This smoky mist, this purple haze, that lay among the hills, this ochre field, this umber wood, long gone are summer frills. The pines that stand forever straight throughout these misty days, also cloak themselves at last in shades of subtle grays. Wet leaves that coat these moody roads now choked with hunters high, are blown from trees that march against the windswept leaden sky. The crows that wheel and dance and steal above these roads of mine are but a testament of life that fly the windy line. How gaunt, how dark, how wonderfully stark November roads you see, hold promises of a season near for the autumn boy in me.

While I used to do a fair amount of fishing, hunting was a sport that I never took up. Don’t know why exactly because I have many friends that are hunters and I enjoy being around them listening to their tales of life in the woods hunting white tailed deer or stalking pheasants in South Dakota with bird dogs. To that end, this still life painting titled, “Zimmerman’s Trophy”, is a composite of various items that I borrowed which I think helps impart the flavor of autumn. The antlers came from Michigan where a fellow co-worker used to hunt when he lived there and the beer steins were borrowed from a friend’s magnificent collection of German memorabilia.

Approximately 30+ years ago, while teaching a watercolor class at one of our local art clubs, one of my students brought in several reference magazines as source material for her paintings. The natural world images in those Audubon magazines were the most jaw-dropping I’d ever seen and, after leafing through several issues, my life took a dramatic turn. I had always been an avid fisherman, which I still did to some degree, but it wasn’t long after that I sold most of my fishing equipment in order to purchase a good 35mm Canon camera with a number of lenses and other gadgets! I then enrolled in a home study course in ornithology offered by Cornell University and soon joined the local chapter of the Audubon Society of Western Pennsylvania. Whew! This was getting to be a whirlwind romance with my new found interest of bird watching in my backyard. Eventually, the name of Hawk Mountain surfaced, which I had never heard of prior to this, and after researching the history found myself late one September Friday night tooling eastward on the Pennsylvania Turnpike with three other guys from work bound for Hawk Mountain Sanctuary in the eastern part of the state. We checked in late at one of the local motels and were up early Saturday morning to make our way to the visitor’s center for orientation and then proceeded up to the spectacular North Lookout. The entire staff at the sanctuary was still flipping out over the sightings that took place two days earlier when well over 22,000 broadwing hawks were counted over Hawk Mountain! I was hooked! We still watched quite a few raptors “kettling” during the next two days as they made their way south on their migratory route. Hawk Mountain Sanctuary is one of the best places in the northeastern United States to watch the annual hawk migration, one of nature’s greatest wildlife spectacles. Between August 15 and December 15, an average of 20,000 hawks, eagles and falcons pass the Sanctuary’s North Lookout. This was the first of my two trips there and after purchasing the book on the incredible, and bloody, history of Hawk Mountain, I was inspired to try my hand at a bit of poetry which I’m publishing here for the first time since writing it so long ago. You really need to know the history of what actually took place up there to understand this poem so off to the bookseller with ye!

Hawk Mountain

A puff. Then two. Then six and more. Echoes off the valley floor. Guns that spent their deadly shot have long been stilled. Except for not. The random fool who makes his will on those who fly above the hill. But now a speck. Then two. Then six and more! Beating fast through autumn’s door! With quickened pulse and thankful eye we glass the ever darkening sky. For promises kept and secrets hid they now can see we did. We did. Kettles north! Kettles east! Boiling up like brewer’s yeast. Riding waves of thickened air as if on some atmospheric stair. They climb to heights where few would dare. With inner map and vision clear they stay the course from year to year. And give to us the loyal few a chance to watch these wings anew.

One of the most interesting books I have ever read concerning the natural world was written in 1928 titled The Outermost House by Henry Beston. This enduring classic is the chronicle of a solitary year of life in a small cottage on the Great Beach of Cape Cod. Written in longhand on a kitchen table, it tells of the ceaseless rhythms of wind, sand, and ocean, the migrations of birds – the events of a passing year. In a 1964 ceremony on the dunes, the Outermost House itself was officially proclaimed a National Literary Landmark. Unfortunately, a massive winter storm in February 1978 swept the house off its foundation and out to sea. The following excerpt from Beston’s book has been printed in poster form, one of which I had framed and now hangs in my studio. Enjoy!

“We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals. Remote from universal nature, and living by complicated artifice, man in civilization surveys the creature through the glass of his knowledge and sees thereby a feather magnified and the whole image in distortion. We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.”

July 1970 was another life changing experience as we moved into our new home about 35 miles away from where we spent our first seven years together. New neighbors, new surroundings, and soon…. new family members. We realized that we’d better get busy seeing as how three of our neighbors had five kids and at least one dog! (Was there something in the water around here?) Well, a year later, in October, our first and only child was born but before that event, after an attempted break-in to our house, we saw fit to get a four legged burglar alarm. Now, my wife had been raised with several dogs while growing up; bulldogs and Boston bulls whereas a few occasional alley cats where my boyhood pets. I was pushing to get a 500 lb. German shepherd but she calmed me down and we settled on… a boxer! Molly became the first of three boxers we eventually owned over a period of 28 years but, unfortunately, she only lived for four years and died from stomach cancer. Next up at bat was Boots, who lived for 14 years and also died from the same malady! After 18 years of living with this lovable breed , there was no question but that we’d get another boxer and soon Sammy (Samantha) entered into our lives. Losing the first two dogs was painful enough but nothing compared to eventually losing Sammy. Of our three dogs she was the most regal as the accompanying image shows in a portrait I did of her sitting with that look, “Well, what have you done for me lately?” I titled this painting, “Samantha Regina.”

