Gregory Packard, original landscape, still life and figurative paintings

Journal Entries 2005

A Quiet Conversation

"A dire red stain, indelible. After he had died he saw that he had not lived."—Stephen Crane's powerful quote. I interpret it as a metaphor, wondering what in my life could end up being the dire red stain. The list of things that make life worth living is short even though there are a million activities within that short list, and the list of things where we could fall short, fail to live and where true regret could lie is the same: love, faith, sex, play, nature, the arts (all of them including music, literature, theater and culinary), sport, the beauty of helping those truly in need, and a handful of others unique to each of us. After climbing up a small hill along side a broken-down, jack fence I find a fallen tree, which on one end is raised off the ground, brush off the snow and sit leaving my snow shoes on. I pull my pack from my shoulders, drop it in the snow where I unzip it to pull out my brown-sack lunch of peanut butter and jelly, a Granny Smith apple and some Wheat Thins. Lunch tastes good after the short but strenuous hike. Farther in my pack I dig for my pipe, tobacco and matches, and then from the bottom pull out my plain, silver flask of whiskey. I uncap it and have a quick swig. The taste is coarse, almost like metal, but that's the very quality in it that I appreciate at rare times like this. While loading my pipe I look through the aspen and over the hillside out across the valley where the cloud cover glows bright over the distant San Juan mountains so blue. But right now I like where I'm at, the quiet gray light and somber feeling of this forest. A crow calls from high above. Though he looms far into the sky I see he is still below the peaks of Owl Creek Pass and Chimney Rock just east of this giant aspen grove. I enjoy his company for the moment before he moves on. I feel alive and am comforted by the trees, snow and mountains close and distant. This is Colorado, I think to myself. I cannot stay for long today. I gather my things, place my hand against a large aspen tree and smile, follow its trunk up into the beautiful gray sky and think to myself "God what a beautiful creature this is."

Gregory Packard, December 24, 2005

I have the life I have chosen, and I love it! Even so, melancholy and depression are in my nature. I have found, ironically, that from these periods I can sometimes dig deeper into myself and manifest paintings of greater joy than if I were in a period of more even temperament. It's almost as if the child inside of me is trying to get out, and in a way through painting he does. I do not like all that comes with my life's darker moods, but I have come to appreciate them for what they can offer and am even grateful for the opportunity to give voice to a part of me that would otherwise be silenced. There is a kid in me, perhaps in all of us, who wants to stand on the rooftops and sing. May everybody find that inner child and sing.

Gregory Packard, December 21, 2005

Snow

From the gray afternoon sky snowflakes float down silently, deliberately, endlessly, each a unique masterpiece born from the heavens and given to the earth. The snow falls and the earth is quiet, except for the tiny nudge of snow falling into snow and the welcoming fluff of a puffy little chickadee returning to his many caches of food. It's a beautiful world and I take notice.

I sit up 'til midnight watching it so mysteriously paint the world around me. Rocks and bushes and even trees become one. Edges are lost and found as in the embrace of two lovers. My fire flickers, and the light bounces about on the roof defining stray flakes that wander in from the mouth of this rock cave in which I am camped. It'll probably be the last heavy snow of the year. The temperature is just barely freezing, and it's a mild and wonderful opportunity to experience this part of life so seldom exposed.

Like times past I smoke my pipe and keep company with my thoughts, nature and my dear friend Sadie, my dog. The rich smell of tobacco seems to bind with the cool, clean scent of snow to fill my head with some favorite sensations. I imagine walking out in the morning with crisp sunshine filtering through the trees, yet again reshaping the newly formed landscape. I close my eyes and begin to fall asleep, snowflakes falling through the darkened sky, snow.

Gregory Packard, November, 2005

Two Giants

There are bones in the landscape lying around from other people's pasts. As a painter I occasionally come upon a complete skeleton, and when I do it is my nature to wonder about the life once lived. Was it a life fulfilled or one of regret?

I read once that to visualize how we go through life is to see ourselves going through time with our backs facing forward. We look to the past as our guide, naturally believing it is reality—thus, the image of us facing backward. But the past is gone. A memory has no more claim to reality than does an imagined future. It's true, however, that it can influence the present and the outcome of the future, but within the confines of time it is gone, and the future is uncertain with the only real moment being right now, this very breath.

I personally am not so disciplined in thought to disregard the past and view every new moment as a new choice on how to perceive life. I like having landmarks of the past to guide by and am even grateful for the darker moments that comprise my bad choices. Without them, as without the good choices, I could not guide my way to making better choices now.

