It took a while to enter my palette. I grew up in a different shade of blue. The 10,000 lakes of Minnesota, while even different from each other, are not the same as the blue specific to Provence. And maybe it’s more a reflection of me, these blues… There was a wet-flung wildness to my lakes of youth. A daring. A “get past the buoys” kind of test. All part of the building of this confidence, I suppose, that it would take to embrace another blue, an unfamiliar, and call it my own.
I stuck to painting Americana when first arriving here in France. Oh, I snuck in a Sainte Victoire, or two, but I was careful, cautious. Would I, could I, be so bold as to say, not just that I see it too, but declare with heart and brush, this is how I see it.
And this blue, that powders between sky and sea, is in my heart now. No longer asking for knowledge or permission. It simply lives within and travels through to brush and canvas. With a heart as open as morning shutters, I greet the day, and call myself home.
