Road To Lincoln
oil on panel 8" x 10"
This ground has been shaped by lives lived hard in this place,
marked by patterns of fence lines devoured by vines
and openings filled with scrub second growth and brambles,
jade and red settings for the elder oaks to spread hope
to an indifferent sky, cold-blue and infinite. Gnarled, twisted
as they reach to the sun, stoic and handsome as survivors,
worn as time's witness.
It is here that I must take measure of my heart
and this place, with deliberate speed
and unmeasured memory, to bring home
my offerings without words, without explanation.
Unspoken messages marked out on cloth,
like some lost wanderer, leaving for any who might see,
a part of what he's found, unsure of any reply.
from the poem, "Witness", by Dean Taylor Drewyer
This is an excerpt from a poem of mine about making paintings on the land around my home in still somewhat rural northern Virginia. There was a large deserted farm not far from here out of which the builders had not yet started in carving home sites. I would drive my truck out into the farm to paint. This is where the poem came from - this particular painting I just finished is from a spot along the dirt road we live on - just a couple of hundred yards from my studio. Someone once asked me why I spent so much time painting trees and overgrown fields at the edges of farms and towns - forgotten or neglected places. I suppose one reason is, people seldom bother me in those spots as I work. Carefully considered, I think it is more because the gesture, the posture, the confusing structure of these trees and vines and saplings and weeds and grasses fascinate me. I suppose when I tire of them I will find something else, in the mean time I'll keep going. Enjoy!
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