At the sight of a beautiful sunset, we instinctively turn to the person next to us for confirmation, as if to say, “are you seeing this too?” No two people experience a sunset in the same way, and yet it is a collective event. The beauty stops us. The memory knits us together. Painting is my attempt to hold onto the memory of a sunset, or the sound of waves crashing, or the sensation of a summer breeze. On location, I respond in-the-moment. In the studio, I sort it all out. It’s the difference between improvisation and composing. I need both. Every summer I haul my painting gear up into the mountains. I paint where the muse inspires and sleep on the ground wherever I end up. I don’t do it to prove anything. I do it because it brings me closest to myself. It’s quiet up there in the wilderness, and for a time, it’s quiet within. Maybe that’s why we still look at paintings. Our lives are noisy, and a painting quiets us. Or takes us out of ourselves. Or a painting conjures a memory that we cannot put into words. At its best, art is a portal that connects artist to viewer. It’s a shared story. In winter sunlight reflects pink into blue shadows on the snowy mountainside. All I have is pigment to signify light, a rough impression on a frigid afternoon. But, somehow, it is enough.