The Light
From the moment when God said, “Let there be light” I wonder how long it took for the stars to twinkle back at Him. As long as people have been on this beautiful planet we have been fascinated and beholden to light. Geniuses from every era have studied and worshipped it in one form or another. The ancients tracked the movement of light in the sky and predicted its alignment with the light from all the other stars to a high degree of sophistication and accuracy. Moses was drawn to the light. Einsteen determined that the speed of light was a constant. Monet painted it. And, over the past century with the advent of quantum theory physicists have gone round and round about the different characteristics of light. “Is light essentially made of particles or waves?”, they would ask. As I understand it, today they are leaning towards the idea that everything ultimately behaves as a wave. 
One of the reasons science came about was because religion didn’t satisfy all of our curiousities. It turns out after hundreds of years of intense advancement in science, that science doesn’t either. After listening to a mind-bending book about string theory—if it is indeed a correct theory: Reality is so much stranger than anything religion has ever suggested and science requires as much or more faith by the average person as religion. So with that in mind, when Jesus said, “I am the light, the way”, it’s not hard to imagine that He was speaking of both the figurative and the literal. Figuratively in the pattern of living He illuminated for us to live by; that is, by being totally obedient unto the laws of love. And then literally when He transfigured from a man into light (from particle into wave) and back in front of His deciples. Given the tremendous advancement quantum physics has helped humanity achieve in the past 100 years, it’s profound that Jesus exemplified the quantum duality of light over 2000 years ago. You might say, with a shrug of the shoulder, "but science and religion are at opposite ends of the spectrum". I don’t think they are. In an ironic twist it’s light that is bringing them together, full circle—the light still sheds the dark!

Gregory Packard, February 11, 2017


Forty Days and Forty Nights
I have written on the movie, “Groundhog Day” previously. I watch it every year around this time because it’s such an excellent reminder of one of the biggest reasons why we may be alive—to grow our souls. There’s a scene in the movie where the main character played by Bill Murray steps off a sidewalk curb, and, accidentally, the first foot off falls into a very deep pot-hole in the gutter full of icy-cold water. It’s a miserable thing that’s probably happened to each of us at one time or another. Watching it you can nearly feel the cold water pouring into your shoe and the jolt the unexpected step down would have on your hip or back. What makes this scene memorable in this movie, aside from the humor of seeing this nasty character take such a step, is that the plot is of the same day repeating itself over and over for Bill Murray. The movie for me is full of symbols throughout, and this scene is no exception. Three or four days in a row Murray takes this same miserable step into the cold water to his own chagrin until he finally determines to walk a little more deliberately in his daily routine. When I watched it this year it made me think of the many bad habits I have and how these habits and my willingness to walk through life less deliberately so clearly drive me to repeat the same mistakes over and over—to my own chagrin! This is true of the large and trivial things in life. Like Murray stepping into the cold water day after day, it sometimes takes a number of unpleasant repetitions to wake up to the fact that I need to make a change. Then, literally it often takes 30-40 days to change that pattern of thinking; that is, to start to break the habit mentally. It’s this way for all of us isn’t it? Even Jesus spent 40 days and 40 nights in the wilderness resisting temptations. I don’t see life as a contest to be a “better” person than others in any way. If that were the case I would be so far behind billions of people whose souls are elevated far beyond my own. However, I do wish to better “myself” in every way. For me that often starts with a few missed steps into cold water followed by 40 days and 40 nights in the wilderness resisting temptation ;). I’m okay with that. I don’t need to solve the problems I have as dynamically as Jesus did by walking on that cold water. Still, the idea of becoming the best me I can be is an ideal I can get behind.
Gregory Packard, January 17, 2017


Painting and Joy
Perhaps the deepest root in my reasons for painting is joy. If I were a branch on that tree it would be my desire to create little blossoms of color that you can bring into your life and home, which daily enable you the opportunity to experience and be reminded to look for joy. Joy is unique among the good things in living. It is one of the differentiating qualities in life if you allow yourself to recognize it. Different from a state of being such as happiness, which often require real work or some prerequisite of your doing, joy is unpredictable and unburdened. Needing only your recognition joy is a gift offered up in the smallest and largest moments of our daily lives. Remarkably, joy can be experienced on our saddest, rainiest, darkest day if we are just willing to look for it. Like a sunburst, these moments are not meant to be permanent. As life itself, joy is fleeting. It is when a caterpillar first opens her wings, when the golden sun breaks through the stormy clouds or when the sheer power of the storm excites you to the core. It is when the leaves of autumn shimmer in the steep angle of afternoon light, when "nature's first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold"; or, when you recognize something nature brings forth that reminds you of a recently passed love one as if it was that loved one him or herself embracing you. These are moments that are entirely gifted to us; and if we give ourselves permission to experience them, these are moments of joy. These are moments I attempt to cultivate in my paintings. I believe in the intrinsic value of this work. In large part I have dedicated my life to it, and it is my sincere hope that this work inspires you as nature herself does me.
Gregory Packard, July 8, 2016
​
I
often see life at large through the lense of a painter, which is deliberate and purposeful. The order and position of paint strokes on my canvas is based on a series of coordinated relationships. While it is true I do not know exactly how each painting will turn out I do know each stroke affects the one next to it. Indeed, it changes it and sometimes dramatically. A painting is an evolutionary process, but it is not random. There are so many parallels with painting and life. As many of you know I often wonder, what is our place in it all? We are so small in view of the cosmos, but from our own individual perspectives our own lives are much larger than the physical imprint they represent. Just as a painting made up of physical strokes of paint can inspire and create an energy much greater than its physical parts the physicality of a person is only the mechanical aspect of a human soul that can be profoundly joyful, profoundly sad, loving, frightening, spiritual, mysterious . . . the list goes on and on. What if each one of us, each of our lives is like a stroke of paint within a multi-dimensional painting? In this multi-dimensional painting discord can be created by one bad stroke (soul). Or, on the other hand, joy and light can change the entire potential by just a single loving soul. History is a long, drawn out poem of those opposing types of souls. And much of nature seems to reflect this process. We've all seen it in science class, tiny protons and electrons circling an atom in an opposing manner. Then the atom makes up a cell and that cell (good or bad) affects and builds the protiens and chromosomes eventually building the body. That body affects humanity and onto to our planet and its impact upon the sun and sun's place in the Milky Way galaxy and so forth. But none of that really explains what it is that makes us able to contemplate it all, our consciousness. That part is still quite a mystery. In the realm of consciousness a painter and a physicist are the same. The physicist takes basic physical elements and creates an abstract theory based upon how those physical elements coordinate and behave and connect the physical chain of the cosmos. A painter does the same thing only the abstraction is typically one of emotions and meaning about those same cosmos. Without consciousness neither the artist or the physicist would be relavant. Everythiing physical, including human beings and paint strokes are made of star dust of the cosmos. So do the cosmos experience a sort of consciousness as we do? There may be countless other chains of life just like ours in the billions of galaxies out there beyond the Milky Way evolving human nature one soul at a time. We can't physically see our consciousness. In some abstact and somewhat meaningless ways we are able to measure its existence by measuring electrical currents in our brains and such, but it's really akin to our still infantile methods of measuring most of the star matter in the universe, dark matter. Dark matter, it is theorized by physicists comprises around 97% of all of the cosmos. We have such a limited grasp of all that is out there, including our own ability to contemplate it consciously. This tells me that our potential as human souls is so great that at this stage we can scaresely imagine it. Like a white canvas to a painted one composed in a symphony of color, value and shape--physical qualities that can reach aspects of life far beyond the physical. 

