounts of a Texas cowboy who practiced running down, roping and then shooting them with his pistol. In this painting I have portrayed Comanche hunters hunting with bow and lance. A good buffalo runner, or horse, was much prized, and beautifully trained.
40 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
One of my great great grandfathers, Jakob Meyer, was the first white settler in Red Willow County, in southwestern Nebraska. He supplemented he and his families’ meagre living by hunting buffalo on the Western Plains of Kansas and the Eastern Colorado Territory. He kept a journal and made maps of his hunts, which my grandfather used as a guide when he brought his family southwest into southeastern Colorado. There are many buffalo stories in my family, some about the noises and agility of Buffalo when they stampeded and ran. For instance, the big hairy beasts kept their wits about them, unlike stampeding cattle. Once my ancestor was caught diving a team and wagon when he drove head-on into a herd of stampeding buffalo. He jumped to the ground to hold his teams' head, and the buffalo herd split and swerved around him. It took thirty minutes for the running animals to pass him, the herd always staying about ten yards away from him and his team. An interesting fact about the American Buffalo, there were actually two distinct massive herds, a northern one, and a southern one. The northern herd ranged from their winter ranges along the Arkansas River to summer ranges north of the Platte rivers. The southern herd wintered on the ranges of south Texas and New Mexico, and moved north in the summer to the Smoky Hill ranges north of the Arkansas. Because these two great migrations occurred simultaneously, there was virtually no contact between the two groups, so little inter-breeding that they were each developing different genetic traits! Since “Night of the Artists” occurs at the Briscoe Museum in San Antonio, this is of course a painting of the southern herd. I verified that buffalo would stick their tongues out when running by the accounts of a Texas cowboy who practiced running down, roping and then shooting them with his pistol. In this painting I have portrayed Comanche hunters hunting with bow and lance. A good buffalo runner, or horse, was much prized, and beautifully trained.
Apache Moon in Sabino Canyon
24x30 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
24x30 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
The Lightness of Being
30 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
The Teton Mountains near Jackson, WY, is one of the toughest "natural" subjects I have ever painted. I think that is because when you are standing on Antelope Flats looking at them, they don't seem real even then. I was determined to complete a painting of them even when choosing the flat light of mid day. I chose to put the Indian people in the piece to make a statement about the simplicity by which one reconcile our place in the cosmos, and our humanly predicament in the presence of reality. I am not depending on the "cultural" identity of Native Americans to bring power to this piece, but rather as a symbol of all humanity and the wisdom of simplicity in existence. I am mindful of a number of Shaker hyms that accomplish this as well...I hope I have contributed to this theme in an adequate fashion.
30 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
The Teton Mountains near Jackson, WY, is one of the toughest "natural" subjects I have ever painted. I think that is because when you are standing on Antelope Flats looking at them, they don't seem real even then. I was determined to complete a painting of them even when choosing the flat light of mid day. I chose to put the Indian people in the piece to make a statement about the simplicity by which one reconcile our place in the cosmos, and our humanly predicament in the presence of reality. I am not depending on the "cultural" identity of Native Americans to bring power to this piece, but rather as a symbol of all humanity and the wisdom of simplicity in existence. I am mindful of a number of Shaker hyms that accomplish this as well...I hope I have contributed to this theme in an adequate fashion.
Study; Ranger Patrol on the Guadaloupe
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
II study the history of the Texas Rangers, and paint them a lot. I am inspired by the need Texans had for self preservation and protection from raiders and outlaws. Becuse of curious political battles that occurred in the early 1840's, the United States Federal government had little desire or incentive to protect the American citizens of Texas; it wass left up to the Texans themselves...hence the formation of the Texas Rangers. Most of a Ranger's experience had little to do with gunfights or battles, rather countless days of hard rides, poor food, and little sleep. This group, with their trusty pack mule, have stopped along the cool waters of the Guadaloupe for a brief, cautious break.
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
II study the history of the Texas Rangers, and paint them a lot. I am inspired by the need Texans had for self preservation and protection from raiders and outlaws. Becuse of curious political battles that occurred in the early 1840's, the United States Federal government had little desire or incentive to protect the American citizens of Texas; it wass left up to the Texans themselves...hence the formation of the Texas Rangers. Most of a Ranger's experience had little to do with gunfights or battles, rather countless days of hard rides, poor food, and little sleep. This group, with their trusty pack mule, have stopped along the cool waters of the Guadaloupe for a brief, cautious break.
