Summers in Vermont painting a stream that runs through the forest, sometimes ankle deep, and winters painting in Quebec because, not despite, of the snow. For the light, it seems, that light that skips around and splashes throughout these drawings.
I found myself wondering who painted the first forest– without a view, without a horizon, without a mythical figure—Cezanne, maybe?
The complex wild forest, where nothing has been planted by human hands, that looks nothing like a park and shows a continuous cycle of birth and death.
Humans have been cutting it down and using it up for centuries and now we better scramble to get out of the way and let it grow. Can’t we actually see that?
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