Barn on a Hill, Spring

 © Robin Edmundson, 'Barn, Hill, Spring', watercolor, 8 x 6 inches.  Framed $125.

Sometimes I have a vision in my head of what I want to paint, so I paint it and it turns out that I only need one part of if after all.   This is a small crop of a much larger experiment.   Love this. 

Grey Sky, Grey Barn

 

© Robin Edmundson, 'Grey Barn, Grey Sky', watercolor, 16 x 20 inches.  Framed $575.

The open prairie landscape seems like it goes on forever under a sky that goes on forever.   I had a friend from Nebraska in grad school who said he loved going home.  He'd get out of the car, take that first big deep breath and feel himself expand to fill the landscape.   

What a beautiful feeling.

Red Barn, Last Big Snow

 © Robin Edmundson, 'Red Barn, Last Big Snow', watercolor, 9 x 12 inches.   Framed $300.

After that last big snow we had in February, Eric grabbed a pic of this red barn, gold grass and blue snow shadows.  

Slowing Time

 

© Robin Edmundson, 'Backlit Barn, Early Fall', watercolor, 10 x 14 inches.  $375.

It's October already.  The leaves are turning and we've had our first frost. This year has kept on moving despite all the upheaval.  

I've been thinking a lot about time this year.   Sometimes it felt as if things were standing still and other times, I blink and it's 3 months later. 

I find myself a little anxious that things are moving too quickly for me and I feel like I'm always behind.  I want things to slow down.

Do you remember the Star Trek movie, Insurrection?   One of the themes is the ability to slow time.  There are a couple of lovely scenes where Picard is focused on something so intently that time slows right down.  

It's that intention, attention and focus that helps me 'slow time'.  

I was in the garden the other day, quickly picking beans, trying to finish and cross that thing off the list, when I looked up and saw a vulture gliding in slow curves on an updraft.  I heard myself breathe deep and as I focused on that beautiful arc of movement in the sky, I could feel time stop for moment.

And I watched.

We talk about time slowing down, but time is a constant.  Time marches on.  Time flies.  In Latin, 'tempus fugit' literally means time flees. It runs away.

It's we who have to slow down.  To stop. Time slows when we slow.  

That afternoon in the garden, it was not time that slowed and stopped. I was the one who slowed, who stopped for those moments with intention, to pay attention and to focus on that miracle of flight.  

That smooth glide through the sky.  

That silent, joyful, gentle spiral.  

Higher. On a breath of warm wind.  

Higher.  

Higher. 

Around in another slow arc. 

One more time.

Higher.

I stopped; time stopped.

The vulture floated higher and my heart rose with it.

I hope, my wonderful friends, that you take a moment to stop time for something lovely that crosses your path today. 

First Light, Covered Bridge

© Robin Edmundson, 'First Light, Covered Bridge', watercolor, 16 x 12 inches
Framed to 20 x 16 inches.  $375.

As I've mentioned before, I've been studying composition.   Mostly this means becoming aware of how I could have better composed a painting after it's too late to do anything about it.   Paint and learn.

I've been collecting composition structures that speak to me and while I was at it I found one that I loved, but only if I added something with some visual oomph off to the right.    I did a couple of drafts, playing with snow and light and shadow while I was at it.  Eric saw this one and loves the glow of that early morning light.  

Red Barn across the Creek.

©Robin Edmundson, 'Red barn, creek', watercolor, 10 x 14 inches.
Framed to 16 x 20 inches.  $375

I don't have lot to say about this one.   I'm practicing water and reflections and grass on the edges of the creeks.

Artists problem-solve a lot.   Each time we begin a piece, the first thing we learn is what we don't know how to render.

For a watercolorist like me, that means that the first draft is usually destined to become a fire starter.  Some time around the 3rd or 4th draft things fall in place - which means I've learned how to paint the things I didn't know how to paint when I started.   It takes time and persistence.  And even a well-rendered subject can make a poor painting if other factors such as color, value [light/dark] and composition are not well thought out.

[So when you see someone whip out a gorgeous watercolor in 20 minutes, remember that it took weeks and years of learning, along with hundreds of failures, to allow her/him to do that.   Never ask an artist 'How long did it take to paint/make that?'   It took years.]

There are some things I really love about this piece.  You'll be able to see it at my upcoming show at The Venue in Bloomington, Indiana in April, 2020.

Just a few days left

© Robin Edmundson, 'Leonard's Barn', watercolor, 10 x 14 inches.

Robin Edmundson: Not Far Afield

Solo Exhibit

Vault at Gallery Mortgage

121 East 6th St. Bloomington, Indiana.   

Gallery Hours:  Monday - Friday 9am - 5pm. 