Going Home is Such a Ride
9 x 12 oil on linen
available thru Nancy Cawdrey Gallery
Whitefish, MT
The title is a line from a song Dory Previn wrote many years ago. I have always admired the words, and finally got an idea in how to incorporate the concept in a painting.
9 x 12 oil on linen
available thru Nancy Cawdrey Gallery
Whitefish, MT
The title is a line from a song Dory Previn wrote many years ago. I have always admired the words, and finally got an idea in how to incorporate the concept in a painting.
Study; Bridget of the Island
14 x 11 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Off the coast of western Ireland, in Coulough Bay, lies the island Inish Fanard. Abandoned in the early 20th century, it now lies uninhabited save for the ruins of five cottages where O'Sullivan, Murphys, and O'Shea's once scratched a fishermen's living from its rocky shores. One notable inhabitant was Bridget O'Sullivan, a shenachie and mid wife, unforgotten for her great beauty, generosity, and kindness. I was told of her by her grandson, now passed Michael Lynch. The stories of her fame are more than one hundred years old, a testament to Bridget of the Island!
On McDonald Creek
14 x 11 oil on linen
I painted this one fine summer day while out in Glacier Park with good friend Morgan Cawdrey.
When a Heart Finds Peace
8 x 10 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
8 x 10 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
The Cowboy Appeared Like Goths at the Gates of Rome
24 x 18 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
The American Cowboy carries powerful symbolism...A world wide icon representing independence, courage, forthrightness and a long list of other “heroic” characteristics. Like the indomitable barbarian tribes that over-ran Rome many centuries ago, the “mythology” of the cowboy and its’ character has swept through our culture and much of the world’s in an unstoppable wave of misconceptions mixed with reality. Much of the time it becomes difficult or unpopular to try and seperate fact from fiction. That is what this painting is about.
Study: Buffalo Runner
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
A good bufalo runner horse was valued by many Native Americans. Swift and intelligent, they required no bridles or halters, rather were controlled by knee pressure from the rider, freeing the hunter the use of both hands and arms to kill their prey.
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
A good bufalo runner horse was valued by many Native Americans. Swift and intelligent, they required no bridles or halters, rather were controlled by knee pressure from the rider, freeing the hunter the use of both hands and arms to kill their prey.
Come Saddle Your Horse Love, and be my Sweet Bride
40 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Come spring I will have been with my wife, Donna, for forty years! I recall a time in my youth when just thinking about living that long seemed unimaginable. I look back on these past four decades and marvel at the adventures, the trials, the tribulations counted up on life’s tally stick, and can’t imagine dealing with it all without the companionship of my dear bride. That is what this painting is about…having a life companion to tie down the stampede that is life.
I
Study: Gortahaig on a Western Shore
16 x 12 oil on linen
The idea for this piece has been rummaging around in my mind for quite a while, so I thought I would play with it some. The scene is from my memory of time spent on the headlands of Gortahaig, the giants head, in southwestern Ireland on the tip of the Bears peninsula. Out hiking and dinking in this area I have found many neolithic things, such as standing stones, tableaus, and ancient graves. This area to me seems mysterious and vague, as if the soft green rain has grown a veil or curtain before our eyes so that we have a difficult time "seeing " what is before our eyes, and confuse the present with a distant reality.
Study: Gortahaig on a Western Shore
16 x 12 oil on linen
The idea for this piece has been rummaging around in my mind for quite a while, so I thought I would play with it some. The scene is from my memory of time spent on the headlands of Gortahaig, the giants head, in southwestern Ireland on the tip of the Bears peninsula. Out hiking and dinking in this area I have found many neolithic things, such as standing stones, tableaus, and ancient graves. This area to me seems mysterious and vague, as if the soft green rain has grown a veil or curtain before our eyes so that we have a difficult time "seeing " what is before our eyes, and confuse the present with a distant reality.
Study; The Header
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I am working on a number of studies that will help me create a larger painting whose theme is about marriage and long term commitments to one another. I think the metaphor of cowboys team roping, that is working together to bring down a sizeable adversary, is a strong and good one...sometimes hard difficult work, teamwork, is necessary to get the job done!
Study; The Healer
20 X 16 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
This is a study for a larger piece I am planning that is about marriage. the spelling of the title is correct...as one can see, this rider is coming in with a low rope, ready to "heel" his target. Because a heel thrown rope oftern eliminates control issues the "header" roper might have, I have used the term "Healer" because in all likelihood, he is "healing" a roping problem! IN the larger piece I am working on, the "Healer" will be painted as a woman.
