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America.  I first learned of your beauty in childhood.  Summer vacations were cross country family trips where your stories and enchantments were revealed.  Our destination was Missouri from Coastal California.  We hit the road in a ‘60’s Chevrolet, my Dad, Mom, my brother, and me.  

 

First, we crossed the wild Northern California forests on winding, logging roads - switchback curves the width of one vehicle.  Even in summer the Sierras were cold and spitting snow.  I would groan in the backseat with nausea from the twisting road.  

 

I loved arriving in Nevada.  The roads were straightening, and Mom pointed to the rugged landscape with cracked, dry valleys and purple hills reminding us not long ago a pioneer family might see "Indians " on horseback emerge from a “cloudy draw.” (with great respect to the Native American whose land  this was originally)  It was the era of television westerns and she was a romantic, fascinated by history.  I never got bored on these trips as the scenes out our car window were ever-changing and magical.   

 

There were mirages on the great salt flats of Utah.  Off in the distance, down the long highway, the far mountains would cast a lake-like image on the ribbon of road ahead of us.  My parents said it was due to the heat of the sun, and even the white salt flats would appear to have lakes far away due to the hot sun and refractions of light.  We were told that before there were highways the people heading west to seek their fortunes were often fooled by these images of water ahead of them.  Many would die on their journeys to California during the Gold Rush. I felt lucky to live in a different time when travel was in the comfort of a car, heading to a lunch spot up ahead for sandwiches and cherry pie.

 

 It was a broad expanse of exploration that seduces me even to this day.  Back then, few towns and cities added to the magic.  Rolling plains, windswept valleys, wild skies, mountains in mist and snow, the occasional deer, horse, or bird of prey on a fencepost - all held me in awe.  I remember the drives as night fell, where sunsets happened over a wide and raging river, causing light and color to bounce around the valley before it all disappeared.  

 

Although we have built huge cities, developed sprawling farms and elements of civilization at many turns, America is still a proud land of constant beauty.  She ceaselessly delivers to those who delight in traveling her long highways east or west, north or south.  No matter the struggles we humans create upon her soil, she remains a place of wonder, potential, challenge, and possibility.  I will always believe it is within our power to protect and nurture her greatness.  

 

What does my reverie have to do with art?  It describes the beginnings of my compulsion to paint the landscape.  She is my muse, I suppose.  There is endless inspiration in her beauty, her simplicity, and constancy.  And because of this, I have had to learn many things:  how to see, how to paint the light, how to create three dimensions on a two dimensional plane, how to interpret color, and how to paint the mood of a scene.  All of these endeavors are never fully learned, as there is always more to understand and apply.  For that, I am ever grateful.