Three Sisters at Green Lake by Robin Hostick
Acrylic on canvas, 24 x 48 in. (private collection)
Normally I explore with at least one other person. On this occasion, however, what started out as a group adventure dwindled to a group of one. So be it, I thought. A solo adventure awaits.
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Normally I explore with at least one other person. On this occasion, however, what started out as a group adventure dwindled to a group of one. So be it, I thought. A solo adventure awaits.
I have a confession to make: I’ve been playing hooky from my social media obligations. I know! The nerve! But one thing is for sure: it’s given me some fresh perspective on what’s important. Here’s why.
Those of you living in Oregon know this was one of the colder and wetter winters we’ve seen in a while. The term “cabin fever” comes to mind, perhaps mildly compared to many places in the world, but at some point I really yearned for a little sunshine, you know?
Everyone seems to have a different strategy for coping with a hard winter. My strategy this year was to spend most waking hours painting in my studio. The result, as planned, is a new body of work ready for release this summer. And you, my dear subscribers, are the first to see it.
Have you ever found yourself in the presence of beauty when time seems to stop for a moment? Maybe you sense the wind, the cool tingle of raindrops, or the silence of the desert. How did you feel? In awe, perhaps, or simply grateful to be alive? I sure hope so. Because it turns out that feeling is really, really good for you.
Lucky for us humans, the feeling of awe is there for us when we need it. Read on to learn what it is, how to find it, and how it drives my art practice.
Back in August, during the Umpqua Valley Plein Air event, I found myself looking for a place to camp for the night along the North Umpqua River. I finally came across a little campground tucked down off a gravel road along Canton Creek. It was mid-week, and to my surprise I found every site except one marked as reserved. Strange thing, though: the whole place was deserted. Where was everyone?
“I couldn’t believe it,” the man said, decked out in hiking gear and speaking with a German accent, “She was like THIS close to the grizzly.” He pointed to a car about twenty feet away. “Taking pictures with her phone!”
Yep, that was the scene up in Jasper National Park (British Columbia, Canada) a couple weeks ago. We arrived early to hit the trail up into the backcountry. Like everywhere else in the park, things were already busy. But on this particular morning, something was obviously up.
Maybe you know the feeling: you show up to a beautiful, wild place you’ve been dying to see, or perhaps you’re returning full of anticipation for another visit, and reality sets in. It turns out there are a lot of other people with the same idea. Wow, you think. On the one hand, yay for all the people loving the outdoors! On the other hand, you might be looking for a more one-on-one experience with nature. How do you deal?
As many of you know, it was a long, rainy winter here in Oregon. Many times on a rainy evening, after a full day in the studio, I’d ask myself whether I’m really on the right path. There’s so much to learn, so much to do.
Then I’d remind myself that this is an experiment in testing the principle of following your dreams. If you do what you love, and work hard a it, the universe will provide. Right? That, of course, and connecting with good people who love what you do.
Maybe the only thing better than an Oregon summer is an Oregon summer with art. If that rings true for you, I have some great news! Over the next few months, I’ll be showing at nine different locations around the state. I know! Crazy. I just counted them up. And I’m hoping to see you at least once.
Before I say more, I’d like to warmly extend a couple of invitations.
A couple years ago a major storm coincided with opening day of crab season. At the stroke of midnight, over the sound of wind thrashing in the forest behind our cabin, we heard the rumble of diesel motors that told us the fleet was heading out. Through sheets of rain, we could just make out a line of lights navigating through the channel to the open ocean.
I’m talking about plein air painting, of course. The idea is, you’re supposed to be creating art outside, in the open air, baking sun, smoke and wind, not at home. Whatever it takes. No matter what.
But there are definitely a few things to be considered first. Here’s a short list.
It appears I’ve made a habit of beginning each blog post with a dicey outdoor adventure. The truth is, I have a lot of those. But there are all kinds of adventures to be found, and not just in the outdoors. For example, leaving behind a thriving, comfortable career in mid-life to become a professional artist has opened opportunities for adventures I hadn’t expected. And not just because I made the leap two months before the pandemic hit.
Here's an unexpected mindset that can help you turn challenges into adventures.
A couple weeks ago we came through Seattle on our way home from hiking in the North Cascades. The rains swallowed up the mountains and that was the end of our trip. Not much point in being in the mountains if you can’t see them. So, we decided to make the best of it and stop in at the Seattle Art Museum.
As it turns out, SAM’s feature exhibit was Monet at Etretat. I couldn’t believe my luck! But what I learned at this show might surprise you.
After six hours of bushwhacking through the steepest, gnarliest forest I’ve ever encountered, we arrived at the bottom of the canyon. Hidden in the shadowy depths of the Devil’s Staircase Wilderness, we’d found the eponymous waterfall at last. Above us, the cool waters of Wasson Creek cascaded down a series of stone ledges, dappled with the waning sunlight, while the silent forest towered above us.
This peaceful moment was eclipsed, however, by one thought: we still had to climb back out – probably in the dark, with no trail to follow. And one of our group members was already near exhaustion.
I shimmied along a narrow ledge above a slot canyon somewhere in Anza Borrego State Park. At some point I began to vividly imagine what it might be like to slip and tumble into the narrow void. A trickle of sand and pebbles skittered down from under my feet. Looking back the way I came, I tried to judge the point of diminishing risk/reward. It didn’t look promising, but the alternative was a two-mile detour. Should I go for it?
