Gregory Packard, original landscape, still life and figurative paintings

Journal Entries 2007

A Good Place to Think

Most of the time I just need a good place to think. A place where I can take the time to refocus on my priorities in life. I've said before they are three: father, husband, painter. Ironically I spend an enormous amount of energy trying to keep it that simple. I think perhaps I expect too much, and often I am very persistent to meet those expectations; sometimes to a fault. But the truth is there is little control in life. At best I can't even fully control myself. Can anybody? I try hard to make the kind of life for myself and my family that I envision and by my own standard life is good to me. I simply want to make it the best it can be. When something in my life takes a direction away from my intention I often ask, "has it not worked out because it is not meant to be or is it simply because I have not tried hard enough?" Frequently I'm not perceptive enough to grasp an answer. It's a balance in life to which I have never really been able to dance. Part of me wants to take life as it is, to let go and to let it assemble naturally. The other part of me doesn't like what life brings naturally and so works to keep it in line with the picture I've painted in my head. It's sort of like when you trust a stranger too much he or she very often takes advantage of you. Yet, who wants to live life as a cynic? It's sort of like a garden where you reap what you sow, but anybody who has ever had a garden knows there's more to a good harvest than simply sowing the seeds. I think that at least part of the answer is in realizing that trusting life or people or sowing good seeds really is just the foundation, and that maintaining simplicity in a fast paced conflicting world does require a lot of energy. I think that as in a painting is as in life: the middle stages past the foundation are often messy and misunderstood. It's easy to start things with a clear vision, like getting in a sea kayak and setting a destination. But once well into the journey a lot depends upon recognizing the conditions in which you paddle and making the best use of them without necessarily trying to change them. To see things through to a finish that reflects my greater intent I sometimes need the fruit of Reinhold Niebuhr's great prayer "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things that should be changed and the wisdom to know the difference."

Gregory Packard, August 4th, 2008

Florals

When I think of florals the first thing I imagine is the flowers, not the extras around them or leaves or even the beautiful intricacies within the blossom. I simply see the flowers, especially their saturated color. I imagine touching their cool softness against my face and inhaling fully, taking in their fragrance as though I'm being sinful right there in broad daylight. Within seconds I have fully exploited three of my five senses. Flowers are a delicious gift of creation and offer a full variety and character to suite anybody's nature. And, of course, I love to paint them.

For me, a vibrant impression is more life like than a “realistic” interpretation. I love well done realistic renderings too but my own nature is truest in impressionism because it is very intuitive. Florals offer a lot of room for interpretation, and because I like to work with the abstract qualities of paint and color in and of themselves they are a joy to paint. In a small measure I like to have two paintings in one, the abstract painting up close with the texture of paint and subtle color relationships, and then from afar the impression of the subject. I try to keep that in mind while I'm painting, but for the best part of a painting I try not to think so much about the act of painting at all. As in broader life itself I let my mind wander, usually from the subject I'm painting to the world around me and back.

If, however, I were to actually think to myself about specific things or ask specific questions while painting the conversation behind my eyes might sound something like this: “Does the setup feel balanced and create a striking design? How does the light fall? How does the light interact and what does it feel like—cool, warm, soft, firm? How do I feel about these flowers and where is this mood of mine leading me in this painting?” And, as the painting progresses I remind myself not to go too saturated or light or dark too early, to hold these tools in reserve, that mixing lovelyÊgrays is a good path to creating a vibrant canvas, and that exact color is less important than how one color relates to another, most particularly the color next to it but also the overall color of the painting. All these ideas and tools for creating the expression of my choice float around in my head like loose rose petals on a warm, sunny day.

In the end all the knowledge I have available will still not ensure that I express myself in the way I was hoping. Something such as a floral can be painted with a limited number of bold strokes and values or thousands of impressions. Like the nature of a flower itself it can be simple and striking or delicate and intricate all depending upon how you see it. There's no certain method, just ideas waiting to be expressed.

Gregory Packard, May 28th, 2008: Statement about florals for CreateBetterPaintings.com

Hope

Hope is where the roots and the soil converge and where the blossom is bright before it blooms.

