Gregory Packard, original landscape, still life and figurative paintings

Journal Entries 2003—2004

The ocean is power, a beautiful and raw representation of nature's ability to instill calm and fear within the same breath. While I stood and painted this scene, back to the rock bluffs that separate the land from the sea, the constant smashing of the salt water against the rocks sounded as though a symphony was playing before my eyes with a splash of symbols and deep rub of a cello. I can easily imagine the rhythmic waves and the tide as the inspiration for man's first musical notes, way back when we didn't know what music was, yet innately knew that we required it as an expression of our gratitude for the bounty of our natural heritage. The rise and fall of the tide as with the sets of waves—clear down to the individual crashing waves—can be described as predictable in that we know when the tide comes in or goes out and to what degree, how many waves are in a set and so forth, but as a whole the dynamics of the ocean are as beautiful and still mysterious as the migrating salmon and birds, the change of seasons and the beauty of creation. All creation has an order, yet in it's most beautiful forms we lack understanding and predictability. It is this perfect balance of mystery and order that inspires me while painting. It is the order and knowledge of it's perfection that creates a sense of awe in me while the mystery allures me with it's infinite beauty.

Gregory Packard, July 21, 2004

Roses, even shrub roses such as I've painted here, are pure and true reminders of what nature is capable of creating with just a little consideration from you and I. Like beautiful ladies dancing in the light they elevate the common place for me to a place of grace and reflection. I could stare at roses for hours, but it only takes a glimpse to feel the beauty they behold, let alone their alluring, sweet fragrance which I could awake to each day and never tire.

Gregory Packard, July 12 , 2004

Standing there, I felt as though the beautiful aspen trees would over take me. I imagine what it would be like to be swarmed by a crowd of loving people, arms stretched out ready to hold each other tight with brotherly love. I love people, but as a bit of a reclusive person I love them best in one on one circumstances. An aspen grove is as intimate as I can get with a crowd. There, I feel safe, unjudged and at home. I suppose painting under these circumstances is like having a conversation with nature. It's typically quiet although here along with the rustle of leaves there was the melody of a small stream nearby. Just as in conversation it is best to not measure every word but instead listen to and comprehend the meaning of what someone is communicating. Nature offers a greater meaning by impression than she does in every detail. She invites an emotional connection if you are willing to acknowledge her as she is—dynamic and fleeting. To me she is most beautiful in this light, dangerous and calming at once, a quick change of light and weather her power overtakes her tranquility. From tranquil to fearsome, let her speak.

Gregory Packard, June 23 , 2004

I never know if painting is going to come easy for me on a given day. I believe that if I think too much about whether or not I'll paint well it is a precursor to a failed painting. As is typically the case in life, I am better off assuming an attitude of blissful ignorance. I find I do my best when I am unaware of the challenges of my craft, when I'm simply caught up in the nuances of the beautiful puzzle before me, entirely unaware of the struggle it poses for painting even as the struggle to solve it goes on between my brush and canvas. Perhaps that is what I mean when I tell myself the unending challenge is half the reason I love to paint. What other aspect in my life offers a struggle that when played out offers a consistent and pleasant getaway from all of life's other cluttered thoughts and worries. Painting is a rare and fragile bird in my life that if not regularly cared for and nurtured quickly loses its ability to sing. For me it is one of a few precious gifts from my creator that gives me the ability to cope. Today when I stand among a small cluster of spring time aspens I think to myself what an amazing creation, and without thinking too much begin to recompose on canvas the gesture of life before me so often taken for granted so that others might also hear this song.

Gregory Packard, April 20, 2004

We live near Crow Indian reservation—about an hour away from where the Battle of Little Bighorn took place. The land there is not only packed with American history, it is very, very beautiful. The beauty isn't grand like the Tetons or dramatic like standing above the Pacific at sunset. In fact, there is litter all over along side the roads and lots of poorly cared for homes, but once you are able to look past that you can see the landscape for what it is—subtle, alluring beauty, calming in its very appearance. It's the type of beauty that is slowly and deeply earned. It grows inside like a flower, slowly blossoming more each time I visit. My wife and I often imagine what it was like there when all that was there were Indians making a life for themselves, the animals and the raw beauty of the land. It still is a peaceful area today. Back then, I imagine it was spiritual.