I Let the Words of My Youth Slip Away
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
It is so very easy to take issue with one's youth; the way we skirted from one adventure to another, never taking full stock of the present, always rushing forward...at least that is an accurate assumption about my youth. I never stopped long enough to note things, sketch them, right them down, to preserve the moment for later or posterity. No, I was a doer, not a collector, and I never realized that there would come a day when I might want to revisit old adventures, old moments, the days before the moon bleached my hair to its ghostly paleness. I am different now. My body doesn't do many things it once took for granted; my life is much slower, and the only artifacts I have of those youthful days when the future was nothing but a dream of vastness and promise, are wistful foggy memories. I wrap them up with word-strings and brushwork experience and age have taught me, hoping they substitute for the immediacy of my youth.
Quanah at Adobe Walls
40 x 40 oil o canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Quanah Parker was the son of the white captive Cynthia Anne Parker and the Comanche war chief Peta Noconi. Quanah led the Quadi Comanche on their last desperate raids to drive white settlers and hunters from their lands. On June 27, 1874 seven hundred Comanche and Cheyenne warriors led by Quanah Parker and Isitai attacked 28 buffalo hunters present at the trading and supply settlement of Adobe Walls near the Canadian river in the Texas Panhandle. The hunters were under siege for three days, finally driving off the attackers with their “Big Fifty” Sharps buffalo rifles. This view is looking towards Hanrahans Saloon, where both Bat Masterson and Billy Dixon were holed up. On the third day of the siege Billy Dixon made his famous lucky shot striking a mounted Comanche on the far distant high bluff, 1.538 yards away! From this battle and for the next thirty years, Quanah carried a proud reputation as leader of the Comanche peoples, noted for his courage and generous character. In September, 1874 Billy Dixon was caught in another ambush fight, the Buffalo Wallow Fight. For his brave actions in this fight he became one of four civilian Americans to be awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.
Walkin' Road
18 x 24 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I really enjoyed painting this, not painting in figures, only implying them. I pulled the scene out of my head, I wanted something that feels non -secular and introspective that encouraged the viewer to spend time with themselves!
18 x 24 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I really enjoyed painting this, not painting in figures, only implying them. I pulled the scene out of my head, I wanted something that feels non -secular and introspective that encouraged the viewer to spend time with themselves!
Teamwork
24 x 30 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Many of us have encountered someone in our past that we worked and performed well with. That is what this painting is about; that remarkable “partner” we sometimes find that makes any endeavor easier, better accomplished.
Rangers Command a Comanche Moon
30 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
The full moon conveys a lot of imagery and symbolism to we humans, perhaps because it help illuminates the unseeable night. Comanche raiders used the illumination of a full moon to guide their raids across the southern plains, so much so that the warm weather full moons were know as Comanche Moons. For forty years the Frontier Battalions of the Texas Rangers fought these marauding raiders, gaining the upper hand with the invention of the Colt revolver which enabled them to shoot numerous times without reloading, and to fire acurately from a moving horse.
Camino Real de los Tejas, Old Bexar
18 x 24 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I recently painted a landscape similar to this, as a pre study for this piece. I wanted to portray a view of Old Bexar, Texas, the village founded in 1718, that eventually became San Antonio. In the distance , across the San Antonio River you see the ruins of San Antonio de Valero, the Alamo, abandoned in 1793, its named derived from the magestic stand of cottonwood trees surrounding it. In 1836 this would be the location for the famous battle for Texas Independence from Mexico.
The Camino Reale, or King's Road, ran thru Old Bexar, forming a link with Europe and the outside world. For the first one hundred years of Bexar's life, it was one of the most isolated spots on the planet. It's original settlers were islenos, Spanish citizens brought from the Canary Islands to populate Spanish colonies in the New World. Later, after 1820, it was a location of civilization to supply the American colonists in Moses Austin's new colony. Much history has passed through the streets of Old Bexar, eventually growing into the thriving colorful American city of San Antonio.
18 x 24 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
I recently painted a landscape similar to this, as a pre study for this piece. I wanted to portray a view of Old Bexar, Texas, the village founded in 1718, that eventually became San Antonio. In the distance , across the San Antonio River you see the ruins of San Antonio de Valero, the Alamo, abandoned in 1793, its named derived from the magestic stand of cottonwood trees surrounding it. In 1836 this would be the location for the famous battle for Texas Independence from Mexico.