I love coming upon landscapes that call to me with more than their shear beauty. They connect with something more primitive inside of me. I see remnants in the landscape perhaps of my own life lived, perhaps of another's life. Sometimes it's the remnants that become larger than the landscape before me, shadows that become symbols of the past that if were not dealt with in a healthy way can in the end leave me as nothing more than a facade, a beautifully crafted fake, hollow inside and standing all alone. Betrayed are many by the elusive shadows that they themselves may have been unwilling to see but that are so apparent to others. Two giants, the present and the past stand for all to see.

Gregory Packard, November, 2005

Falling Leaves

Before the leaves fall they rattle and shake, and the tree trunks sway rhythmically with the breeze. It is autumn in the aspen grove where the ritualistic transformation has begun. The trees have donned their best jackets, and the forest floor a quilt of the year's best fashion. It is the party before the hangover, the mania before the depression. For such a precious, short time the groves of trees glow in both the sunlight and the rich, rain-filled, autumn sky. The golden canopy envelopes all as a warm blanket takes in a child. And just as we are comforted by the overwhelming beauty, the forest begins to fade. The leaves now brittle and still tethered to the tree rattle briskly in the cool breeze until, suddenly, they are released. Silently the falling leaves twirl and spin, floating through the thin mountain air as if the forest holds its breath in respect for the elegant falling leaves who danced so gracefully at the ball and who in the end lay down the foundation for next year's great celebration.

Gregory Packard, September, 2005

Gathering Sunshine

On the best kind of day we have decided exactly who we are. In reclamation of ourselves we lift our arms high into the air and declare victory over our own self-defeating ways. We are no longer the child afraid to displease his loved ones, his peers, afraid to be and think like someone they are not and of whom they may not approve. We are the child before the child has been molded, shaped. We are a babe again who blossoms bright and bold, who holds himself up high, unabashed—an unfurling rose. We are a rose, a rose still reaching out, a rose—hands held high gathering sunshine.

Gregory Packard, September, 2005

At the young and bold age of 22, and at the nudging of my good friend Tony (happy birthday Tony!), I lived, worked and played on the beaches of Southeast Alaska in Glacier Bay for nearly three months: May, June and July. Each day spanned 20 to 21 hours filled with long walks along the rocky beaches of Bartlet Cove, the mossy trails of overgrown rain forests and ending with campfires and conversation among my life-loving coworkers. I was so full of life then. Only eight hours of each day was occupied by work, and I managed to go a month at a time with only three to four hours sleep a night until it would finally catch up with me and I would have to sleep from about 2 in the afternoon to 4 in the morning when I had to be back at work. Being beautiful and wild Glacier Bay, my days off were filled with Oz like adventures: back country hikes and sea kayak trips that were to me surreal. Encounters with bears and whales were frequent. It was a period in my life equivalent to a second childhood, sort of a chosen childhood, where I was fully engaged with the best aspects of life. And at the time I was my only responsibility. Needless to say it was a summer of great influence on me.

Looking back I realize one of the strongest reasons Glacier Bay has been so tremendously influential in my life is because of the long duration I spent there. I lived there for three months. Unlike a vacation Glacier Bay felt like home for a while. It is more than a brief memory such as vacations often become after time has passed. It is a period in my life, distinct from others—and one of the happiest.

I lost some of that zest for life in the years following. Obtaining a college degree, working in the high-tech sector for another six years, the everyday challenges of raising children and making a life for myself and my family, and even the struggle of becoming a better painter became the trees that hid the forest.

Today, 13 years after my summer in Alaska, my family and I have been fortunate enough to realize a long tended goal, and I feel like some of that zest has returned although with a bit more responsibility. We are spending the last couple days of a three-week-long trip on the Oregon Coast, five weeks including travel time to and from Colorado. We rented a house and after three weeks almost feel like it's our home. Being able to travel and paint for extended durations is something we've worked toward since, well, I took my first painting workshop in 1998.

