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Enforced time at home this last year gave me the reluctant opportunity to examine decades' worth of accumulated reference material.  Tens of thousands of slides were purged and the survivors scanned, photo prints, huge piles of magazines and clippings were sorted through with the remaining pile only about the size of a hay bale.  How many hundreds of hours had it taken me to gather this stuff for my "morgue" of data that I was sure would come in handy someday?  How many expensive rolls of processed film?  

As a former wildlife artist who spent over thirty years working for the Department of Natural Resources before the days of digital imagery, I could never have enough reference photos.  I scalped any and every publication to assure I had detailed photographic information on the tarsus of a Horned Lark or the eye color of a Rainbow Trout, and certainly, the wing venation of Green Darner dragonflies!  The accumulated overkill filled four file cabinet and numerous Rubbermaid bins and paper boxes in my bedroom studio, my basement studio annex, my studio studio, and nooks and crannies elsewhere around house and garage.

I painted very little during 2020, frustrated and depressed.  My teaching gigs shut down, so one class turned into a plein air outing each week into the first week of November.  At one and the same time,  growing weary of COVID fatigue, I weakened my resolve and met with some men from church for breakfast.  Instead of distancing us, the restaurant seated us at a 4-top table, literally rubbing shoulders.  I decided to just drink coffee so my face would remain covered between sips.  The next day one of the guys spiked a fever, realizing he had been exposed to the virus.  Three days later I began to experience many of the classic symptoms of the virus.  I was pretty sick, but not as bad as many.  Ten days in, I ended up in the hospital for nearly 24 hours, but only in observation, not the ICU.  I was spared the scary respiratory aspect, although my doctor told me I was given Remdesivir and steroids in the hospital and had pneumonia.  I recovered fairly quickly from the symptoms, but the fatigue lingered for months.  

I had taken on some commissioned paintings to be cranked out for Christmas.  Many days I got up feeling okay, saying this is the day I get after these.  The mere effort to gather my materials and paints, set up the easel and try to remember "where I was" on each piece would call out for a nap, sometimes hours long.  It got to the point where I didn't even want to paint.  The deadline (oops, bad pun!) was met, but I was beat.  We were able to see some of our kids and grandkids, but Christmas was a quiet affair instead of a houseful.  

Surfacing in the information tsunami were some vivid memories preserved.  The resultant stumble down memory lane has been a joy.  My wife has done the same reducing of our family photos.  I've relived many enjoyable adventures, watched the kids grow up again.  I've fallen deeper in love with my precious spouse.  Everyone at our church started January reading Abundant Simplicity by Jan Johnson. Simplifying life to allow more time for God was her emphasis.  It got me started thinking (and praying) about my over-abundance of not only reference materials, but art stuff.  Knowing I'll never use the arsenal of supplies, equipment, paper, brushes, I've begun passing it on to the next generation.  Not that I'm calling it quits by any means, but trying to be a good steward of what God has allotted me has brought me joy in sharing, in giving rather than receiving.  I've enjoyed giving about 100 art books to the local high school for use by students as reference material or for the instruction contained within, knowing how much I would have appreciated that guidance and resources at their age.  I've also begun giving away some of my hundreds of tubes of watercolor, gouache, acrylic, casein and oil paints since I've become mostly a dual-primary painter, and don't really need 13 tubes of pre-mixed greens!

The bittersweet nature of giving or throwing away has been good for my soul, reminding me of my mortality and the old saying, "You can't take it with you."   I'd struggled to "come up for air" while stuck at home, but over time, I've gotten back at the end of a brush but might spend a couple of hours "fixing" a painting only to wipe it off in frustration.  It was like I'd forgotten how to paint.  

One benefit has been the resurfacing of some great inspirational images to trigger new ideas for painting.  

This scene (based on a true story!) from a painting trip came alive in the imagination and culminated an intense week of "spring training" painting, trying to remember my "swing" that had been badly lost during 2020.

This week I feel encouraged to take some more practice swings!

--Jim Glover

Recently I've been fortunate enough to have painted outdoor (en plein air) in some interesting venues on beautiful days with lots of wonderful people milling about looking and asking questions.  It's always a challenge to stay focused on the painting process while simultaneously keeping up running conversations with interested observers, so this one combined a pleasant outcome of the two disparate challenges! Although we're all wired differently and I'm no expert on anything, my experience over the years has taken me from a place of ignoring "lookers" and "watchers" to being welcoming and interacting with them.  

Most of us love to be "in the zone" when we paint.  I've come to equate being "in the zone" with playing chess.  Like moving my bishop into potentially dangerous territory, I plan for numerous different moves by my opponent.  If he does "this" then I'll do "that," if he does "that" then I'll do "this."  My knight has been strategically moved into position to counter any brash move on the opposite side of the board.  Painting is just the same.  I'm making "this" move in my painting, but I'm strategizing three or four moves ahead.  If I cool this patch of vegetation, I'll need to warm the pathway beside it, which may mean I'll need to brighten the sky above the house, which will require I soften the edge of the roofline, etc., etc.  This thinking requires concentration. But the plein air endeavor usually doesn't happen that way.  I'll be mixing up the cool greens of step one when up walks Ms. Wilson.  "Isn't it fun to paint outside like this?  I'll bet it's so relaxing!"

A laugh and a few words with Ms. Wilson, who wanders off, then I return to my work.  I notice I've got cool green paint all over palette and on my brush.  What was I going to do with it?  It takes precious moments to internally rewind the previous several minutes.  Oh, that's right!  I was going to cool that patch of vegetation.  And then what?  I've lost my "train of thought."  To be honest, lately I've been rudely awakened to the fact that I'm not just middle-aged anymore.  I'm totally senior citizen.  Needless to say, there are elements of that equation that factor into forgetting what I walked into a room for, so finding the track my train of thought left on is no easy matter anymore.  So "losing my place" has to be factored in to outdoor painting with people near to hand.

Nonetheless, I've repeatedly found it worthwhile to stop the painting process and engage the frivolous or serious inquiry.  Lasting friendships have had their start from "chatting up" a visitor.  In fact, some of my strongest painting competitors are folks I talked into coming painting with our plein air group (and who I now halfway wish I hadn't invited!)  I've also made many sales "off the easel" of still-wet, unfinished paintings, had people commission pieces, and met dozens who ended up taking my classes due to our interchange.  In the current economic climate, those are valuable commodities!

Are interruptions ideal while painting outdoors?  Obviously not.  But the possibilities of good thing happening are exponentially increased when passers-by and sincerely interested observers are brought into connection through pleasant, friendly conversation.  I think Tim Deibler, an amazing Colorado artist and friend, once told me that 98% of the people who stop to look are in absolute awe of what we are doing!  If we can help these inquirers and admirers bridge the seeming distance between them and our "brush magic" by "inviting them in," they'll see that we aren't paint zombies, but ordinary people with a special passion for communicating our vision in color on our canvases.  And maybe they'll take one home with them!