Acrylic and metallic nickel / gold / copper on canvas
Nothing lasts forever, not the good nor the bad.
Winter in Seattle, without fail, with her short days that are often bone-chillingly cold and gray, buries me head first, tail tucked, deep into a foxhole.
Down here, I hold my breath. I am frozen and numb. But atleast down in the dark, I can’t feel how cold it is above the ground.
I can’t feel... anything.
The numbness thaws at pace with the season, and I start to feel a warmth I am certain the sun knows nothing about.
I notice the days are becoming brighter, the gloomy winter sky welcomes back her sun.
I look up from the dark safety of my burrow where I have nearly forgotten what the sun feels like.
Nearly forgotten what anything feels like, for that matter.
Above ground, I see the cherry trees have started to blossom and the sun gets back to work sweeping the last of the winter frost away.
I can breathe again.
After a hard winter, I exhale.
I can feel again.
Stephen King describing his writing:
“all novels are really letters aimed at one person.” I don’t see much of my work much differently.
Letters are perhaps one of the most sentimental things a person can leave behind them. I think maybe that’s what I’m doing. I’m finishing my letters. The ones that are most important. What a better moment than a pandemic to push me to get as much accomplished as I can while I am here, should I get sick, or worse yet, you. I am leaving unwritten everything you already know.
Right now I’m finding the visual language for all the things I never knew how to tell you.
“Post script”. letter 1 of 3. 24x18” oil on canvas.
This one has taken me quite some time to figure out how to properly sign off and whether I was ready to send it.
All that to say,
I hope this finds you well.
“Stationary.” letter 2 of 3. 16x20” oil on canvas.
Hi, it’s me again.
This one I had signed and sealed. I never sent it. I was too scared to say it at the time, scared maybe you wouldn’t write back. At that time, it probably mattered and you deserved to know how I felt.
I don’t know if you saw my last letter, but I’m sorry it was a bit harsh.
By the time you read this letter, these words will be those of the past.
Forgive me, I was afraid, but instead, I told you I just couldn’t decide on the stationary.
All my love,
“Even Every Sunday.” Letter 3/3. Oil on canvas 16x20”.
I know we didn’t talk after I left.
But maybe the best part about not seeing you anymore
is I can still write you these letters. Even if all we had left were Sundays, I’d still write. Because maybe these aren’t even letters anymore than they are the story
of how I found myself.
I don’t think I need to send this one, after all.