The Camino Reale, or King's Road, ran thru Old Bexar, forming a link with Europe and the outside world. For the first one hundred years of Bexar's life, it was one of the most isolated spots on the planet. It's original settlers were islenos, Spanish citizens brought from the Canary Islands to populate Spanish colonies in the New World. Later, after 1820, it was a location of civilization to supply the American colonists in Moses Austin's new colony. Much history has passed through the streets of Old Bexar, eventually growing into the thriving colorful American city of San Antonio.
When Faith Takes a Fast Mount
40 x 30 oil on canvas
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg, TX
I wanted to make a statement about today in general, particularly on the political/cultural scene. I am not casting aspersions upon any one person or political group. Rather I wish to have people ponder about the morals of today, do we still hold dear to those beliefs of truth and decency, or have we given way to our fears and deceptions. I think this painting can be interpreted from many angles, depending on the beliefs of the viewer. It is my hope the viewer examines their place within this subject and finds that place where their actions and words strive for a better world.
Drovers Working the Long Rope
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD private collection
I have painted a number of "dirty" paintings lately. I like the challenge of trying to convey a filmy transparency in the dusty air. These drovers, cowboys, have maximized the length of their ropes to bring this steer down. Don't we do much the same in our modern age, at least shouldn't we try to do so? To bring all we have at our disposal to overcome the obstacle in front of us, to put to use our "long rope"!
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD private collection
I have painted a number of "dirty" paintings lately. I like the challenge of trying to convey a filmy transparency in the dusty air. These drovers, cowboys, have maximized the length of their ropes to bring this steer down. Don't we do much the same in our modern age, at least shouldn't we try to do so? To bring all we have at our disposal to overcome the obstacle in front of us, to put to use our "long rope"!
Study...Quanah on the Salt Fork: When Worlds Collide
24 x 30 oil on canvas
PRIVATE COLLECTION
In 1876, D.C. (Davy Crockett) Davis, working as a carpenter at Fort Elliot, near Mobeetee, TX, used his wages to purchase a section of ground from the State on the Salt Fork of the Red River in the Texas Panhandle. The Panhandle not yet being surveyed, D.C. wrote out a description of the land on the purchase deed, walking off the distances and using landmarks or stone piles to mark boundaries. On this land he raised horses, to sell to the Army at Fort Elliot. This was the basis for the Davis Ranch, which was run by the family for the next 120 years. The ranch today is operated by Bill Haley, grandson of J. Evett Haley, Texas historian, personal friend and biographer of Charles Goodnight, legendary Texas cattleman.
One of the markers D.C. used for his land was the Red Mound, a landmark on the south side of the Salt Fork. This was one of the first ranches in the Texas Panhandle, which wasn’t officially surveyed until 1887. The Red Mound was a landmark used by the Comanche and Kiowa, as well as by the buffalo hunters that followed.
By the mid 1870’s, commercial hunting of buffalo was banned on the eastern Plains of the Colorado Territory and from the state of Kansas. This forced the commercial hunters working those ranges to move south, below the Arkansas River, and on down into the Texas Panhandle along the Brazos, Red, and Canadian rivers. This area was known as the “Comancheria” land of the Comanche and Kiowa Indians. The Comancheria extended from the Arkansas river in southern Colorado, south to the Rio Grande river in Texas. Its eastern boundary was roughly the 98th meridian of longitude and the Sangre De Cristos mountains to the west in New Mexico. This vast area was completely under the control of Comanche warriors, perhaps the fiercest horse soldiers (cavalry) of all time. One active warrior band of the Comanche were the Quahadi, led by the war leader Quanah Parker.
Quanah Parker was the son of Cynthia Anne Parker, a white woman captured as a child in 1836 from her families’ home in central Texas, and Peta Noconi, a war leader of the Nocona Comanche. The sad story of Cynthia’s recapture by Texas Rangers in 1860 is an heart breaking tale best held for another time. Her capture and the killing of Peta left Quanah and his brother orphaned, and embittered against the invading white culture. As he came to manhood he became a fierce and powerful leader of the Comanche and led many raids against the white and Mexican settlers on the Comancheria. In 1874 he led an attack of three hundred southern Cheyenne, Kiowa, Arapaho and Comanche warriors against 28 hated buffalo hunters who were encamped at Adobe Walls, a fortified trading and hide center in the northern Panhandle. At this battle and siege, Quanah was observed riding a large powerful black horse. Quanah was eventually wounded and the engagement ended in a stalemate, with the Indians riding off. But this battle and the intrusion of commercial buffalo hunters led the Comanche on a blood letting warpath that only ended in September 1875, with their defeat in Palo Duro and subsequent move to a designated reservation in the western Indian Territory (Oklahoma) near Fort Still.
