On a windy night in November, 2016, a sudden fire destroyed my studio - together with over fifteen hundred of my paintings.
I saw my studio go down in the fire, I witnessed the destruction of forty years of work, but I also recognized something else that night. The burning leaves falling off the trees, which would ultimately ignite the tinder box that is a studio full of canvas, wood and paint, seemed to be little angels, floating down softly in the mountain air.
I never really found the words to articulate how these two recognitions - destruction and celestial softness - could coexist for me in the same time. But when I began painting again my new paintings said what I couldn't.
On one hand they were full of dark tones, sometimes even black and ashy. This was unlike anything I'd painted in the past. But at the same time they were filled with gold, a color I'd never felt necessary beforehand. It was as if the darkness of my loss had somehow opened me to a deeper truth, a new light.