There are just a few days left to see my exhibit at the Vault at Gallery Mortgage at 121 East 6th St. in Bloomington, Indiana. 

The piece above is one of my favorites and is in my personal collection.  If you want to see it in person, you can see it at the show from now until Tuesday, Oct 29 in the morning.  We'll be taking the show down then. 

Overgrown

©Robin Edmundson, 'Overgrown Barn - July', watercolor, 8 x 10 inches.  Framed to 11 x 14 inches.  $280.

July is when everything out here is in danger of getting overgrown by the oat grass, the virginia creeper, the fox tail, the nutgrass, the poison ivy, the walnut saplings that the squirrels planted last year, the ironweed, the johnson grass, the ragweed, the goldenrod, the wild grape vines, the blackberries - so many blackberries... 

In short, there is an abundance of growth and with that comes the very real danger of a structures being entirely overwhelmed.  They can be pulled down by the weight of the vines, or pulled apart by things growing through the cracks in the walls, or knocked right over by trees growing next to the foundation. 

I do this to myself.  All. The. Time.  Country life is a metaphor for the rest of my life.

I love an abundance of information.  I love learning new things, reading new books, mulling over new ideas, trying new strategies.   I want all of the information - right now.   I want all of the options - right now.   I want to save all of the ideas - right now. 

Pretty soon, my head is bursting with options; I worry that I won't pick the 'right one', I feel anxious that I'm 'behind' in what I'm studying, frustrated that I don't understand it all, irritated with the number of notebooks full of Very Important Notes and piles of books that I've saved from studying all the things and afraid to get rid of them because what if that's the notebook with The Answer that I've been looking for.

So much abundance and so much overwhelm. 

I need some mental mowing.  Weed eating.   Pruning.  Maybe a judiciously wielded chain saw.  Something to keep balance between the growth and the structure [me].

Quite honestly, I have no idea - at all - how to do that.  It's one of those boundary things I'm not so good at. 

I'll be thinking about it for the next while to see if I can come up with a strategy to encourage abundance while limiting overwhelm.   Maybe that will help me restore some Fun to my life.

The Duality of Light and Dark

©Robin Edmundson, 'Purple Barn, Twilight', watercolor, 10 x 14 inches.  Framed to 16 x 20 inches.  $375

I'm playing with light.   Actually, that's not true.   I'm playing with dark - because it's in how we apply the darks that the lights really show up.   It's a duality.

Duality shows up frequently in my life.  Powerful opposite forces.  It's easy to feel like one of those forces needs to be shut down or tamed, and to be honest, I have spent a lot of years trying to obliterate one or another of them, believing that its presence meant that there was something wrong with me and that if I could change it, I'd be better. 

It took a long time to realize that the trick is not in the changing, but the arranging. 

Embrace the light and the dark and you can communicate powerful things.  Arrange things right and all of the sudden beautiful images appear. 

White Hot July Sky

©Robin Edmundson, 'July Sky', watercolor, 18 x 24 inches.  Framed to 24 x 30 inches.  $750.

It's July. 

It's hot.

Searingly hot. 

The hay is cut and the fields quickly dry out to a dusty gold.  The days are hazy and lazy.  It never really cools off at night and the mornings are heavy and damp.  It's like the air itself is sweating. 

In our humidity, the clouds are varied and interesting - mackerel scales and mare's tails are indicative of quickly changing weather.  As things heat up even further during the days, we often get pop-up thunderstorms, dumping even more humidity into the air. 

It's too hot for the birds to fly and they stay inside the cooler edges of the woods.   Dragonflies and darning needles large and small flit around the trees instead.  At twilight the fireflies start their light show. 

And over and under and around it all is the gentle accompanying swoozh swoozh swoozh of the cicadas.

Catching that Morning Frost of Early Spring

©Robin Edmundson, 'Lyons Barn, Spring Morning', watercolor, 18 x 24 inches. 
Framed 26 x 34 inches. $750

It's a goal of mine to try to capture the light of different times of the year and different times of the day.  I love the way the light plays off the tiny little leaf tips in the trees, off the run-off in the hollows, off the new grass.   In this piece, I was working on that moment when golden morning light rakes across the hills on an early spring day when the frost is still blue in the low spots.

More Big Experiments

© Robin Edmundson, 'Red Barn, Lyons, Fall Morning', watercolor, 18 x 24 inches.  Unframed $600.

So here's the thing about watercolor.  Sometimes it does its own thing and the trick is to react in a way that leads you to a successful conclusion, even if that conclusion doesn't match what's in your head. 