Gregory Packard, February 3, 2016


The Light Still Sheds the Dark (from the catalog for Greg's innaugural opening of The Brinton Museum in June of 2015)
​The Art of Gregory Packard, written by Gussie Fauntleroy © 2015

For centuries, one of art's essential roles has been to lift the heart and soul above the burdens and limitations—and frequently, the darkness and suffering—of human life. We have looked to religious art, or to the exquisite yet ordinary beauty of window light falling gently across a weathered table, the delicate grace of a floral still life, or the glorious wildness of nature, for reflections of what makes life worth living, for connection with each other and the divine. Gregory Packard continues this venerable tradition, both visually through his paintings themselves and in his use of the artistic process to explore the perennial questions of being human. As gifted with words as he is with a paintbrush, he discovers perspective, metaphor, and wisdom emerging simultaneously in paint and in musings related to his art. As this show's title and his painting of the same title suggest, the enduring power of beauty and light to break through and dissolve darkness is as present and vital today as it has ever been.
Packard's selection as featured artist for the Brinton Museum's inaugural exhibition in its new Forrest E. Mars, Jr. Building represents an inspired match, both aesthetically and personally. As a young painter living not far from Big Horn, Greg got to know Brinton Director and Chief Curator Ken Schuster and his wife Barbara, and his work has been exhibited at the museum for most of his career. "It's hard to quantify how much Ken's confidence in my work has helped me in my attempt to become a better painter. He never told me how to paint or what to paint; he just believed in me and my work," Packard says. Aesthetically, the exhibition's 46 paintings are a perfect complement to the uplifting spirit and exquisite workmanship and design of the new facility, the beauty and charm of the historic Brinton, and the magnificence of the surrounding landscape. In Schuster's words: "Greg really puts that paint onto the canvas in a manner that you can feel and nearly taste, it looks so good, with a superb use of color and fine draftsmanship. If he wasn't such a nice individual you could almost dislike him for being so talented. And to top it off, he has remained the same humble guy I've known for the past fifteen years. How could I ever not give him the first show in our brand new Reception Gallery?"
* * *
Greg Packard's lifelong connection with the natural world took root in early boyhood on an Idaho farm. Although as a child he moved to Boise with his mother and three of six siblings still remaining at home after his parents' divorce, the memory of woods and fields had become embedded in his mind and heart. He returned to nature physically when he could, spending a summer working in Alaska in his early 20s, later living in his wife's home state of Wyoming, and today at his home in Montrose, Colorado. And he returned to it passionately through his art. As a young man he was moved by the work of Vincent van Gogh, Anders Zorn, Joaquín Sorolla, Camille Pissarro, and especially Claude Monet and other French Impressionists. But it was through a pair of back-to-back workshops with artists Robert Moore and Delbert Gish, both trained in Russian Impressionism, that Packard found himself inspired to set off on his own artistic journey. "The Russian Impressionists' work was less refined than the French. It was coarse like me but purposeful and full of life," he says. "When I finally got my hands in deep and dirty with color, it was pure freedom with the paintbrush compared with the photorealist, monochromatic drawing I had been cutting my teeth on since I was a young boy."
Today Packard's visual expression takes two distinct yet related forms. In works such as Each Day we Wade into a Stream he lays down oils, wet-on-wet, in a fairly loose, traditional approach to color mixing, texture, and brushwork. The painting was inspired by a fly-fishing outing with friends at Smith Creek near Gunnison, Colorado. "I spent most of the day photographing and gawking at the water, with my fly rod dangling," he remembers, smiling. When it came to titling the piece, he turned to a poem he'd written years before. Both the poem and painting suggest the choice we each continuously face: to enter the flow of life that moves us along our perfect path, or to block that flow through hesitation or fear. "I waded into that stream eventually," Packard says. It carried him gratefully and deeply into art. Also in a traditional style, The Good Shepherd depicts a sheepherder standing amidst his flock under the shadow of an approaching storm. The piece is significant to the artist as a symbol of the Christ-like qualities that have appeared in rare figures across time. Like the humble, faithful shepherd, these individuals sacrifice their own comfort and gain for the sake of others, often being persecuted in return, Packard believes. As a painting, he enjoyed the dynamic movement, texture, and contrast of the broad, gently curving landscape and wild, stormy sky.
A few years ago Packard added a second direction to his painting while also continuing to work in his original style. He refers to this technique as broken color, and it can be traced to Monet and other early 19th-century Impressionists. Applied to the same subjects as his wet-on-wet approach—landscapes, seascapes, city scenes, and floral still life—it involves discrete, often short brushstrokes, both layered and side-by-side. The effect is an electric sense of pulsating color and shimmering light. "It's like building a painting, literally, stroke by stroke," the artist explains. "It puts odd colors in odd places. In some ways it's more childlike in expression, and that's a beautiful thing, both literally and spiritually. It's farther away from actual experience, but closer to what's going on in my heart and mind."
Among recent works in this style is Paradox, depicting a stately old leafless tree in strong morning light in the interval between winter and spring. As Packard sketched the scene while leading a painting workshop, his students were aghast that he would choose to paint such an "ugly old tree." But beyond the strong visual appeal of its lines and shadows, the artist sees in the image a perfect metaphor for the paradox of renewal, of individuals in whom the human spirit becomes more radiant even as the body is failing with illness or age. "These metaphors are how I find meaning about life from nature itself, how I learn from it," Packard says. On a visual level the painting reveals a range of unexpected colors: turquoise in the tree's shadow, orange, purple, bright pink. Yet somehow the feeling is of glistening, almost-spring light, the air still cool, the season on the edge of rebirth. "As an artist you have to make your paint feel like it's real light by the colors you add, the colors you leave out, and how you place one color next to another. It's always a dance," Packard says.
Part of the pleasure of that dance, of course, is pure abstraction, especially when the works are viewed up close. Rich textures, scintillating hues, and complex color relationships produce undercurrents of movement and emotion that add to the viewer's experience on a subtle level. As Packard puts it: "I want people to believe in the subject, but I also like the viewer to discover those abstract qualities. It's like a book. You can read it twice and get a whole different feeling the second time." From the artist's perspective, proficiency in two distinct approaches expands both his aesthetic vocabulary and what he is able to express. It's the visual equivalent of full fluency in both poetry and prose. A third component in this expression are the frames. For this body of work Packard designed and hand-carved basswood frames for all but five of the paintings. Many are hand-gilded in 23-karat gold. In each case the design motif complements and adds dimension to the artwork's imagery, visual rhythm, and mood.
As someone with "one foot in nature and one foot in the human experience," as he puts it—although clearly he is firmly planted in both realms—Packard produces artwork that admirably fulfills dual roles. A painting such as The Space Between can be viewed as a gorgeous autumn landscape featuring a mountain lake. Look closely, however, and you'll see an empty canoe or small boat pulled up on the lake's far shore. Symbolically, and personally for Packard, the painting suggests the wide but navigable space between where we are now and where our fullest human potential might carry us. A boat has crossed that divide—someone has reached the other side. We might imagine that person as Jesus, Michelangelo, Gandhi, or Monet. In any case, Packard says, "Someone has done it. So the possibility is there for every one of us."
~ Gussie Fauntleroy