We rely on my income, however, so it's important for me to be productive, but being productive isn't measured in successful paintings on a trip like this. Production on such a trip, and really to a great extent in the big picture of all of life, is measured inside. I mentioned Alaska above because Alaska changed my heart forever. Alaska altered how I interpret nature even while painting today. I believe when enough time has passed to know, that I will see this trip in a similar light, more as a period in my family's and my life than as a brief memory—more as a turning point. In Alaska I worked to live large but discovered much greater things than adventure. Today my work and family is living large for me. In the past when I traveled, travel felt rushed. I hurried from one vantage point to another, often not really grasping the beauty or relevance of what I was seeing and doing. And sadly, that has sometimes been true about many aspects of my life, including family and painting. With this trip after a handful of days I stopped worrying about getting it all in and just started living as if I had no shortage of time. In reality three weeks is not that much time but the way we approached this trip it has been a meaningful period. The real substance of the trip is inside of me, and that is productive in the largest sense. I have managed to paint some successful paintings here in Oregon but long after we have returned to Colorado, and instead of standing before one of the prettiest stretches of coast in the world painting with the wind in my face, I will be standing in my studio painting from field sketches and photos yet inside of me it will still feel like I'm on the rugged coast. It will still feel bigger than life. When I lay down a stroke of paint I will hear the ocean roar, taste the salt on my lips and see the light shimmering atop the waves just as if I were standing there. It is only by experiencing this, the real deal, that I can experience that. It is in this way that painting from life breaths life into my studio paintings and humility into my heart.

Gregory Packard, October 13, 2005

As the tide comes in the sea rumbles against the rocks—raucous, as though I were instead witnessing a heard of buffalo racing for shore. Powerful currents twist and churn, sending salty spray high into the air, reflecting light as a million shards of broken glass. The giant Pacific ocean commands respect on these coarse Oregon beaches just as the rugged Rocky Mountains do inland.

The brute strength makes me feel small and the unrelenting patience of the sea is awe inspiring. Yet, however small the ocean makes me feel physically it makes me feel that much larger spiritually. It's as if the brilliance of the shimmering light glittering on the slopes of each wave lifts more than a reflection of the sky. I feel emboldened standing in front of the sea. Life can be very rich if I am actively participating in it, living to my potential and spending time and effort doing what I am meant to do—my life as a husband, father and painter. For me it's important to take the time to reaffirm the important things. Nature is my best place for such spiritual revivals. Listening quietly to an entire ocean shouting with all its might is exactly what I needed today.

Gregory Packard, October 7, 2005

At about 1:00 P.M. I set up to paint Lake Louise, a lake in the Wind River mountains, seemingly given the same name as its Canadian sister because of its striking beauty, similar structure, and brilliant way in which its granite walls reflect sunlight.

But I was tired. I had hiked in this morning and already painted a scene at the outlet stream (below right). I wanted to lay down on my back on the gravely beach amidst that great glacial bowl and watch the ever shifting clouds. So I did, but only for a few minutes before telling myself there'll be plenty of time to relax this evening after I have paid tribute to this uncomprimised sample of creation.

For me that's what it's really about, in our own way showing respect for our wonderful natural heritage, a celebration of life. The ways are innumerable, but my way is by spending time there, then, either on site or in the studio, regathering my thoughts about the place and trying to paint what I see or sometimes more importantly what I sense. With the latter it is not a technically accurate visual depiction I'm after. Each of us inside is uplifted by certain things—a simple sunset, for example, can make the human spirit soar. When considering a painting I am at my best when I ask myself what it is about that sunset that reaches emotions that are central to who I am. Is it the bigness of it? The color? The calm feeling dusk seems to cast upon a landscape? It could be anything and even in the same place changes from day to day, moment to moment. The possibilities are infinite. It's arrogant to think that a few brushes and paints can in any literal way match the awe of nature, but if I can hint at just one aspect of it well enough to make another human being sense something bigger than the reality of daily life then I have through paint and indirectly through nature evoked some of the same emotions that are felt by the very sunset that I witnessed or glacial bowl in which I laid on my back and watched the clouds effortlessly float by—the same primitive emotions that we find difficult to understand yet find necessary to celebrate life.

© Gregory Packard, August 14, 2005

Having not taken the opportunity to paint outside from life much lately I decided today to venture out to the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, a spectacular canyon up the road 25 miles or so from our new home here in Colorado. After such a nice day of painting outside I always ask myself why it took me so long to get back out here. There's never an adequate answer.

Black Canyon of the Gunnison is a massive chasm cut so deep and quick it defied my vision, making the distant, broad slabs of rock on the other side seem as though I could reach out and touch them—a natural response to the sheer size of them. I sat on the rim and had an urge to take up wing to fly quietly and high above the rapid river below, slicing deftly along side the rock called Painted Wall.

