Eyes are the windows of the soul, right?  The way we spend our hard-earned money speaks, sometimes embarrassingly, to the truth of our values. And a body of paintings reveals the heart of an artist. Or the heart of someone (a kindred spirit?) who admires or collects the work of that artist.

Until this past summer, I'd never thought much about how my paintings looked all lined up together, or about what they said about me. Then I participated in Albert Handell's and his wife Anita Louise West's Taos Mentoring Workshop. (A plein air pastel marathon, a story in itself.) On the last day, Albert had each of the 10 of us line all the work we had with us up on the wall. Then he went through the line, tossing and culling work that didn't "fit", "fit" meaning each included work made all the other paintings look better. Like a good marriage makes each individual a better person. Incredible, how each cluster of work looked better than the individual pieces. And, minus the misfits.

"Water Lace" near Comales Campground, Sipapu, NM   9"x12" plein air pastel
by Lindy Severns before the workshop started

I didn't agree with all his selections. Albert tossed out all my half-finished landscapes and complex skies. He raved about my running water scenes. I would've done the opposite. This made me think. Thinking can be hard for an artist. Oh, sure we think— some of us quite elegantly. But not necessarily while creating.

Albert and I go way back. As student/teacher, we harken to a time when neither of us had wrinkles and each had lungs not yet coated in pastel dust. I'm not a workshop junkie. Albert is the reason I'm a pastelist. He is my TEACHER. So when he told me I should be doing running water, intensively painting running water, I tried to listen. This though I live in the desert. But then he said that thing about my busy skies, my complex, multi-hued, multi-valued skies.

That's when I realized the master of the pioneer modern pastelists advised not me, but the student I'd been twenty- five years ago. Twenty-five years ago I did still lifes, portraits, animals, florals, architecture, and some landscapes. I did martial arts figures. Heck, I even did golfers, pets and self-portraits. Back then, I was exploring a world I wasn't sure I belonged in.

Today, I know who I am. Where I am. What I belong to. And I love my place in the universe.
I am a landscape painter who, for many years, taught taekwondo and flew a jet.  I paint the Southwest, especially the high desert skies. The Southern Rockies. Mountain skies. Skies are my home. I paint my home, my soul, the mirror I look into when I place an empty canvas on my easel. I paint as if I'm sparring with a worthy opponent, learning as I parry his kicks and counter his punches. I paint as if fire burned in the twin engines mounted on my wings. Okay. I'm weird. But I know it. And that makes art.

In all the years we lived in Lubbock, I never once painted a cotton field. I have no paintings of our huge and beautiful yard there. I painted no local landmarks, none of the interesting, wind-hardened faces who boldly carved the South Plains. (Once, back when I still did commissions without being held in an arm lock, I painted a windmill at sunset, but I don't remember it as being especially noteworthy. Call me eccentric, but I don't like goats, Starbucks, or defoliated cotton. I have the ultimate respect for those of you who do, however.)

Which brings me, in the round-about way I think, to my point: I hold a fourth-degree black belt in taekwondo, and had I been more politically malleable, I'd hold a fifth-degree black belt. That takes a lot of determination, a lot of perseverance, a lot of sweat. I had all that. But if the only martial arts classes had been held at six in the morning, I'd still have functioning knees and I'd still be a couch potato. Morning isn't who I am. By the same token, if cotton fields were the only subject I had to paint, I wouldn't be an artist. (Who knows? Maybe I'd raise goats, or pour lattes at Starbucks.)

For sure, if all I'd known to paint had been cotton fields, the walls of our Lubbock home would've been empty.
But I have itchy soles.  I've hiked the Rockies, not tip-to-tip but many points between. The American Rockies flow into the American deserts. See where I'm going? I belong to the desert. So, that's where I live now, and that's what I paint. I can still do portraits, windmills, still lifes. But I don't. I'm all grown up now, and I paint what's inside me. Complex skies. Succulent-crowded hard-pack. Dessicated cactus pods and craggy peaks. And a few times a year, Albert, I do return to Northeastern New Mexico; while there, I try to capture the hard magic in running water, water being something transient, something to be revered. For every desert plant to blossom, snow must eventually cover one of those craggy peaks.
About snow.  Snow falls from multi-hued, murky-valued complex skies.

Like water, I hope my mature work, like my rich life, runs full-cycle. Nature is its own mystery. All I know is, I have no empty walls, only canvas mirrors.
May you say the same about your own life's collection. That's the best wish I can send you.