The commercial buffalo/hide hunters first trespassed down into the Comancheria in 1873, when the great buffalo slaughter was gaining steam. Usually working in “teams” of three to ten men, they formed camps at locations of good water and timber and waited for the buffalo, which they shot with the “Big Fifty” Sharps rifle. The downed buffalo were skinned, the skins stretched out and dried, and carried by wagon to Fort Worth and Dodge City to be graded and sold. The biggest buyer of hides was the British, who preferred buffalo leather for the belts and accoutrements worn by the soldiers of the British Empire. A great many hides were turned into leather belts that ran the mass production equipment of the burgeoning Industrial Revolution. By 1878 the vast southern herds, some twenty million animals, were gone from the southern plains, never to return. This destruction of the Buffalo did more to keep the Comanche on their reservation then any Army force could ever hope to control.
The hunters, though numerous, were spread out across a vast, often featureless prairie. To enable them to stay in contact with one another, and to avoid getting lost in the vastness, they would put up “direction” signs made from the lids of supply containers to help them find their way across a little known land.
Here in this painting you see Quanah, astride his powerful black horse, topping the Red Mound, now used as a “marker” by the hated white hunters. He is looking north into the heart of the Comanche’s once prime buffalo hunting ground, He will sadly turn and retreat back south into the Palo Duro Canyon, where in the fall of 1875 Colonel MacKenzie and the Fourth US Cavalry will kill many of the Quahadi, destroy all their horses, and force them onto the reservation at Fort Sill. A year later, D.C. Davis, no longer fearful of Comanche attack, will use this memorable spot to pace off his future ranch, and so lead the story into the twenty first century...... that we may ponder man’s inhumanity towards man.......and animal.
24 x 30 oil on canvas
PRIVATE COLLECTION
In 1876, D.C. (Davy Crockett) Davis, working as a carpenter at Fort Elliot, near Mobeetee, TX, used his wages to purchase a section of ground from the State on the Salt Fork of the Red River in the Texas Panhandle. The Panhandle not yet being surveyed, D.C. wrote out a description of the land on the purchase deed, walking off the distances and using landmarks or stone piles to mark boundaries. On this land he raised horses, to sell to the Army at Fort Elliot. This was the basis for the Davis Ranch, which was run by the family for the next 120 years. The ranch today is operated by Bill Haley, grandson of J. Evett Haley, Texas historian, personal friend and biographer of Charles Goodnight, legendary Texas cattleman.
One of the markers D.C. used for his land was the Red Mound, a landmark on the south side of the Salt Fork. This was one of the first ranches in the Texas Panhandle, which wasn’t officially surveyed until 1887. The Red Mound was a landmark used by the Comanche and Kiowa, as well as by the buffalo hunters that followed.
By the mid 1870’s, commercial hunting of buffalo was banned on the eastern Plains of the Colorado Territory and from the state of Kansas. This forced the commercial hunters working those ranges to move south, below the Arkansas River, and on down into the Texas Panhandle along the Brazos, Red, and Canadian rivers. This area was known as the “Comancheria” land of the Comanche and Kiowa Indians. The Comancheria extended from the Arkansas river in southern Colorado, south to the Rio Grande river in Texas. Its eastern boundary was roughly the 98th meridian of longitude and the Sangre De Cristos mountains to the west in New Mexico. This vast area was completely under the control of Comanche warriors, perhaps the fiercest horse soldiers (cavalry) of all time. One active warrior band of the Comanche were the Quahadi, led by the war leader Quanah Parker.
Quanah Parker was the son of Cynthia Anne Parker, a white woman captured as a child in 1836 from her families’ home in central Texas, and Peta Noconi, a war leader of the Nocona Comanche. The sad story of Cynthia’s recapture by Texas Rangers in 1860 is an heart breaking tale best held for another time. Her capture and the killing of Peta left Quanah and his brother orphaned, and embittered against the invading white culture. As he came to manhood he became a fierce and powerful leader of the Comanche and led many raids against the white and Mexican settlers on the Comancheria. In 1874 he led an attack of three hundred southern Cheyenne, Kiowa, Arapaho and Comanche warriors against 28 hated buffalo hunters who were encamped at Adobe Walls, a fortified trading and hide center in the northern Panhandle. At this battle and siege, Quanah was observed riding a large powerful black horse. Quanah was eventually wounded and the engagement ended in a stalemate, with the Indians riding off. But this battle and the intrusion of commercial buffalo hunters led the Comanche on a blood letting warpath that only ended in September 1875, with their defeat in Palo Duro and subsequent move to a designated reservation in the western Indian Territory (Oklahoma) near Fort Still.