Grey
Greys are used in painting to balance the pure colors. Like a synergy, they enable the pure colors to shine brighter than they would on their own. The equivalent in life is probably where most of us scratch out our years here on this beautiful earth. We so often struggle in the light of day while a few in the annals of history light it up in pure fashion. Perhaps we all strive to be Michelangelo or Mozart or Jesus or Buddha but most of us simply fall short. I know I do. Yet without this grey area there would be no pure ideal to shine in contrast, and reciprically there would be no absence of light like the blackness found in a Stalin or Hitler. There is tremendous beauty in the grey areas, quiet as the subtle passages in a poem that when viewed as a whole allow us to see meaning. 
Grey is where the Meadowlark's high notes resonate. Grey is where the blush of a child's lip can sit comfortably near the pale green recess of the cheek. Grey is the balance and beauty too often unseen in the stark light of life and reason. Grey is what enables us to see that we need to strive for the pure colors, pure intentions and pure actions that shine beyond the space between.
Gregory Packard, October 3, 2014


Co-Creation
Quantum entanglement shows us that there is the great possibility we affect or are affected by things seemingly unrelated at great distances. Everything, including ourselves, is made up of particles, trillions of sub-atomic particles spinning around to comprise our unique persons. In the scientific view we are essentially a form of energy, our bodies, our thoughts, our emotions—all just different expressions of energy—and our personal energy seems to be subject to the same physical laws as all other forms of energy. Is this all there is to us? Perhaps . . . probably not, but let's look at it from a basic physical, mechanical point of view. Though physicists are far from understanding quantum entanglement in its entirety, some aspects of it are verifiable. In a more practical sense it's like when the lady at the opera hits the high note and shatters glass in the immediate area. The energy and tone in her voice resonates with the potential energy in glass and moves it! The same effect can be experienced in personalities. Someone very sad can directly influence an entire room of people without even a word spoken. Amplify that with modern media and someone can influence an entire population. We see this on the news every day. Factor in entanglement and in addition to the practical examples I mentioned in every moment of our life we could physically and instantaneously be affecting literal particles in a far off location. Perhaps the difference in energy vibration in, say, a pulsating star and an emotionally charged human being is only a difference in degree.
In quantum physics we can measure and predict a behavior of a light particle (photon). Yet, when we literally observe those particles their behavior changes from the measured and predictable behavior to something else. All things in the experiment remain the same except the fact that we observe the particles in the second instance. Imagine that! These particles assumed to be inanimate have a behavioral change just because of our observing them. Now, if you were God and wanted to place a sort of veil between the spiritual and physical worlds wouldn't this be a wonderful way of doing it—sort of a masking of Alice in Wonderland's rabbit hole? I think it was the spiritual author Dr. Wayne Dyer who wrote "When you change the way you look at things you change the things you look at." Though I don't know if he intended it, his statement is true on a spiritual level and on a physical level. From the time of Aristotle and long before Copernicus and Galileo it seems like science and spirituality have been moving in opposite directions and in modern times it's easy to assume that has only sped up, but by the examples of entanglement and quantum mechanics it appears to me they once set out in opposite directions but have arched around and are on a trajectory to meet again full circle. Perhaps the two are a larger example of the very paradoxical kind of entanglement of which I write?
What I'm getting at is that we are literally and spiritually co-creators of our worlds. Take for example my art. This is something I take seriously because in the art world today there is a great deal of darkness particularly in the most avant garde markets. Don't get me wrong, I love well created modern art. I love well created abstract art. I just don't understand why it has to be so overwhelmingly dark and negative. Why do so many have the impression that to be deep it has to be dark? Art as much as anything helps to create the world in which we live. So, personally, I more often attempt to create art that reflects and elevates the beauty and light in creation. When I paint a painting I try to create inspiration and information in balance. Information is what is said and painted while inspiration is often found in what is unsaid—what is not rendered and what is not left in the composition. It is as much or more in the things left un-rendered, in the "in-spirit" side of the artwork, that engages other people to co-create with me, to enter the great mystery of life, uncover the rabbit hole and use my work as a gateway to their own experiences. Whether or not an experience is deep or shallow depends entirely upon the person and the way they see things (Remember Dr. Dyer's quote from above?). In this way not only do I get to honor God and the larger creation with my paintings but others can too to a great extent in their own personal way. The idea is to be a person who through their life greater life echoes. Of course this is not something I could measure or even assume to have any success. But! it's certainly worth pursuit. And can't we all do that no matter what our work is? Gardeners co-create. When we see those flowers or eat those beautiful vegetables greater life is truley echoed. Builders co-create and echo greater life in the construction and design of habitable spaces. Literally, good or bad we co-create in everything we do. In everything we do and in every interaction with people, animals or life at large we have unending opportunities to echo greater life and lift up the higher form and spirit. There is no barrier to entry in this pursuit. With most things it may be as simple as changing our hearts, changing the way we see things. Lord knows I fail at this all the time but the more I'm aware of it the more I want to get up after falling down in order to try again.
Gregory Packard, September 26, 2014