I had started my business working from home several years after Sammy became part of our family and soon realized how lonely it sometimes can be on your own but noticed early on what a wonderful companion she was becoming throughout the day! At my previous job, the hours were long and I never really got to know or enjoy our other boxers as well as I came to know this character. She had a big red plaid bed that we ordered from L.L. Bean which was close by my drawing table and the back door. If I wasn’t away meeting with customers then taking her outside for a romp twice a day was a treat for her and me as well. Fortunately, we have a good size yard that she was able to tear around chasing squirrels with about a foot of frothy tongue trailing in the breeze. Luring her back into the house wasn’t always the easiest task but a handful of doggy treats usually did the trick and soon she was back snoring away contentedly dreaming whatever happy boxers dream about. Besides eating and needing to go outside, there were only two things that usually woke her up. One was my turning the air blue on account of a frozen computer which immediately prompted her to scamper upstairs, ears back with a wild-eyed look on her mug. The other was my wife returning home from school where she taught. Sammy could actually detect the sound of the car coming down the driveway and by the time the garage door went up, she was standing at attention ready to receive guests! Jane would come into my office and sit across from me to discuss the day’s events and Sammy would march over, sit between us facing me, as if to say, “Who’s this?” Priceless moments.

Looking back over the years, there are far too many good memories to recall here but probably some of the most enjoyable times were walking up the road on a snowy winter’s evening with huge snowflakes swirling around us. She would race up and down the road, sometimes slip and roll in the snow and just have a ball doing it. There was a large empty lot across from us with a huge stand of trees that always reminded me of Robert Frost’s poem, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” They had a spooky look about them and it was comforting to look down the road and see the twinkling lights in the neighborhood. There’s a house built on that lot now blocking the view of those woods so guess good things can’t last forever. Speaking of which, three years later Sammy’s tumor was discovered.

After her surgery, there was a distinct change in her demeanor. She seemed much more dependent on us and would become upset when left alone. For various reasons we really had not had the chance to get away for some time so we decided to chance it and board Sammy for the weekend. Upon returning there was a message to call the kennel immediately. Our worst fears were confirmed; Sammy had died early Easter morning. We never knew exactly what happened to her but I went on a self imposed guilt trip for a long time convinced she passed away with a broken heart. No way to prove that, of course, but I couldn’t shake that feeling.

People often ask if we’re going to get another dog but after a short passage of time other activities started to fill the void. Jane’s retirement afforded us more time to travel, board commitments, ballroom dancing, and soon… two lively grandsons who have become the joy of our lives! Those were wonderful times for us, particularly the ten years we enjoyed Sammy, and the memories will always be there. They have become permanent images woven into the tapestry of our lives.

“Go out to walk with a painter and you shall see for the first time groups, colors, clouds, and keepings.”

Many moons ago I came across this quotation attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson and have used it extensively in my marketing materials. Unfortunately, my source has vanished but probably is buried somewhere about nine strata down in this compost heap I call an office/studio! A librarian in Hawaii once emailed me on behalf of one of her patrons who as an avid Emerson fan, was unfamiliar with this quotation, and was questioning as to where I may have read it. I’ll be eternally grateful if anyone out there has a clue to its validity. Any takers?

So, what can we derive from “Emerson’s” quotation? I think he’s trying to say that artists are more constantly “visually attuned” to their immediate surroundings, certainly in my case it has led to near disasters! I can’t count the times my wife and I would be out for a drive, particularly on a country road, and I’ll be distracted by a red-tailed hawk flying overhead or a wonderful old barn just sitting there waiting to be turned into some mouth watering watercolor. As I drive off onto the berm or over the rumble strips she usually gets my attention by saying that, “One of us had better drive!”

The painting of this English Setter (Rusty) in his field of dreams was done purely as an exercise on my part and not a commissioned portrait. It most assuredly is not for sale! Why? Because I used several source materials for reference while attempting to portray this regal bird dog on point ready for action. Early on, when I was drumming up business for my portrait work, I would use this demo as an example of the kind of projects I felt could be accomplished given the chance with my recent entry into the world of animal portraiture. I’m not a hunter but have always thought the setter breeds were truly magnificent looking dogs.

Now, with all that said, artists creating an “original” work of art using another person’s photo or artwork and then attempting to sell that art has always been a burr under my saddle and I’ve seen that cute practice put into play more times than I care to remember. When I was an art student, some fifty years ago, it was acceptable to try and copy the works of old masters in order to help understand color and composition. But, it was understood that this method of instruction was left at school when we ventured out on our own. Sadly, this has not been the case with a lot of artists.

In the watercolor classes I’ve conducted over the years, I usually tell the participants that it’s okay to bring in family or vacation photos as subject matter but limit it to using their own material. There is a world of difference between being honestly creative vs. being a world class copier.