Gregory Packard, May 4, 2008

Art and Faith

Art is a little bit like faith. There are many things that one can point to in validation of an opinion that "this is good" or "that is bad" or according to this one thing is "true" and the other is "false". Books and more books have been written on the subjects in guidance and defense of one way or another. We read them and we like to believe we are informed like the "experts" who wrote the books seem to be. In art as in religion we often stake our worth and reputation on these beliefs and more often than not put these precious commodities into the hands and convictions of a relative few to help ensure that we do not make an "incorrect" step. In doing these things I often wonder if the beauty of art and faith is overlooked entirely. Perhaps what the experts have to say is good to know—I think it is—yet it seems often a distraction from the greater source itself. The driving force behind someone having to know all the details of what makes "good" art or "truth" in religion are often so overbearing that the simple and divine nature of each is missed. Often the praise of others becomes the source of joy for the artist over the act of creation itself, even over the experience that inspired the creation. And for many the answers within religion itself become the loud voices that drown out the personal and quiet whisper of God from within. For me the act of creating art has at its root some of the same inquisitive qualities that drive people to search out answers for life's limitless questions: curiosity and wonder. There is, after all, great pleasure in simply pondering questions and possibilities, the answers of which may not be intended to be specific. My painting process itself reflects this journey of discovery. Maybe the greatest joy is found in a child like balance of pragmatic guidance and the uninhibited security that it is okay not to have definitive answers or judgments, that beauty and life's deeper truths may have some inexplicable universal qualities but are still unique to each of us.

Gregory Packard, March 19th, 2008

Winter

Winter is very exciting to me up until around the new year. Until then the often brief and stirring interlude of autumn between a long hot summer and a long cold winter lingers. There is the first snow up high among and finally finishing off the last of the fiery aspen leaves. The snow, so elegant and endearing, has been missed; I am always excited to see it. Then around the new year it has had its effect on me and the longer it stays the more I begin to feel as though I'm searching, but for what I'm not sure. It's a time for introspection and often withdrawal. I want to sleep like the nocturnal rhythms that a winter day suggest and the absent forests express. I want to hide. I want to retreat among a warm fire and let in only those few who know and accept this part of me. But life swells ahead and I know eventually the snow lines will retreat and the creeks will spring forth with the energy of spent storms and seemingly long thoughtful days.

Gregory Packard, February 21, 2008

Change

Here I am again looking back to periods of my life that no longer exist, almost as if I can look over my shoulder at a familiar valley where a familiar creek winds over the gravel bed up through the trees and into the purple mountains of its beginnings, thinking that I might be able to see the definitive turn that led me here. It's not that I wish to go back. I don't. I think I just like to acknowledge where I have been and examine how it changed me. And although sometimes there is that definitive turn, most of the time it is subtle, a growing understanding of something until it's just a slight bend that makes my new vision obvious. Sometimes it's the opportunities denied me that make the world anew to me. I am so grateful for the life I have today, my family, friends and possibilities.

Gregory Packard, October 20th 2007

Showing Up

Seasonal transformation affects me as it does everything else. Where I live the aspen are changing coats, from summer green to autumn yellow and if I'm lucky soon the tips will burn hot with orange and red before they are carried off with a brisk breeze and perhaps a deliberate snow. The bull elk have been bugling morning and evening as instinct leads them to do their annual dance. For me it's the finest time of year to be in among the woods. My spirits and energy rise after a long, hot summer. I love to find a wonderfully lonely spot where I can sit and hear the leaves rattle, the grass sweep and feel the breeze blow against my sun warmed face, or to sit on the bank of a gentle stream with nothing to think about but the gentle trickle and subtle colors reflecting upon the water's surface. There are perfect moments up there this time of year. Often it's just a matter of showing up.

Gregory Packard, September 29, 2007

Four Heroes

My first hero was my mother. She has come through great obstacles in her life and has done so without getting a bitter heart.

An ugly old Irish man was my second hero. He was my neighbor. I only had the honor of knowing him a few years before we had to move away from each other. He has since passed away but was so full of life his good spirit lives on in me and I'm sure in many others too.

My third hero betrayed me and my family. I once felt that somewhere deep inside of him there was a great man wanting to make things right but unable to make the journey.

My fourth hero is my wife. She's a beautiful survivor who with two health related second chances in life believes in living as fully as she can, and she has done her share of the grunt work in allowing our family to live in that seize the day attitude. She is a loving mother, a beautiful woman, and a well educated professional. She is strong and fragile. She is encouraging and honest. She is intelligent and accomplished. She prefers hard-work over whining. She is supportive when others are judgmental. She's a belated, sincere piano player and a wavering potter. She often struggles emotionally and because of it she's a searcher in life's fragile mysteries, and that makes her interesting. She shares with me the things she loves in life and plays an active part in the things I love. She is willing to get her hands dirty even when others might think less of her for it. She is here for the good and here for the bad. She is far from perfect and so am I, and we love each other more for it. She is pleasure and she is pain. She is my best friend, and I'm a better person because of her.