The commercial buffalo/hide hunters first trespassed down into the Comancheria in 1873, when the great buffalo slaughter was gaining steam. Usually working in “teams” of three to ten men, they formed camps at locations of good water and timber and waited for the buffalo, which they shot with the “Big Fifty” Sharps rifle. The downed buffalo were skinned, the skins stretched out and dried, and carried by wagon to Fort Worth and Dodge City to be graded and sold. The biggest buyer of hides was the British, who preferred buffalo leather for the belts and accoutrements worn by the soldiers of the British Empire. A great many hides were turned into leather belts that ran the mass production equipment of the burgeoning Industrial Revolution. By 1878 the vast southern herds, some twenty million animals, were gone from the southern plains, never to return. This destruction of the Buffalo did more to keep the Comanche on their reservation then any Army force could ever hope to control.
The hunters, though numerous, were spread out across a vast, often featureless prairie. To enable them to stay in contact with one another, and to avoid getting lost in the vastness, they would put up “direction” signs made from the lids of supply containers to help them find their way across a little known land.
Here in this painting you see Quanah, astride his powerful black horse, topping the Red Mound, now used as a “marker” by the hated white hunters. He is looking north into the heart of the Comanche’s once prime buffalo hunting ground, He will sadly turn and retreat back south into the Palo Duro Canyon, where in the fall of 1875 Colonel MacKenzie and the Fourth US Cavalry will kill many of the Quahadi, destroy all their horses, and force them onto the reservation at Fort Sill. A year later, D.C. Davis, no longer fearful of Comanche attack, will use this memorable spot to pace off his future ranch, and so lead the story into the twenty first century...... that we may ponder man’s inhumanity towards man.......and animal.
Magdalena and the Cowboy
30 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Chacuaco (Cha qwock) Canyon is like an ancient highway leading into the Purgatory Country of southern Colorado. Everything from dinosaurs and mammoths, ancient man, Spanish explorers, cowboys, settlers, and mountain men have used its route through the Purgatory, back and forth between the Llano Estacado and the High Plains.
The Scent of Bad Water; Turning the Bell Lead
40 x 40 oil on linen
SOLD private collection
This is a "dusty" painting about cattle heading for water once they have got its scent...they have been on a long hot dry stretch, and cannot be held back from water, even if it is the bad gippy stuff. Isn't this just like today, how we as a group will "stampede" towards salvation, without having clearly identified the “ Salvation” let alone identify the problem we are being “ ave” from? Sometmes I think humankind is not much different than a herd of thirst driven longhorns!
The Bell Lead was a type A personality steer that the other cattle would follow. Often these lead steers were never sold but instead taken back to Texas to help guide another drive. Often they wore a bell around there neck so the other cattle could hear them making following easier.
40 x 40 oil on linen
SOLD private collection
This is a "dusty" painting about cattle heading for water once they have got its scent...they have been on a long hot dry stretch, and cannot be held back from water, even if it is the bad gippy stuff. Isn't this just like today, how we as a group will "stampede" towards salvation, without having clearly identified the “ Salvation” let alone identify the problem we are being “ ave” from? Sometmes I think humankind is not much different than a herd of thirst driven longhorns!
The Bell Lead was a type A personality steer that the other cattle would follow. Often these lead steers were never sold but instead taken back to Texas to help guide another drive. Often they wore a bell around there neck so the other cattle could hear them making following easier.
Encampment, Sand Creek Revisited
18 x 24 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
On November 29, 1864 seven hundred soldiers of the Colorado Volunteer Militia under the command of John Chivington attacked peaceful Arapahoe and Cheyennes camped on Sand Creek in southeastern Colorado. Over 150 Native Americans were murdered, mostly women and children. I first visited the site at a time when it was unmarked, 1970, with directions given me by my grandfather. There on a cold November day I had numerous visions and “hearings” of cries and moans. One of the visions were seeing tepees set up out away from the bluffs of Sand Creek, where I have painted them in this piece. This was an ageless favorite camping spot, and I have tried to make a statement about …home, destroyed by the fear and greed of others.