Gregory Packard, March 9, 2004

It has been a long and busy winter, and this is really the first time I have been able to get outside and paint from life. What I chose to paint lives just down the road from me, an old red barn. To me the classic red barn symbolizes a time gone by. Everyday when I see that bony old structure I feel lucky, as though I am cheating time, living in a different era, one in which I sometimes feel I should have been born. Sadly, this barn is not used anymore. Cattle are placed to pasture there but the barn really just remains a hollow shell, deteriorating with each passing year. I love that place. It is places as such both man made and God's creations that call me to paint. The backbone of creation is to be useful. I say this with the hard-tilled land in mind but also wilderness and art. When I go to a wild place its usefulness is not in production as we think of it but in the solace and peace it provides its visitors and in the home to which it provides its year round residents, the animals. Art offers a window to places we cannot immediately visit, places of yesterday or far off, tranquil places we simply cannot reach everyday. So it is with this painting of a red barn, an icon of an era past.

Gregory Packard, February 22 , 2004

Here in Wyoming, it's a good indicator that spring is near when the robins return, bobbing around on the ground before you with their steadfast work ethic they gather sticks and food for the arrival of what will soon be their new home and family. Watching this I have to smile because winter seemed long-lived, and once again being able to paint in a t-shirt and baseball cap with grass under my feet rather than snow or mud is oh so refreshing. Today is like getting reacquainted with a long lost friend. I begin laying in the shapes and colors right away. It does not take long for me to realize I will have to make some adjustments in my composition. The barn on the right has a stream off to the right, and the bank is completely eroded away underneath the barn, so in reality the barn is leaning way down and half fallen into the stream. It's interesting to look at but making a literal rendering draws too much attention to the corner. I decide to eliminate the stream from my painting, and, although still rickety, straighten up the barn a bit. I also add the fence on the right and create an open end on the other fence located behind the tree, so the eye can travel around it and into the background. “That works better,” I say to myself. There is still plenty of snow in the mountains, so I take advantage of its light value in making the transition from mountain to sky. but what really seems to make the mountains sit back is when I indicate sunlight illuminating distant clouds. It's at that point that my painting gathers atmosphere and my color seems to harmonize. Inevitably, I get a little excited when I sense my painting is going to work. I have to be careful not to get to careful, not to loose the freshness of simple strokes and clear color.

Gregory Packard, April 1, 2003

Typically, I drive around until I find a view that strikes me. When I do see something interesting, I get out of my beat up old Bronco II and walk around a bit with my camera, snapping pictures for use on a day not suitable to painting outdoors. Today it's muddy where there is not snow and my boots sink and slide every which way. If I find something irresistible I walk back to the Bronco, return with my paint box and set up. This particular scene I had tried once before a couple years back and at a time later in the year when spring was well upon us. That painting was a total failure, so I think twice before trying it again, but I find the way the water transitions into a deeper and deeper blue as it rounds the corner too difficult to pass up. Although it appears compositionally similar to one I painted of the Tongue River a few days back, it is actually Wolf Creek, and this time I am not as isolated although isolation is a relative term in Wyoming. There is a road and bridge and house to my back. I did say a house, only one, and so here I stand painting while Sadie noses around in the snow for mice. As painting outdoors always demands, I must get right to work for it is nearly 2:30, and I will need to be done by about 4:30 because I know the sun will drop beneath the mountains, casting my scene into shadow. I light the last cigar of a box I bought to celebrate my son's birth a little over a year ago and begin laying in shapes and colors. As with the day on the Tongue River, the weather is beautiful and the sun golden. Once again I am thankful for the opportunity. My paintings always look horrible until about two-thirds complete, then they start taking shape. It is a struggle, however, to maintain composure during the middle stages because I always think my painting should be coming around earlier than it does. When impatience wins out it usually means I'm trying to render too tightly, so I go a little wild for a while and occasionally it makes the painting come to life. Today there is just a hint of panic at midway but I am able to continue at a steady and deliberate pace. Stroke by stroke, my painting begins to breathe for me—not sure yet if it will fly but am pleased with it at the moment. Predictably, 4:15 rolls around and the shadows are changing dramatically. It is time to pick up after myself and head home. In the back, bouncing around like groceries, my little window to nature tells of this afternoon's experience.