To paint such a place is a tall task. As with so many things in life I had to discern the important features first, the larger things that made the scene whole: the atmosphere and the momentous structure of the chasm. The rest, which is comprised of most of the detail, I chose to ignore because, particularly in plein air painting with such a limited amount of time, it tends to detract from rather than add to the scene. As with life, so many of the things that occupy our time only stand in the way of our living it.

Gregory Packard, August 1, 2005

Brushstrokes are a passion of mine in and of themselves. I love getting excited about luscious brushstrokes. Brushstrokes, design, texture and color offer infinite abstract possibilities—even in the most traditional subject. It is almost like having two paintings, one of the subject and one of the abstract qualities. A loaded brushstroke can be almost as sensuous as the lovely female figure. The aim of my paintings is often to look like nothing recognizable up close, sometimes enabling the abstract qualities to take precedence over the subject, in turn allowing the viewer to run with her imagination. I consider it a success when up close you can get lost in the hills and valleys of paint, follow the tiny ridge lines created by a brush, and sense rich color to the point in which you start to smell and taste your palate's favorite things. Stepping back away the subject once again takes over. It is the raw beauty of paint that can engage most of our senses, combined with a well painted subject you create an experience in which everybody can relate.

Gregory Packard, April 16, 2005

About pursuing your life's passion.

Before runoff begins in the spring the mountain rivers of northern Wyoming are clear and clean. The water surface shimmers atop what appears as alluring as an open treasure box beneath the water but what is really just ordinary rocks. I could sit content by such a river all day; water gently flowing past, finding it's own easy level without fuss.

In just a couple months this same river will be churning brown, frothy water—scouring a year's worth of debris from it's long, winding skeleton—before once again relaxing itself into a gentle lullaby.

Nature, God's creation, is a poetic illustration of healthy living. The natural order of things is to move through life easily (naturally), doing the things we are made to do and every so often shucking off all that hinders us from living a healthful life, both physically and mentally.

Painting is the natural order into which I fit. I believe by painting I can live my healthiest life and, as important, that I can contribute my best to society by helping others to be more aware of our natural heritage, to care for it, to learn from it.

Unfortunately in painting you do not start with a low wage in the mail room and work your way up. You start like any business owner does: by making big investments, monetarily and personally, and gradually you dig yourself out of a hole before you can begin to claim any wage at all let alone the satisfaction of finally claiming a few successful paintings. Unlike most business startups, banks do not tend to lend on speculation of becoming an artist, so the rate of investment, at least in my situation, had to be made at a gradual pace as I could make the money to reinvest. I am very fortunate to have had support, encouragement and help from my loving and courageous wife. The decision to pursue painting was ours together. She paid our living bills almost entirely for over three years by working less than ideal jobs in less than ideal circumstances. She sacrificed and encouraged while so many others looked down their nose as they arrogantly assessed the artist's selfish and frivolous pursuits. Every one of them, of course, knows what is best for all of us who pursue something outside of the "norm". Often these are the people with whom we surrounded ourselves for years, people we love and trust, a difficult mental obstacle to overcome. What these naysayers often ignore is that the artist too makes sacrifices. The structure of our society does not make that path an easy one. It is only now, six years and two children after taking my first painting workshop, that mine and my wife's roles are switching. We are not in any way financially wealthy, and I don't ever anticipate us being so, but I am fortunate enough to now be paying the bills, and my wife will begin her journey to really discover what her best life is. Could be she is already on that path and will finally be able to acknowledge it and truly appreciate it . . . could be she discovers something about herself that she didn't know existed.

The point is, whether you are single or married, financially set or strapped, you still have choices about the priorities in your life and at what rate you choose to make those priorities relevant in your everyday living, depending upon how much risk you and yours are willing to endure. For most people the question isn't so much about risk but rather, "What am I willing to live without?" Gahndi once said, "Man is wealthy by what he is willing to live without." Staying somewhat debt free can be liberating. For me, although easier said than done, the choices became obvious as to which debris and whose influences to shed, and though it was a turbulent ride for many years I am just beginning to flow down the river at my own confident pace. For those of you just beginning to set out on a new path or just starting to consider one which is complimentary to your nature, I encourage you to do it. I wake up each day with a love and fervor for painting that never existed in my life before taking a new route, and I truly believe I can make a difference, however minor. I am forever grateful to have faced the fears of failure and to each day have the desire to try again. I believe the real risk is in spending your entire life denying your best abilities.

Gregory Packard, March 2, 2005

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Journal Entries 2007