18 x 24 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
On November 29, 1864 seven hundred soldiers of the Colorado Volunteer Militia under the command of John Chivington attacked peaceful Arapahoe and Cheyennes camped on Sand Creek in southeastern Colorado. Over 150 Native Americans were murdered, mostly women and children. I first visited the site at a time when it was unmarked, 1970, with directions given me by my grandfather. There on a cold November day I had numerous visions and “hearings” of cries and moans. One of the visions were seeing tepees set up out away from the bluffs of Sand Creek, where I have painted them in this piece. This was an ageless favorite camping spot, and I have tried to make a statement about …home, destroyed by the fear and greed of others.
The Night Shift
24 x 30 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Back in my University days, which from the vantage point of today, was a long time ago, I once worked as a janitor in a bowling alley. The place closed at midnight, which is when I went to work. Having the place all to myself, it was a time of contemplation and day..er..night dreaming. Now this was a long ways from night herding cattle, but in some ways was very similar. Imagining a young cowhand, the average age of trailhand cowboy was seventeen, on a lone late night watch, I think we shared a lot in common. Our lives were ahead of us in an uncertain long future, and our dreams could be filled with any eventuality. We could wear our innocence and naiveness like a crown, and transport ourselves royally into the rest of our days. Our reflection upon the past was at that time and at best, a bare minimum.
24 x 30 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Back in my University days, which from the vantage point of today, was a long time ago, I once worked as a janitor in a bowling alley. The place closed at midnight, which is when I went to work. Having the place all to myself, it was a time of contemplation and day..er..night dreaming. Now this was a long ways from night herding cattle, but in some ways was very similar. Imagining a young cowhand, the average age of trailhand cowboy was seventeen, on a lone late night watch, I think we shared a lot in common. Our lives were ahead of us in an uncertain long future, and our dreams could be filled with any eventuality. We could wear our innocence and naiveness like a crown, and transport ourselves royally into the rest of our days. Our reflection upon the past was at that time and at best, a bare minimum.
Magdalena
11 x 14 oil on linen panel
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
This is for a plein aire painting event sponsored by IllumeArt Gallery in Salt Lake City. There are one hundred participating artists from all over the country...we do an on location painting, make a video on location, and then post this stuff for three days on their website. You can view everything by visiting the show http://www.whereintheworldispleinair.com/…/michael-ome-unt…/
On day one I am painting in the Purgatory country of southeastern Colorado....el Rio de Las Animas Perdidas en Purgatorio, The River of Lost Souls in Purgatory. The formation in the painting has a natural cistern for catching rainwater. This is the only source of drinking water for many miles as the water in the creek and river is very gyppy. Magdalena Cordova was a Mexican woman who lived in the nearby settlement of Cordova Plaza, founded in the 1840's and existed until about 1900. Over a period of fifty years Magdalena carved her name in the rocks around this "cistern", I assume while fetching drinking water. By doing so she passed a bit of humanity on to posterity. I would like to thank my friend , artist/sculptor Jan Mapes, and Beatty Canyon Ranch owners Steve and Joy Wooten for making this painting possible.
11 x 14 oil on linen panel
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
This is for a plein aire painting event sponsored by IllumeArt Gallery in Salt Lake City. There are one hundred participating artists from all over the country...we do an on location painting, make a video on location, and then post this stuff for three days on their website. You can view everything by visiting the show http://www.whereintheworldispleinair.com/…/michael-ome-unt…/
On day one I am painting in the Purgatory country of southeastern Colorado....el Rio de Las Animas Perdidas en Purgatorio, The River of Lost Souls in Purgatory. The formation in the painting has a natural cistern for catching rainwater. This is the only source of drinking water for many miles as the water in the creek and river is very gyppy. Magdalena Cordova was a Mexican woman who lived in the nearby settlement of Cordova Plaza, founded in the 1840's and existed until about 1900. Over a period of fifty years Magdalena carved her name in the rocks around this "cistern", I assume while fetching drinking water. By doing so she passed a bit of humanity on to posterity. I would like to thank my friend , artist/sculptor Jan Mapes, and Beatty Canyon Ranch owners Steve and Joy Wooten for making this painting possible.
Madre de la Tierra
24 x 18 oil on linen
available thru Sanders Gallery, Tucson
In the mysterious glow of moonlight, I hope this painting inspires the viewer to engage their concepts of the non-secular and spiritual.
The Midwife
16 x 20 oil on linen
16 x 20 oil on linen
Coyote Fly; A Cowboy's Lottery
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Growing up, I and about everyone I knew frequently tried to rope coyotes. Though trying many times, I never accomplished it, as a matter of fact, I only knew one person who ever succeeded, but after discovering a really pissed off coyote on the end of a seemingly short rope, they didn't know what to do next. They finally let go of the dally and the coyote ran off trailing the rope behind him. Several days later the rope was found out on the prairie, minus the coyote. Teasing the roper we asked him why didn't he just drag the coyote to death? The "roper" replied "I never wanted to hurt him, just rope him, and besides I wasn't sure the bastard couldn't just run up the back of the horse and bite me in the ass! Good points!