Gregory Packard, September 19, 2007

Inspiration & Adaptation

Much like the nature of life imposes challenges on each of our souls and requires us to adapt on the fly or unwillingly fade, plein air painting forces us to improvise and make quick decisions or end up with a frustrated painting experience. I find myself often being inspired by a scene outdoors and setting up to paint only for the light and conditions to change, then painting virtually from memory or going an entirely different direction from the original intent. To a large extent it's not the conditions that matter. The joy and honor of painting plein air is the first-hand experience of being inspired by nature, of just being among it. That inspiration carries way beyond the field. It carries into my imagination where things remain vivid, dynamic and alive, where I can revisit it at will at the studio or wherever, where the sun and light can slip around this cloud or that mountain at my discretion. It's not the control that's exciting--that's a stalemate at best. Rather, it's the exploration of creativity among the thrill of nature, the original creation, a sunburst on a bright red rose or a massive glacial lake in morning light.

Gregory Packard, July 20, 2007

original floral painting

Patience

Most often patience is a virtue realized in retrospect. It is self evident to most that too little patience is troublesome. Yet, in light of the Golden Mean, too much patience can also be problematic; combined with trust it can create enormous opportunity for someone to take advantage of you, or by your own devices it can easily blend with procrastination and contribute to your not accomplishing the things you wish to, becoming an ordinary vice.

In my own life I have confused patience with perseverance and fortitude. It took a lot of perseverance and fortitude to complete my college degree, purchase and help build my first house and, more recently with my wife, start and build my painting career. But patience is a daily reflection that doesn't care about the long-term commitment and sacrifice, and on that daily level I struggle.

My paintings reflect the level of patience I have—it would appear that I have none! But it's not entirely true. And in my paintings which often appear slap dash I have realized there is more patience than appearances convey. Once I understood how I work I also began to realize the patience in it. In my work, the completed painting is not always clear in my mind when I start, unlike say perhaps a very realistic painting. The patience in my art is in allowing the idea time to emerge, to gently come forth while I'm actually painting it. If I lack patience and force it the idea rarely shows up with the subtlety and grace I hope for. If, on the other hand, I exercise too much patience I run the risk of apathy or worse I may overwork it and lose the vitality. I have realized that in the kind of work for which I strive it is a balance of patience and spontaneity of impressionism and realism.

I suppose the art in life is to view a day like a blank canvas, to not be driven by precise expectations but instead to let the day emerge from your general ideas and to show good judgment in allowing the day to end before you lose interest.

Gregory Packard, July 6, 2007

original landscape painting

Morning Ritual

Where the sky looms large and heaven's near, I am lost in thought. For me the mountains are not simply a place to look up to physically, though the awe inspiring presence does have an immediate and lasting effect. To visit the mountains is to find a way back in a world that has quite possibly gone too far forward. It's an untangling of thought and routine where every couple of minutes the light shifts and a whole new structure is revealed upon the striking granite faces. By the massive size and ever changing beauty we are persuaded into noticing ordinary things in a different way. When taken in, the normal way of things up there, the sun rising and setting, the noon shadows and the simple order of nature can become a religious experience.

Gregory Packard, July 2, 2007

original portrait painting, oil

The Space Between

It's between dark and light outside as I make my way along the dense fern and moss lined path between the cabins and the lodge. A lone bird sings among the otherwise quiet forest. Mt. Fairweather and others stand like ghosts in the transparent, ice colored sky far beyond the shores and trees of Bartlett Cove. The scene, peaceful and tranquil and seemingly for me alone to experience at this early hour, looks as though I could toss a rock into it and watch the ripples ebb their way to the far reaches of earth and atmosphere.

At the time, I never imagined I would look back fondly on those early mornings (4:30 a.m.) enroute to work at Glacier Bay. Nine out of ten nights I was up 'til around midnight playing the prior evening, so in the morning I would be so tired my head would be numb. Still, as I sit and write this (at 4:30 a.m.) and hear that lone bird sing outside my window recollections of my early mornings spent at Glacier Bay surface. It only takes a spark to bring forth what still brings warmth deep within the nooks of my mind and heart.

Such recollections are what painting is for. Painting occupies the space between now and then; between reality and my mind's interpretation. Like time cleanses the mundane from our minds, whether it's years ago in Glacier Bay or just a few minutes yesterday spent with my son, all that remains is the most vital.