This conclusion doesn't match what I was after when I started, but it finished well enough and that works for me.   I'll do another version tomorrow with different light.

We came upon this barn way out near Lyons, Indiana, while we were driving around on our anniversary.   I love the little hollow where the run-off gathers.  Those hills do fun things with light.  I'll be working more with this reference photo.

Midwinter Sky & Birds

© Robin Edmundson, 'Midwinter Sky & Birds', watercolor, 18x24 inches. 
Framed to 26x32 inches.  $750.

I've been working with this scene for a while and I realized that what it really wanted was more space, so I worked it up in a larger format. I love it.

Our winter palette is mostly umbers and ochres - until it snows, and for a few days it's hard to tell where the sky stops and the trees and fields begin. Then the trees shake off the snow and clouds and re-establish the boundaries.

There is a stark beauty in a winter day like that, with scraps of earth showing through the snow. On a day like this, there is quiet in the clutter of our woods and farms, with nothing to distract from the ebb and flow of winter birds moving from one field to the next.

I love this about Indiana.

The Barn Near the Woods

© Robin Edmundson, 'The Barn Near the Woods', watercolor, 18 x 24 inches.  Framed to 26 x 32.  $750
[Available at the Lawrence County Art Association until April 20, 2019]

It is said that Indiana's state religion is basketball, so it's no surprise that so many of our old barns out here have a basketball hoop on them.  Friends gathered before and after school to blow off steam.  Fathers and children shot a few baskets on the way to feed the animals.  I still remember the thump-thump of the ball hitting the wood and then hoop as friends practiced layups.  These hoops are fixtures on our barns and in our hearts. 

First Light

© Robin Edmundson, 'First Light', watercolor, 14 x 10 inches
Framed to 22 x 18 inches.  $375

You know that moment on a winter morning, when the sun finally breaks over the horizon and the twilight blues and purples coalesce into bright shadows on the snow?   

I love that moment.   Hello, morning!

Winter Barn, Purple Shadows

© Robin Edmundson, 'Winter Barn, Purple Shadows', watercolor, 10 x 14 inches
Framed to 18 x 22 inches. $375

The shadows this winter have been really interesting.   It's been so wet that there is a perpetual haze in the woods and it's been so cloudy that the shadows aren't their typical winter blue.  I've enjoyed the challenge and have been happily experimenting with new color combinations.   This one made me particularly happy. 

Winter Cornfield, Blue Barn

© Robin Edmundson, 'Winter Cornfield, Blue Barn', watercolor, 10 x 14 inches.
Framed to 18 x 22 inches.  $375

Here's what I like about our winters:

• They're varied.  This has a negative flipside when it comes to things like beekeeping, but mostly it makes things really interesting.
• There's a lot of green.   The fiddlehead ferns in the woods are evergreen, as are the southern red cedars.  Then there are the lowest layers of grass in the fields, and the moss on the trees [and the north side of most houses/roofs]
• Willow tips turn gorgeous reds in the winter and get brighter as the weather warms in the spring. 
• Cornfields retain a lot of gold all winter long and can really glow when the light is right.
• Last year's little blue stem and wild petunia plants turn the most gorgeous orange.  You can see it in all the hayfields, roadside ditches and windbreaks. 
• The old gray tobacco barns turn blue - it's probably because the old rusty roofs really show their orange this time of year.
• Oaks and young beeches hang onto their leaves most of the winter.   Beautiful russets, rich browns all season long.

Right now I'm loving the quieter palette of a southern Indiana winter.

Winter Bean Field

© Robin Edmundson, 'Winter Bean Field', watercolor, 10 x 14 inches.
Framed 18 x 22 inches, $375

I've been really studying our winter fields this year.  Cornfields retain a lot of gold, even after harvest.  Bean fields turn luscious umbers.   On cloudy, misty days, the woods, clouds and shadows turn all the shades of purple.  The subtleties are breathtaking and make for interesting play in the studio. 

Midwinter Sky

© Robin Edmundson, 'Midwinter Sky 1', watercolor, 10 x 14 inches. 

This scene has been in my head for a few weeks now.   I finally put it to paper.   I'm kind of in love with it, so I'll be playing with this a lot more in the next little while.

Barn, Bale & Tires

© Robin Edmundson, 'Barn, bale & tires', watercolor, 9 x 12 inches.
Unframed, $250

See those tires peeking out of the grass?   I think they're a type of wildflower that only grows in barnyards out here.   I've decided to embrace that fact.

I've been playing with underpaintings to see if I can emphasize the feeling of heat [or cold].   What do you think?   Does this look hot?