Gregory Packard, February 18, 2003

Sometimes when I paint the landscape doesn't smile at me. As though each stroke, no matter how delicately or brutally or whimsically placed on my canvas, adds a piece of glass to an incomplete mirror before me. I am tired, and the wind does not care. It keeps blowing me around, testing my will and trying to blow over my outdoor easel, much like a boxy sail standing in the middle of a muddy, horse-crap laden field somewhere in Northern Wyoming. Oh the scene before me is beautiful, absolutely no doubt, a cantankerous old tree sprawled out amongst the ground and heavens with abstract patterns of snow and dead field grass, and a spackling of deep blue sky merging through the branches with a yellow-green horizon. The blazing violet shadows on the snow beneath the tree are what originally attract me to set up my paint box. But it's not working. Halfway though and my painting looks like hell. From experience I know to keep going, that sometimes it's the struggle that makes the painting real. A breath of honest, human interpretation will often reach out and communicate. So I keep painting. By now I am standing in a slushy mud-puddle, laying a stroke of paint down, then stepping back to see if it works, over and over trying to capture the way sunlight hits a tree when you just glance at it. There's no real definition in a glance, just spots of color, dark and light, and glittering sunshine. Finally, after a few critically placed blots of paint, I put my brushes down, scrape my palette clean and gather up my supplies strewn upon the snow not yet trampled. I am never entirely sure if I have succeeded. Sometimes I am more excited about the piece than others, but ultimately it takes weeks and sometimes longer to decide if the painting on its own can rekindle the excitement that led me to set up and paint. Really, it is always a guess because I am a partial witness. Although I struggled today, I can always hope there'll be at least one other who from such a simple glance has had nature grab him by the shoulders and say, “Take notice”.

Gregory Packard, February 17, 2003

Walking along the wooded banks of the Tongue River on this bright February day makes me glad to be alive. Without question I could find and paint a half-dozen paintings within a quarter mile of where I decide to stop and set up. I have chosen an offshoot of the main river because it offers a more intimate connection with the opposite bank, and I really like the strong tree trunks in the foreground. On a bright, sunny day like this there is always doubt in my mind as to whether or not I can create a fraction of the sparkle on my canvas that God has laid before me. It is, by the nature of what I am trying to accomplish, a humbling experience. Sometimes when painting I attempt to block out all that is around except what is in front of me: onlookers, cars that slow down as they pass, the sound of traffic or industrial work. On a good painting day it is easy because the painting has grabbed hold. Today, on the other hand, I make an attempt to be present for more than my painting. When God calls together all the delicate things in life that make it beautiful you are a fool to not take notice and relish the privilege of participation. So there I stand, paintbrush in hand, mesmerized by the golden sunshine reflecting upon the snow and ice and yellow grass poking through, and all others who patiently await spring's still far off arrival. My dog Sadie and I and nature are all that can be seen or heard. Taking it all in there is nothing left to do but start. I begin with a quick outline of the larger masses such as the three large trees, the mountains and stream. It is these larger masses that comprise the design. They, in their proper values, are what make the painting appear to have dimension and depth and interest from across the room, so getting the overall value and shape correct is important. Once I am satisfied with this stage I begin to establish interesting color relationships, colors that make paint look like sunlight and shadow and have a beautiful harmony about them. I love the possibilities of color. I love placing a saturated stroke next to a muted stroke; together they sing but alone are silent.

Gregory Packard, February 13, 2003

Journal Entries 2005

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Journal Entries 2007