Things Unseen
Current theory says that 96 percent of the universe is to us yet unseeable (or undetectable). Some believe it is actually closer to 99 percent. Within the small percentage that we do see and the tiny fragment of that which we are able to experience we can recognize that the structures in nature seemingly are repeated over and over. Electrons, for example, revolving around the nucleus of an atom changing the number of electrons only slightly from element to element; planets revolving around a sun, changing only slightly from solar system to solar system—all maintaining the same basic structure. From the way our bodies organize and send oxygen to our muscles and heart in our veins and capillaries to the way streams and rivers send the earth's water to the ocean or in the layout of our cities as seen from far above—nature has many reflections within itself. One only has to use their senses to realize how profoundly beautiful our bold blue world is in just the little bit of it that we experience. For me it is the sun the moon and stars. It is the blue in my wife's eyes, the touch in my daughter's hand and the clever design in my son's creations. It is a high-mountain lake and a lonely ocean beach. It is in this physical realm that I spend a great part of my life painting not just to put in paint what nature is to me, but in an attempt to touch the spiritual that the physical provokes. In participating in this vast physical world, I wonder, does the spiritual hold the same kind of symmetry as the physical? And are we also mirroring the physical by only experiencing 4 percent of what is spiritually possible? Imagine those wonderful things unseen that lie mostly in the spiritual world: love, joy, hope. These are the best things in life; yet, if we are only just tapping into them the great mystery looms like the stars cast across the night sky glittering just enough to garner our admiration but not so much as to dispel our curiosity. I am so moved by the spiritual, and yet I feel a deep abiding faith that there must be vastly more than what I perceive. Within the clear water of this life's river I search often in vein but with great gratitude for the abundance of possibility.
Gregory Packard July 25, 2014


Facts and Faith
I am a searcher. It's not happiness or fulfillment for which I look. I have found happiness can happen if I'm able to leave room for it in my life, and fulfillment is something I work toward daily within my craft rather than something for which I search. The things for which I do search are life, death, God, the hereafter, space and beyond. These things intrigue me. Like a gardener tending his crop and finding joy in the miracle of food, I work daily painting the miracle creation. Yet, there is so little about it that I really understand. It is not that I do not try to understand. I read and especially listen to a lot of books both spiritual and intellectual; I follow current science; I hike in the woods; I watch the birds and the stars; I create, but seemingly unlike so many others I still have not found the answers with certainty to the biggest questions in life. 
I have, however, found some that are worth putting faith into, which I do. And, if you think about it, isn't that all that most of us have? Don't misunderstand me, I know there are things that can be verified and tested eliminating the need for faith, but how many of those things do you test and verify? For most of us even though we don't know it faith dominates our lives— as completely as taking for granted the edibility and availability of our food clear down to having plumbing and lighting that works in our homes. Most of us simply do not understand how or why the most basic things in modern life work, and the only verifiable tests we run are when the basics stop working. We put great faith in laws and the cooperativeness of other people in daily tasks such as driving. For really complex things like quantum physics, most of us have no choice but to have a little faith in what is written and theorized because we simply do not have the knowledge to intelligently question it. For all but those physicists who actually do the math and create and run the tests quantum physics is pure faith. The same is even true for Einstein's Theory of Relativity. As familiar as most people are to his theory how many of us can actually test it? I know there are those who can and do but again, for the vast majority of us it's just a matter of believing what somebody else or a relatively small group of people with substantive evidence have stated and saying to ourselves that by our own simple observations it appears plausible—a form of faith. But even for scientists and physicists those tests often only point to partial answers, and it's faith that tells them they are moving in the right direction for the larger truth. Frequently after further research much like is often the case in religion or the social sciences or medicine or art they find they are still misinterpreting the clues in creation and running in circles. If the theory that we can only detect that the seeable matter in the universe is only 4% of all matter how can nearly everything not be a matter of faith?
But I suppose it's okay to rely so heavily on faith and assumptions for even the simple things. It's far more efficient. It's like an economy that employs free trade. Without free trade each group of people would have to reinvent the wheel and invent and manufacture all the parts that go with it. With free trade one group of people can specialize at creating the greatest wheel ever while another group can focus on creating the best tires. I have great gratitude that there are scientists who explore creation, such as Edison did electricity, and who create theories, and that later those theories are made practical by technicians who for example, ultimately wire my house for electric light. Because I don't have the time or energy to understand every modern technology or theory I put faith into those who do. The things we have in modern life are incredible—miracles in and of themselves. Yet, even with all these modern-day miracles—such as the ones that enable me in the studio or out in the field to listen to endless digital books in an attempt to gain knowledge—I'm not sure I'm any closer to finding the real truths of life than, say, Christopher Columbus was in understanding the earth in 1492 when he set sail and eventually discovered America. One thing all these modern things tend to do is make me want more. And though I may have more conveniences in life and more information that could point to the larger truths and mysteries than Columbus did I'm not sure I have more practical experience. I'm beginning to think that getting caught up in information tends to make me demand "proof" but who am I to demand proof? I start to wonder, what is proof? All this information that is available today makes one an easy skeptic whereas someone like Columbus literally felt the curve of the earth by navigating it. Skepticism then took a lot more effort. And though the lack of information often led to some unusual beliefs, getting further away from strong inner belief and deep faith in things which might not have a mathematical formula lacks color for me. If we are not careful we will de-evolve as one modern writer described it by losing our ability to be intuitive to what can be. Columbus, out there in the dark nights on the Atlantic, was left to face himself, his imagination and the stars to find miracles. He found America, and I don't know but I bet he found some deep inner faith along with a few real, tangible miracles brought up by nature herself, not to mention the American continent with all that practical, hands-on searching. Though the idea that the world was flat had generally already been abandoned, Columbus still didn't have proof of anything, yet his faith of greater things propelled him to much larger and unexpected discovery. 
I myself will keep painting, searching the stars in my own way as differently from Columbus as Van Gogh, but none-the-less searching and finding. I know that one day the physics barrier will be completely shattered, opening up an entirely different picture of life and the cosmos. For all I know it will be God him/herself who shatters it. Just as in the beginning of every painting there is little to go on, with an insignificant number of messy brush strokes a beautiful impression of creation itself can emerge. It's in this very manner that faith can be larger than fact; if history is our canvas it gently pushes us to take steps forward to greater manifest what life has to offer, and if those steps are in the right direction faith rewards us in harmony with fact by new understanding, like stepping into the light. 
Gregory Packard April 11, 2014