After a long and wonderful break (more on that later), I’m back in the studio painting steadily to get ready for what will be my first summer of art fairs. I’m super excited about it. I’m also a wee bit apprehensive, hoping it will be worth all the effort, not to mention giving up of some of the best weekends of the year for exploring the backcountry.
In mid-January, the summit of Mt. Hood is normally frozen solid. That’s a good thing in mountaineering terms because it means loose rocks and ice stay in place and rather than tumble down on your head as you climb.
But as we slogged upward through the deep snow towards the Hog’s Back, the final ridge before the summit pitch, a melon-sized rock hurtled suddenly over the ridge and down the mountain side as though shot from a cannon. We all watched it’s passing, our heads swiveling in unison, and said a few bad words.
As promised in my last post, I have a few exciting announcements to make. Feel free to reply directly to this email any time if you have questions, thoughts, or see something you like. I always enjoy hearing from you!
Here’s a little conundrum that artists seem to experience: how do you evaluate your own artwork?
I get the feeling it’s a conundrum for almost any activity you care about. The question is usually followed by a deeper one: what are your personal measures for excellence? And what should you do when you’re falling short?
Without realizing it, I recently found myself struggling with this. In the process I learned a few things, including a great paradox of problems: they’re pretty good teachers.
I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty saturated with the “good riddance 2020” theme. I get it, believe me. I feel the same. Despite the crises, suffering, and hardships, I’m also trying to take stock of what was good about the past year, count my many blessings, and pay attention to what might be really good about this coming year. They say you manifest that which you hold in your mind, so this might be a perfect time to put away the news feed and start dreaming again.
I’ll start with something I learned in 2020.
Imagine the very earliest artist at work, sitting on the shore of some rugged coastline, using a sharp rock to etch pleasing patterns into a shell. The first humans to create art used natural dyes found in plants and minerals, wove patterns in natural fibers, and carved images on all kinds of materials. Our creative drive emerged over and over again across the globe. Some of the oldest art on record is found in caves, where the artwork was protected from the elements for millennia. Recent evidence suggests some of the earliest works of art are about 44,000 years old!
Today is winter solstice. The candles are lit and we’re settling in for 15 hours and eight minutes of night. Outside, holiday lights glitter in the mist and raindrops patter against the windowpanes. On stormy days here in western Oregon even the daylight itself makes a half-hearted appearance, as though the sun would rather sleep in.
I don’t know about you, but this time of year I start yearning for southern latitudes and a little warmth. Not happening in 20-crap-20, but guess what? There’s an even better way to cope.
Take a moment, if you like, to imagine a wonderful, wild place that’s special to you. I might be a place you know well, or maybe one that has stuck with you over the years. It could be near or far. Just let your mind go there. See the quality of light and colors. Hear the sounds. Feel the temperature and wind. How do you feel?
Here’s one way you can bring the spirit of that place into your daily life.
At the far east end of the Ochoco Mountains, a stretch of mudbanks flanked Deep Creek, winding in lazy loops across the little valley framed by copper pillars of ponderosa pine. Overhead, nighthawks tumbled in the darkening sky.
I waded along the creek in my sandals, flyrod in hand, casting for trout. On the far side of the mudbank, I could see the concentric ripples of fish rising in large pool. I thought, oh, what’s a little mud? But after ten steps I was up to my knees and sinking fast.
If not for the elk trails, we would have given up for sure. Our feet sank deep into the spongy earth, following the tunnel-like trails through the brush. The sword ferns grew so tall – above our heads in many places – that we could only see a few feet ahead. Any moment we expected to come face to face with one of the resident elk.
I’m super excited to announce that next week we’ll be launching Wild & Scenic Rivers of Oregon, a special series of original artworks created in partnership with statewide nonprofit Oregon Wild. The campaign will kick off with a live webcast on Wednesday evening, November 11 at 6:00pm. Sign up here for this free event.
In the meantime, check out this video for a quick overview (3 min).
Our relationships with other people are the single most important driver of our lives and personal happiness. We don’t live in a social vacuum, even in the isolating days of the pandemic. Almost overnight we’ve all learned in such a visceral, personal way how important human contact can be to our wellbeing.
Failure has been all the rage in professional coaching and business circles for nearly a decade (thanks to the book “Fail Fast Fail Often” by Ryan Babineaux and John Krumboltz). The idea is simple: we learn best by making mistakes (or take it from Will Smith). The more the better. From this standpoint, failure is a sign of growth.
Or so the wisdom goes. While most of us want to avoid failing as much as possible, if we’re really trying something hard, something new, something that pushes our boundaries, we’re going to fail. After all, the absence of failure doesn’t equal success – it might just be the absence of trying.
I’m not a messy person. Back in college I made an impression on my future spouse because I had my shirts organized by color in the closet. That was an anomaly – I probably did that one day to procrastinate a class assignment. But why not embrace a counter-myth to the messy artist? Truth is, I do have a have a strong sense of order for many good reasons – but in the middle of the creative process all bets are off.
In other words, I’m just doing one show this year. I know, it’s a narrow window to get a look at this year’s new works. Although I would dearly love to do more shows, we’ll have to make the best of this one. Here’s why.