In the Fall of 2021, Monica and I set off for France for an artist's residency at Chateau Orquevaux. Not quite knowing what to expect, we arrived after a 3-hour drive from Paris to find an aging beauty of a nineteenth-century chateau set on a hillside overlooking what can only be described as a little slice of heaven. The idyllic but not overly groomed grounds surrounding the Renaissance Revival chateau featured a sloping hillside of long grasses, streams, a small pond (with ducks and boathouse), waterfalls, a swimming hole, and a view of the little town of Orquevaux that never got old. All of which were often draped in mist in the early morning, only adding to the romanticism of the place. It is one of those magical places that is so beautiful that it can be hard to imagine how any artwork could do it justice.
And then, there were the trees. Tall native spruce and French pines surround the chateau in a verdant embrace while a variety of willows and other trees, young and old, step out toward the water. But, from my perch in the third-floor studio, it was the trees that called me the most.
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In my mind, I have defined myself as an abstract painter for the last 30 years or more. But in reality, my work has always been rooted (pun intended) in nature. I began with pastels of the Nantucket landscape that were semi-abstractions of moors, scrub pines, and ocean views. In the years since, whenever I have needed to recharge creatively, I have headed outside. A sketchbook and watercolors, all the tools I need to find my bearings again. Working outside is meditative and humbling at the same time. I try to arrive, take some time to breathe, to listen, settle in and wait to see what grabs my attention. It's this attention that I think I am really looking for. Moments when my ears are open to all that, is alive in the landscape – like the bird sounds or the wind in the branches – moments when I can receive the lessons the trees are trying to teach me. The trees demand my attention if I am to draw them. You follow the twists and turns of their branches but continually lose your place. You start again, search for that same branch with your line and again and again. "Attention," as the poet Mary Oliver once wrote, "is the beginning of devotion." To me, devotion is everything in Art, not aesthetics. Art is a commitment, a long-term relationship to seeking out something of yourself through the things we make. It's a commitment to a vision, an idea, a craft, and a calling. Â
We left Orquevaux for Giverny, making the pilgrimage to Monet's house and gardens. In the light drizzle of an early October morning, we wandered the blissfully uncrowded grounds in that off-season. Monet was the first artist who I really admired for his light, color and beauty. Monica and I had been on his trail since we arrived in France, stalking his work at the Museés D'Orsay, Marmottan, and l'Orangerie in Paris. At one point, sitting on a bench beneath one of the weeping willows made famous in so many of his waterlily paintings, I made a little sketch with tears in my eyes for having finally made it to that spot with someone who could truly understand the significance of the moment as an artist herself who also appreciates beautiful places.
It's not hard to wander the countryside around Giverny and not picture Monet working the landscape with his easel. One can imagine Joan Mitchell, who lived nearby many years after Monet, strolling with her dogs among the fields and trees, only to carry her landscapes with her into the studio where she made monumental abstractions of power and beauty – many, poetic recollections of trees. (Hemlock, 1956 in the collection of the Whitney Museum being probably my favorite) She once said, "I'm trying to remember what I felt about a certain cypress tree, and I feel if I remember it, it will last me quite a long life. "(Joan Mitchell In 'Art News', April 1965, p. 63;) It's again that seeing, giving your attention and most importantly remembering – remembering feelings, remembering the moments.
So it is that the moment in Monet's garden is made only richer by having drawn it. There was that time when amid dramatic life changes, I sat painting under a pair of olive trees in Tuscany, captivated by their silvery green leaves and ancient wisdom. There were cypress trees in my grandmother's yard that stood sentinel, austere – appearing in many of my early paintings. A beautiful copper beech shaded Monica and I on one of our first excursions painting the Nantucket landscape on a crisp Spring day. Recently, after my father passed, a locust tree in his backyard spread its branches out over us, providing some shelter, shade, and solace. All these and more moments are locked in my memory and heart from having paid attention, tracing and retracing my steps through line and color among the branches. To return again to Mary Oliver: "All important ideas must include the trees."
Leaves and Blossoms Along the Way
Written by Mary Oliver
If you're John Muir you want trees toÂ
live among. If you're Emily, a garden
will do.Â
Try to find the right place for yourself.Â
If you can't find it, at least dream of it.Â
                       •
When one is alone and lonely, the body
gladly lingers in the wind or the rain,Â
or splashes into the cold river, or
pushes through the ice-crusted snow.Â
Anything that touches.Â
                       •
God, or the gods, are invisible, quite
understandable. But holiness is visible,Â
entirely.Â
                       •
Some words will never leave God's mouth,Â
no matter how hard you listen. Â
Contact Michael to purchase the works above. You can see more of his drawings here.
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