We had an old windmill on our farm in Ontario when I was younger. It was beside the well house, and though no longer in use, it made an eerie humming sound in the wind. Today it is gone, and now modern windmills loom over my parents’ farm from nearby properties. At times their rhythm is indistinct, at others intensely echoing the wind, monotonously hammering out a reminder of progress.
I started these paintings last year, and like most, like dough, I had to leave them to rest. Today I picked them up again, while the children, remarkably, were painting at the same time. Later the kids were eating ice cream cones, standing by my elbow, watching as I vacillated over whether or not to stick a tiny piece of paper on one of the paintings. I spent the whole afternoon and late evening finishing them.
You may notice some familiar features to these paintings. I tried to shake myself of this colour scheme but perhaps I am just developing a signature style. Warm fields, grey skies, colourful mark making, textured surface, and a showcase of nature and oldness worked in. Scraps of great grandma’s receipts, great grandpa’s sums and figures, ancestors photos, burlap, book binding and leaves tell the story. To be enjoyed, these need to be viewed in person, to take in all the tiny details, the dragonfly’s wing, the images and symbols.