Kesler Woodward

Illumination

Illumination   ©Kesler Woodward 2014   acrylic on canvas   48" x 60" 

The quality of light in Fairbanks in late December and early January is extraordinary. It is unlike any other time of the  year, and I think unique to this place.  The sun struggles above the horizon about 11 a.m. on the winter solstice, just east of due south, and falls below it just a few degrees west, three hours and forty-two minutes later. There are a lot of compensations for the brevity of the day, among them the auroras that light the sky with curtains of color on scores of nights each winter, and remembering that everyone in the world gets the same amount of light, so our short winter days are balanced by no darkness at all from mid-May to the first of August. But the character of the light in the brief hours of a deep winter day is its own reward.

We run or ski at least six miles on the trails from our house every other day, on skinny, twisty, hilly paths through the birch and aspen forest. We are often a couple of miles along the trail when the sun comes up, and it amazes me each time that such a seemingly wan orb can so transfigure the woods with light. 

Illumination is very much the way it looks--and more importantly for me, the way it feels--staring into the sun through the forest a few minutes after sunrise on a late December or early January day.

Mountainair   ©Kesler Woodward 2014   oil on board   5" x 7" (image) 

We like to be home for Christmas, but we do often travel over New Year's, to see family and friends. This year our early January travels took us to New Mexico, to visit our friends David Policansky and Sheila David at their home high in the mountains, about eighty miles southeast of Albuquerque. We got to see both ancient Anasazi and seventeenth century Spanish mission ruins, tens of thousands of cranes and snow geese and ducks at Bosque del Apache Refuge, and we ran in bright sunlight on beautiful, high desert trails above 7000 ft.  

Every trip to new landscape is grist for the mill for me, and though it often takes months, or even years, before I know how I want to respond to what I've seen and felt in a new place, this year I came straight home and painted a tiny New Mexico landscape. You can't see the petroglyphs we admired at this spot, or the pottery shards we found (and left) nearby, but I hope you can see a little of the character of the country and the quality of light, even in this tiny oil.  

Plein Rein

I spent a fabulous nine days in early June in Juneau, Alaska.  In addition to seeing old friends, visiting the 13 ft. diameter wooden yurt that Missy and I lived in back in the 1970's, and running on trails that have been greatly improved since those days, I juried a show for the Juneau Arts and Humanities Council, gave two public talks, and did three radio interviews. But the real focus of the trip was two 3-day workshops I taught at the invitation of a hardy bunch of terrific painters who work out of doors in all weathers year-round in Juneau, who call themselves "Plein Rein."  Cristine Crooks, who organized the workshops, and who with her husband Dean Guaneli put me up in their beautiful home on the Gastineau Channel in Douglas, limited the enrollment in each to 13 participants, and almost all of the artists took part in both sessions.

I did a similar stint with the Plein Rein painters in 2007, with many of the same artists, so I knew it would be fun and that I would be impressed with their energy, ambition, and their work itself, but it was even more of a delight to be back with them than I'd anticipated.  We worked each day in gorgeous locations all over the limited Juneau road system, from Auke Bay Recreation Area to Amalga Harbor, Eagle Beach, Auke Lake, Eaglecrest, and Fish Creek--some of my favorite places anywhere.

As four years ago, I was impressed by the group's willingness to embrace the crazy things I asked them to do--all aimed at getting them out of their comfort zones as plein-air painters, keep them from relying on techniques and approaches they already knew and were comfortable with doing, and think about making work in new and different ways. 

I seldom do workshops, since I retired to paint full time eleven years ago, after two decades of teaching painting at the University of Alaska. The outdoor painting classes I do teach are, I always say only half-jokingly, "anti plein-air painting workshops."  I work out of doors myself often, and I think that painting from life is important for a landscape painter, but what I emphasize in my infrequent classes is almost the opposite of what most plein-air painting workshops preach. Instead of tips and tricks for getting things down quickly, recognizably, with everything comfortably in its place, I try to get artists to think about what they want to say. Not so much "What does it look like here?" or "Isn't this place pretty?" but "What do I want to say about this place?"  "What does this place mean to me?" "What does it feel like to be here?" I emphasize making art, not pictures, and insist on treating the participants in my workshops as serious artists, not as weekend painters.  

That's easy with this group, as they are not only dedicated, but an adventurous lot, not just in terms of weather, but in terms of their art.  It's a delight to work with so many artists who are eager to try something new, confident enough to get outside their comfort zones, and dedicated enough that I know they will take from whatever experience I provide what's useful to them, incorporate it in their ever-growing toolbox, and continue making original work of their own.

As I said in 2007 after the workshop, it was a treat in every way.  I learned as much from them as they did from me, and I feel like a lucky guy to get to do things like this and call it work. 

 

 

The wooden yurt in which Missy and I lived, 17 miles north of Juneau, in the 1970s.  Still in the same spot, it's now  a storage shed in the backyard of a suburban Juneau home, but then it was not only a little less mossy, but was nestled in four acres of pristine woods. We hauled in our water on a picturesque trail that wound through the forest, then up a giant spruce tree that had been felled perpendicular to the steep slope, with steps cut into it to ascend.  When we found it again a few years ago, I was sad to see it so forlorn and disheveled.  Missy simply harrumphed, "Huh...just about the way I remember it!"