Groundhog Day
Have you ever seen the movie, "Groundhog Day"? One of my favorites, it's a great show where everyday repeats itself for one person, Bill Murray. It takes him a while to figure it out, and in doing so he reaches for the lowest branches of life—the easy things to like: money, sex, etc.. His progression continues to boredom and suicide (only to wake alive again in the same day), but eventually to the surrender and aim of perfecting the art of living and loving selflessly where life becomes quite fulfilling to him. 
What if life itself were a Groundhog Day of sorts? Many of the early Christians (the Gnostics, Mystics, Cathars and others) believed so in the form of reincarnation. They believed that we repeat life over and over again in the pursuit of perfecting the art of living and loving. It was a little more complicated than this with karma and differing circumstances but the basic idea is similar, and Jesus and his life of selflessness was the ultimate example and savior for them. In this world, fast with technology and distractions where so many of us search for meaning in the meaningless, what if each day we attempted to improve ourselves much like Bill Murray did so funnily in "Groundhog Day" or more seriously like Jesus and other great influences did and taught in life? 
When I really sit and think about what it is that I love so much about painting one thing often overlooked is the limitless possibility for improvement. Because I love it so much there is endless potential for joy in the simple act of painting. Yes, painting does come with certain frustration and struggle as does anything worth understanding because you want to get better at it and it can't come fast enough. Yet painting is a luxury, and not all endeavors are as easy to love as painting and the struggle in painting isn't really applicable to the rest of life, though the journey of becoming a painter certainly can be. In his book, "Die Empty" Todd Henry writes about the original meaning of passion where he describes passion as suffering in the sense of "For what are you willing to suffer?" It's an entirely different mind-set than what is commonly referred to as passion today. It's much more like the greatest examples in humanity . . . Jesus, Ghandi, Martin Luther King Jr., Abraham Lincoln and others. It has a much greater depth, and with depth comes meaning. 
What if you were willing to experience some kind of suffering for all on which you spend your time? What if every hour of work (you found something in it), every craft, every relationship were grasped as something worth suffering for, where the meaning of life were expressed amidst the struggle, manifested like the gritty beginnings of a painting when it's a beautiful mess, each day a brush stroke where with persistence and purpose it can become a work of art with which much joy is found and given? Would we fail? Constantly, but it might just be worth it. In doing your best at something, even if it's not your favorite thing, you can't help but add meaning to your life. To varying degrees I find meaning even in tasks that I never would have thought possible. This journey we're on is far from perfect. As for myself, I am far from understanding it, but it sure is fun to try.
Gregory Packard November 12, 2013


I carted a tree from the woods today.
Her boughs scattered and downward lay,
Down, down upon the slope
Where I measured and sawed and honorably carried her away.
A gap now stands like broken rope
Where trees held hands and will again I hope.
The heavens I thanked perhaps a year
Before her embers lift as smoke.
Yes a tree I felled and was there to hear
The crack and swoosh and thump and thump oh dear.
One might think it her end
As seen neatly stacked like cabin gear.

But the conversation a crackling fire does send
Is song and blanket—a healing friend.
No more swaying in the cold.
One's essence changes, an ever evolving mend.
One's essence changes, an ever evolving mend. 
Gregory Packard, September 2, 2012
***


Time
"An artist needs two lives, one to learn how to paint and one to paint." —Claude Monet 
What if it's all an illusion? For example, E=MC2 states that nothing (especially not you and I) can travel at the speed of light; thus go beyond time into the future or past. But light can travel at that speed. Light is made up of particles not unlike you and I, so why can't we travel at the speed of light? We're just particles, and to scale, the particles that make up our bodies are further apart than the stars in the sky, so why can't the particles that make up "us" move at the speed of light? Perhaps we can but we just don't know how to access the knowledge yet. There are many odd things that we think of as completely normal. For example,it feels as if we are solid and are standing still on a solid earth that is moving so slow that it may as well be holding still? Yet, it's relative. The tiny particles that make up our bodies and the earth are actually less solid than the wide open space we see in our night sky, and as amazing they are sitting on this earth which is spinning at 1000 miles per hour to make a 24 hour day and hurling through space in a circle around the sun at 67,000 miles per hour to make one revolution equal to a year's time. Now that seems crazy, but according to current science it all appears to be true. 
Perhaps it is all an illusion. Perhaps that's why I love painting so much, because it's the art of perfecting illusion. I work daily to turn bits of color and value into shapes and ultimately images that we might recognize and love, images that through the touch of light and personal experience might lift our spirits. Maybe time has more dimensions than past, present and future just like a good painting has more than length and width. Maybe with a little luck my work can overcome time and race like the speed of light to reach people whose lives extend beyond my own. What would you do if you had more time?
Gregory Packard, July 19, 2012
•••

Perspective
"Painting is easy, you put the right color in the right place." —Edgar Payne
Anybody who has ever painted knows that the simplest of things can be incredibly difficult to pull off well. In life as in painting there are many nuances. One of those nuances that I often struggle with is a lack of perspective. Seeing the big picture while in the midst of a little patch is an art in its own right. If I could learn to step back more often and see the smallness of a situation, see what really matters before jumping in with both feet, oh how many times would the situation have reflected a more harmonious outcome. Perspective requires us to grasp even the things that are hard to hold. Though a situation may be complex, may have undefinable edges you still have to look from multiple angles to understand it fully. But like clouds in the sky there are still vanishing points from which we can gain understanding; there are still transitions in color that create an aerial perspective of great depth. In a world where the focus tends to be on all that is wrong it is easy to get lost and hard to find your way home until you remember that it is the simplest of things, often right under our noses, that have the greatest meaning and that all other things are measured against.
Gregory Packard, April 11, 2012
•••