So you can see, the odds of you successfully roping off a coyote were very slim at best, so much so to succeed had about the same chance as winning a lottery today.
16 x 20 oil on linen
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Growing up, I and about everyone I knew frequently tried to rope coyotes. Though trying many times, I never accomplished it, as a matter of fact, I only knew one person who ever succeeded, but after discovering a really pissed off coyote on the end of a seemingly short rope, they didn't know what to do next. They finally let go of the dally and the coyote ran off trailing the rope behind him. Several days later the rope was found out on the prairie, minus the coyote. Teasing the roper we asked him why didn't he just drag the coyote to death? The "roper" replied "I never wanted to hurt him, just rope him, and besides I wasn't sure the bastard couldn't just run up the back of the horse and bite me in the ass! Good points!
So you can see, the odds of you successfully roping off a coyote were very slim at best, so much so to succeed had about the same chance as winning a lottery today.
Christmas Morning, Trenton, 1776
8 x 10 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Early Christmas morning in 1776, General Washington crossed the Delaware river and attacked the German Hessian soldiers of the British Army at Trenton, New Jersey. It was a complete route and victory for the Americans and a turning point in the Revolution, perhaps the most significant Christmas in American history.
8 x 10 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Early Christmas morning in 1776, General Washington crossed the Delaware river and attacked the German Hessian soldiers of the British Army at Trenton, New Jersey. It was a complete route and victory for the Americans and a turning point in the Revolution, perhaps the most significant Christmas in American history.
Ranger's Tying a Knot in the Devil's Tail
40 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Simply stated, this is a painting about good overcoming evil. I have tried to paint these rangers enjoying the task before them, overcoming the devil himself...kind of a western sci-fi-fi piece? My Uncle Bryan used to sing an old cowboy song about a cowboy roping down the devil...."Tying a Knot in the Devils Tail". I gues that is where the inspiration for this piece came from. After reading about Ranger Frank Hamer and his battles against east Texas lynch mobs during Jim Crow days,
I wanted to illustrate Rangers in the action.
40 x 40 oil on canvas
SOLD PRIVATE COLLECTION
Simply stated, this is a painting about good overcoming evil. I have tried to paint these rangers enjoying the task before them, overcoming the devil himself...kind of a western sci-fi-fi piece? My Uncle Bryan used to sing an old cowboy song about a cowboy roping down the devil...."Tying a Knot in the Devils Tail". I gues that is where the inspiration for this piece came from. After reading about Ranger Frank Hamer and his battles against east Texas lynch mobs during Jim Crow days,
I wanted to illustrate Rangers in the action.
Comanche! an' the Risin' O' the Moon
16 x 20 oil on linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg TX
I visited a back road location in Montague county, TX on a fine spring evening where the light and atmosphere were breathtaking and transcendental. The location was in the heart of the old Comanche Range, and I was thinking about those early settlers living in such beauty, and danger, as the original Comanche inhabitants didn’t take kindly to encroachment onto their lands. The Comanche preferred conducting their raids on ascending moon, a full moon meaning danger ahead! I’ve spent time in Ireland and heard a Fenian song there “The Rising of the Moon”:
Oh the Risin' O’ the Moon lads, O’ the Risin’ O’ the Moon
and a thousand pikes were flashin’..at the Risin’ O’ the Moon
Strange how the feyness of fair Luna ignores geography and time, to place a warning in our hearts!
16 x 20 oil on linen
available thru Insight Galleries, Fredericksburg TX
I visited a back road location in Montague county, TX on a fine spring evening where the light and atmosphere were breathtaking and transcendental. The location was in the heart of the old Comanche Range, and I was thinking about those early settlers living in such beauty, and danger, as the original Comanche inhabitants didn’t take kindly to encroachment onto their lands. The Comanche preferred conducting their raids on ascending moon, a full moon meaning danger ahead! I’ve spent time in Ireland and heard a Fenian song there “The Rising of the Moon”:
Oh the Risin' O’ the Moon lads, O’ the Risin’ O’ the Moon
and a thousand pikes were flashin’..at the Risin’ O’ the Moon
Strange how the feyness of fair Luna ignores geography and time, to place a warning in our hearts!