Gregory Packard, May 10, 2007

Boundaries & Edges

The earth surrounded by atmosphere, continents surrounded by oceans, countries surrounded by borders, peoples surrounded by customs, and individuals surrounded by their own neurosis. Boundaries are found in nature and are a natural part of life. When they limit us they can be frustrating. When they limit somebody else from violating our personal space, or worse, boundaries can be liberating. Our differences often define our boundaries in an obvious and abrupt manner while our similarities examine the universal qualities of our being human. Easily accepting another's boundaries while respecting your own is an art in life. It's an art that has no specific recipe. It's edgework in a painting. For every generalization there's easily found an exception. In relationships boundaries can be viewed as endings or beginnings, a transition into a new opportunity. As edges do in paintings boundaries weave their way through the winds of our experience. They are lost and found in sometimes logical and sometimes incredibly artistic paths. Some are soft, some hard, some very intense while others simply make the transition with gray tones. Handled with care it's a poetic language that enables relationships to exist without conflict—to nurture and support instead of antagonize and accuse, to be truthful and fair instead of deceitful and selfish. It's the attitude of happiness that cares about other's happiness too instead of the "we're happy and that's all that matters" attitude. As in painting when edges are handled without sensitivity the shapes and objects within stand alone like an awkward postage stamp pasted on rather than being intertwined with love, passion and respect for all the relationships brought forth: hue, value, saturation, intensity and drawing. Successful edge work doesn't belie the truth; rather, it illuminates what's important while letting rest what's not.

Gregory Packard, April 10, 2007

Momentum

Momentum is not bias in the form in which it comes. It can monopolize your very worst or your very best qualities. Momentum can send you down to the depths of depression or up to the clouds in elation, out to edges of anger or into the throws of love. It introduces itself as a whisper of smoke encircling your senses and if not tended to can roar past you like a hungry forest fire sparing little in its wake. It can be an exciting dream come true or a building nightmare; in fact it can be both. Momentum can send your passions out to the world and bring them back two fold or, if you're not paying attention, like a ghost in the woods it can take those passions from you.

Momentum wants a piece of you, and if you don't take the time to introduce yourself to it, to ground yourself and take care of yourself, it will sneak it away little by little, piece by piece until it destroys you.

Gregory Packard, March 15, 2007

Creativity

If God were the creative type he would make at least a thousand kinds of flowers each with their own unique smell and color—all with the same ability to mesmerize.

If God were the creative type he would make at least a thousand different mountain ranges starting from the bottom of the ocean and ending in the clouds, those with granite cathedrals and deep blue lakes to those with rounded knolls and flower spotted meadows—all with the same power to humble.

If God were the creative type he would make a million different kinds of days from which to see the sky transform from sun to rain and warm to cool, from a midday lullaby to the crack of afternoon thunder—all with the same fleeting ability to carry away.

If God were the creative type he would make a million different sunsets from the warm reds to the cool violets, from the deep, central yellows to the vibrating greens on the outer edges of the sky—all with the overwhelming ability to engulf.

If God were the creative type he would make a billion different sounds from the gentle sweep of prairie grass in the warm summer breeze to the alarming cry of a baby in need—all with the same ability to bring forth the present moment.

If God were the creative type he would make a billion different textures from the prickly cheek of a loving father to the smooth breast of a nursing mother—all with the same ability to differentiate.

If God were the creative type he would make a billion different foods from the natural roots and berries to the carefully tended gardens, from the wild blue oceans to the vast fertile lands, from the hunted to the hunter—all with the same ability to feed and grow species.

If God were the creative type he would give at least a dozen different instinctive emotions from fear to security, from sadness to joy—all with the same ability to tell.

If God were the creative type he would make at least a thousand different peoples from the nomadic to the homebound, from the industrious to the sedentary, from the aggressive to the passive—all with the same ability to experience.

If God were the creative type he would make billions of dreams with which to be yourself from the painter's brushstrokes to the poet's lyrics, from the funny to the serious, from the modern fashions to the tribal piercings, from the carefully engineered to the improvised, from the songbird melodies to the gecko markings—all with the same ability to engage.

He would leave at least a billion things unsaid and largely unknowable from the vastness of the stars to the mystery of himself, from the things we once believed we knew to the way we understand them now, from the imperfection of the past to the inability to make tangible the future—all with the same insatiable sense of wonder.

And if God were the creative type he would create billions of ways in which to know him from the smallest flower to the largest ocean, from the highest peak to the lowest valley, from the elegant swan to the ugly duckling, from the vast innovations of man to the simplicity and genius within a simple seed and dirt, from the carefully studied to the innocent glimpse, from the most challenged of people to the most refined, from the unassuming individual to the largest organized religions—all with the same unrelenting ability to inspire.

Gregory Packard, January 10, 2007

Journal Entries 2004 and prior

Journal Entries 2005

Journal Entries 2006