Snows
When the snow first falls it's a good sign. It's a good sign because the year's challenges are covered and the new world seems to promise rest and growth. Like angels cycling down from heaven the large flakes sway and catch and lift slightly in the cold air, and then gracefully fall to the ground where one by one they build a presence. Measured in winters our lives progress; our children begin to stand tall and before we know it along side the adults. It happens fast. The magic of their youth gradually and too often unbeknownst to our everyday eyes dissipates. We are sometimes aware enough to realize it but mostly we recognize it in the year's photographs, pictures that say, "Wow, they were so little. What was I thinking trying to get them to understand this or that at such a young age." Every day I realize that there are so many things I have no business teaching my children. In many ways, with their innocent and fresh sight they see so much more clearly than I do. They have a natural intelligence that is nearly impossible for an adult to have. True, it may not be the type that keeps them out of harm's way but it is the type that sees life anew, not unlike a fresh blanket of snow.
Gregory Packard, January 6, 2010
•••

Layers of Leaves
As life progresses we carry at least the idea of our past with us. We experience moments and days and years. With some degree of fortune we may discover that we have gained some understanding beyond our ordinary reach. Paradoxically, during other periods we may see that what we learned was only part of the picture and sometimes just a small part at that and that in the grand scheme of things we have learned but little. And so it is in life, like layers of leaves, when we are able to shed our conditionings we gain new understanding and our experience is plaid with a new paradigm, a new layer, from which to see our world. Moment by moment the possibility of a different understanding is present. After a few cycles of this we might best conclude that nothing we know is certain. And in the bigger picture, and for those things we cannot reverse, we might prosper more by refraining to judge whether or not a later paradigm is better or worse than an earlier one and instead simply experience it for what it is. Does this lend itself to an ungrounded life or even one of resignation? It certainly could. Yet, given the basics (water, good soil and sunlight), it seems that it's the healthiest trees, the ones well rooted, that are best able to continue the cycle of loss and rebirth as nature intended. 
Gregory Packard —February 19, 2009
••• 

The Awakening
From deep slumber shall I wake.
Warm light offers much to stake.
Beneath the snow and frozen leaf,
Resolve to be again begins to ache.
No longer moved by winter's grief.
Stow the badge as Christmas wreath,
The annual stretch and reach fulfilled,
Springs from hope in roots beneath.
On wooded hills green doth gild,
Notes profound my heart unsealed.
Snow recedes amidst new growth.
Soon will flowers dot the field.
Soon will flowers dot the field.
Gregory Packard December 23, 2008 
•••

​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
•••

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
•••

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
•••

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
•••

Balance
A good painting fosters a spirit of spontaneity and randomness, yet those qualities are most often brought forth with a solid understanding of the fundamentals: drawing, design, color and value. Lacking in those areas and you may end up with a painting that lacks harmony. At the same time, however, forcing that knowledge too much may lead your painting to lack inspiration. It's a matter of understanding and then letting go, like mixing known chemicals into an unknowable concoction. The results can be enlightening.
Isn't life the same way? Too much of living by the seat of our pants and life can become unharmonious. Too little, too much given to us without merit, and we become bored or insatiable. For some people everyday is a chance to manifest their own destiny while for others everyday is simply another domination by life, job or kin. 
Gregory Packard, December 17, 2006
•••

Window of Opportunity
Watching a sunset on the Pacific Ocean can be like watching a window of opportunity slip by. Moment by moment I want to reach out and grasp what is before me, to see the light pass though my fingers and hear the rhythm of the ever restless sea. It changes so quickly and yet its beauty remains constant and alluring until, as a darkness creeps over, the light is gone. 
Gregory Packard, November 15, 2006
•••

​Day After Tomorrow
A little inner peace goes a long way. Some carry it with them; some find it in a quiet corner. It's easy to take it for granted but hard to live without. To varying degrees and with varying awareness we all search for peace in our own lives but often come away frustrated because it is not something that can be bought with monetary or emotional currency, and it can't be earned or even offered as a gift. From those who truly have it, it can't even be stolen. Like love and joy, inner peace has a higher calling in our lives. It has less to do with who we are physically or what family or town or country we are born into. Those are the things that define our own unique challenges in life, the things we should come to terms with in order to be able to find a little peace inside ourselves. Some challenges are great and some small but what seems to be universal is that we are all faced with them. Instead of dealing with them so that we have an opportunity to have some peace we often put off those challenges. We blame them on somebody or some circumstance or we say to ourselves that we'll deal with it tomorrow or the day after tomorrow and we have this image in our head that things will be better then. While circumstances may be different the basic challenges that keep us from finding inner peace are probably still the same, still not dealt with, still our own and still kept deep inside us at bay for a later date. We should stop waiting for tomorrow or the day after. While we can't control all our circumstances we can direct ourselves through them, but to do that we need to get on that boat and set sail. For the journey may be short or it may be long—it's our life. If you wait until the day after tomorrow it may be over. 
Gregory Packard, October 18, 2006
•••
Harmony
The extremes of life seem to balance each other. I find in my life that when something bad happens eventually something good comes along. It's not as obvious or mechanical as physics, "for every action there's an equal and opposite reaction", but in some mysterious way things seem to work out even when they appear dire. It's problematic when we expect our lives to be equal and opposite in a timely fashion just like if we bounced a ball. In the big picture life seems more like a forest. When it burns down it recovers sometimes more graciously than before and often as a different variety, but always it takes time. In a larger context the extremes of life sometimes make sense and a greater harmony is witnessed.
Gregory Packard, August 19, 2006
•••
Worth the Risk
When I start a painting I often have an idea of what I'm trying to communicate but as I progress things typically do not translate on canvas as well as I had anticipated, so I can either improvise as I go, making choices on the fly or I can fall back heavily on technique to try and get the painting back to my original intent. If I improvise and make choices generously with my heart it can lead to a more emotional and often technically better painting than I originally had in mind. If on the other hand I adhere to technique I am usually drawn back into the same snare of old habits that led me to consider improvisation to begin with--the seeds of an unemotional painting. Just as in everyday life it's a matter of examining my heart and taking a leap of faith.
Gregory Packard, August 12, 2006
•••
Nine Lives 
I love experimenting with paintings. After painting a piece I typically let a period of time pass before I can determine if it speaks to me on an emotional level. Some pieces need more work and some don't. Each piece develops its own personality, and each piece has a life of its own and much of these lives can be told by looking at the surface. 
There are some paintings that in spite of good intentions seem overworked and tired—a little long in the tooth but no real wisdom to show for it. They are like a person who grows old and bitter from good or difficult circumstances and never really figures out how to love in life. They are so narrow that nobody can measure up to what they think should be—what they believe they are. It's less about details than about noodling in too many or the wrong places.
Then there are the paintings that have been sanded down and repainted. You can still see the brush lines from the old painting underneath the new paint but instead of appearing overworked they typically add an emotional element which can show a sincerity that otherwise would be absent. Just like with people who grow from difficult circumstances sometimes the scars are still present beneath the beauty but rather than detract from their beauty they add to it by reaching beyond old heartaches as a hand might extend to those who have not yet overcome. These people have the potential to become some of the most beautiful people alive. 
And finally there are the so called easy paintings. These paintings are graceful and simple by nature and include a bit of good luck. The strokes seem to flow effortlessly around form and light. If done well they harmonize like the song of a meadowlark. But without a solid understanding of painting these paintings are anything but easy to paint. Perhaps like the life of a person who seeks joy but misses the spirituality in life these paintings are often accused of lacking substance, but when the substance is there they are to me irresistible. It's almost as if these people have lived life before and have learned from the beginning to live this turn with the joy of a child and wisdom of a an elder. 
Gregory Packard, July 23, 2006
•••
Mountains
Everybody needs to climb a mountain,
at least once for the sake of asking,
who am I?
For some, those who do it daily,
there are many mountains.
The point is not to be the first to reach its peak,
or refrain from being last,
but, instead, to see your own reflection,
among creation's larger plan.
So take your time.
Reach to feel the cold in the crisp blue lake,
or the tumbling stream as you rise.
Smell the flowers,
which dot the mountain meadows,
and the fresh rain while waiting,
patiently, for the sun to shine your way.
Listen for the silence, when,
at the day's end you've found a place,
to confidently rest your weary bones,
and discern without disgrace,
a mountain that you climbed,
one you helped create,
one to which you were led,
by the simple hand of fate.
Gregory Packard, May of 1997
•••
Opposites Attract 
Today I stood in the studio and painted a small piece of coastline that tries with all it's might day to day, moment to moment to hold back the mighty Pacific Ocean. And while I am here in Colorado that stretch of coast, I am sure, is still standing proud albeit perhaps worn just slightly since the last time I saw it in person. 
I think that in what often appears to be opposing forces in nature there is an overarching harmony. That in spite of appearances the ocean and the rock and the wind and the rain all lean on each other to exemplify their own essence more. The ocean wouldn't seem as awesome if it couldn't display itself smashing against the rocks and vise versa. Maybe I'm stretching it a bit; I don't know. But one thing is certain, when the sun shines on their appearing conflict it does unveil the essence of each, so powerfully that I can stand over a thousand miles away and still feel the cool sand slide out from under my bare feet as the water rushes back to sea from its most recent advance.
In painting there are similar conflicts that if handled with passion and insight can also expose a higher order of harmony. For example, I often question how much of a scene should be rendered and what should be left to the imagination. On the one hand it could be the immense subject that demands more rendering or detail while on the other hand it could be that too much detail would detract from the essence of the golden sunlight shining on the subject. It is the same reason that a photograph taken by an unskilled photographer can have all the detail recorded but none of the vitality of real life. A skilled photographer as with a painter has to use the tools of their craft to their advantage in order to hint at the vitality so evident in real life. Sunshine, for example, is thousands of times brighter than anything that can be printed on paper or painted on canvas, even when fully lit with gallery lighting, so an artist has to compensate for that. For this reason artists not only use lighter and darker values to make things appear lit but they place colors next to each other that make one another appear brighter or more dull, warmer or cooler—just like the sea and the rock the colors may be opposites on the color wheel but still have to work together to bring out the essence of their hue so that on the painting they can simulate sunshine. And it is the same for all aspects of a painting: composition, color, value, edges and drawing. To find the essence of the subject all the tools of painting are considered.
The hope is that the tools become second nature, a loving response rather than an analytical problem. Because in the end it's of little significance what I render and to what extent it is rendered so long as I can find the passion within and then let it out in celebration of this great gift we all possess of experiencing life. Every day that I am aware enough to notice what nature has provided is a day in which I am more capable of giving back my small token of gratitude in a painting. The rest, more frequently than not, takes care of itself. 
Gregory Packard, June 14, 2006
•••
Life is Perfectly Chaotic
Without a larger order it is easy to see as just chaos—misunderstood and often intentionally overlooked. But within the larger context a good mess is to me often a more realistic interpretation of life than the overstated. Nature and life are harmonious and messy at the same time. Sure we try to keep them neat by organizing our lives, our communities, our cities and nations, all to make life more livable—all to a certain degree necessary and usually good things. But to not see the chaos within the larger order is often to not see the beauty or perfection of it. It would be like seeing nature as a city park and never visiting the wilderness, or like knowing somebody only by the face they want you to see. On the surface they would look perfect, but they would be missing all the elements that create wonder, mystery, empathy, loneliness, fear and a scale of love or grandness beyond capture. To really know something or somebody I have to get beyond the obvious with all my senses; I have to get to the chaos and understand it as best as I can within the larger order of life.
Gregory Packard, June 8, 2006
••• 
Long Blue Streams
Golden rays of late and early hours,
Cast blue streams from wooden towers.
Both times of day have made me weep,
As fragile love and delicate flowers.
Do not ask these things to keep,
But fleeting thoughts while we sleep.
Lovely trees on snowy fields,
High in mountains on slopes so steep.
If all of life were sowed to yield,
This random beauty what hope we'd wield.
Wrapped in blankets fluffed white fleece,
Deep within we might be healed.
From nature's cup we're drunk with peace.
Long blue streams define this crease,
Between loves found and loves lost and pains not ceased
. . . between loves found and loves lost and pains not ceased. 
Gregory Packard, May 22, 2006
•••
"Trust your intuition. The universe is guiding your life." (fortune cookie)
In painting much of the learning process is accidental, experimental or as I usually say "a beautiful mess". Often the real art is a painter's ability to recognize when an unintended passage can, if put in the larger perspective of the painting, play an integral part—can even be one of the few spontaneous passages that is able to create real emotions deep within the heart regardless of the nature of the subject. An artist needs intuition to leave a stroke in place before he's sure it has importance in the overall picture. 
Like so much I learn in painting it is an extension of life itself. Growth rests in discovering the potential within the areas of our lives which remain in shadow, which when finally emblazoned by light can no longer be ignored.
Gregory Packard, May 10, 2006
•••
Fail 'til You Succeed
When I look to the heavens I see the twinkling in my young children's eyes. When I search for a spiritual belonging I see the joy in their actions. They know the secret to life—and it's not an intellectual understanding. It's a daily revealing of their hearts. They posses the basic joy for which most of us spend our adult lives looking and their yet unfettered curiosity still finds things clear of other's bias and of the responsibility life can entail. At such a young age their only burdens are physical as well as mine and my wife's desire to keep them safe and our own selfish desires to keep them from overtaking our household, which if left unchecked, they would!
It's a paradox. We are born with great freedom in our hearts to think and feel as pure and direct as rain falling on our lips, but it seems that at freedom's height we still lack the logic and physical abilities to manifest our joy and internal freedom into potential. Yet as we grow and gain the logic and lose the physical constraints to care for ourselves we somehow learn to constrain and lose much of the freedom and joy. Little by little the joy is replaced by somebody's "this is how it is" and the curiosity is scared away by the fear of losing love if you don't agree with that somebody's "this is how it is". Suddenly we find ourselves living to a code instead of just living. We more often learn what it is to be embarrassed and quit instead of what it is to fail and try again.
Then too often as adults we become set in our ways and never go back to rediscover the monumental wisdom of childhood. Personally I can count on one hand the number of adults I have met in my lifetime who seem to have that childhood joy and curiosity about them. They seem to be the people who are willing to take on risk to find joy. They seem to know that failure is a very relative term and is better thought of as perseverance. They seem to know that success is much less about material things and much more about rekindling curiosity and joy. They seem to be the people who are happy to fail until they succeed.
Gregory Packard, April 19, 2006
••• 
Precarious Balance 
When fear comes it's 3:00 A.M.. Lying in bed I wonder how we'll make it, and I know I'll not sleep again this night. It seems to visit about once a month as if I need a reminder that one of the few sure things is life's uncertainty. This thief of the moment is a universal acquaintance. I take him for what he is, though, and in a way am glad he came. He is the reminder that like the beauty of nature itself the life I have chosen is a precarious balance. The many influences push and shove and I simply try to stay rooted from moment to moment. Fear is a result of assuming a future while looking at the past, and not necessarily my own. It wishes to uproot me from the here and now, but it has no place in the present. As the seasons oblige for change each moment brings anew an opportunity to experience that change fully without labeling it as good or bad—to live in great freedom. Fear reminds me of this, and for that in this moment I befriend it. For nobody is as stable as they think. One can build a fortress but then often unbeknownst to him it's the fortress itself that steals his life away. Or one may have been coddled and handed the life he has, the land on which he lives, enabling him the toys on which he plays. That too is built on fear, just a shackle tethered to a parental finger. Neither riches nor power can conquer life's burdens. Being in the here and now, embracing the uncertainty of it all is the grace and beauty of life itself. 
Gregory Packard, April 11, 2006 (3:00 A.M.) 
•••
Awakening
Where there is warmth there is cold. 
Where it is smooth there lies in wait the waves.
A quiet spot without a quiet mind can be the loudest place I know. 
And when we seek the truth with the same closed mind we discover a windowless room, 
One to which we've been before, one that reinforces our gloom. 
Like the seed who prefers to blame the cold for its inability to sprout, 
We hope our blossom into the spring instead of finding out.
The simple beauty of this world is that the sun is shining now.
Be present enough to find your bliss before forgetting how.
Gregory Packard, February 24, 2006
•••
Daddy's Little Girl
Each morning just before the sun comes out the little birds begin to gather around where seed has been set out for them. They are so tender and at the same time so feisty. Very often it's the little ones who peck and flutter the hardest to maintain their spot at the dish. A loud intruding noise can quickly scare them all away but a fierce storm will often only make them more determined to stay. You want so much to help them, to pick them up, cup them in your hand and tend to their every need, to ensure their warmth and security. You think you know what is best for them. In the end, you don't. Nature has a plan for each precious soul, and often when we hold on too tight we eliminate the greater possibilities for that soul, starving it in spite of our intentions. So instead of holding on we choose wisely to let go, we quit projecting our desires and fears onto them and instead enable them to scratch out their own best interests. With joy and uncertainty we watch them grow, eventually take wing and fly with the grace and sureness of a free and delicate soul. 
Gregory Packard January 17, 2006
•••
"Get out of the way". I spent years working hard, learning, studying, solving problems and applying paint to become a "better" painter, however one might define what that is. For me it has been helpful to study and work to learn the fundamentals, but even if I live a thousand years there'll always be more to learn intellectually about the technical process of painting. With the comparatively easy access to information on deceased artists I, and all artists today, have in effect lived a thousand years. And, still, what do we know about painting? The same can be observed about life itself.
All that said, painting is basically simple. All you have to do is put the right color and value in the right spot. Easy! The statement is true. And so it is with life, simply put your time and effort in the areas of life you value most. For me painting is as much about the aspects of life that are not intellectual, that are not logical or mechanical, where mystery if hunted can only end in confusion, and where feeling cannot be defined in reasonable terms and cannot be disguised by manipulation. Life is the illumination of the heart and so is painting at it's best. Sometimes you simply have to step aside, out of your own way, and let the mystery happen.
Gregory Packard, January 9, 2006
••• 
Oh Lord I stole this day.
Her blue she gave away.
Lying down beneath the flowers,
I've stared and dreamed and lost the hours.
I laughed a country mile,
while the sun simply smiled. And now it's dark and the moon is grey.
Lord I stole this day. 
Gregory Packard, July 19, 1993
••• 
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, 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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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
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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 
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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