Whether I'm painting or not, I'm passionate about nature, time spent outdoors. Two hundred years ago, I would've enjoyed being a mountain man, except I wouldn't have been able to support myself because I wouldn't have had it in my heart to trap furry critters for hat material. Certainly, I could've followed Lewis and Clark across the country. My (very distant) Native American ancestors would be proud of tbe soft steps I take across leaves, of the instinctive prayers I whisper over dead things, of the reverence I feel when I stand atop a mountain.

I'd paint on location all the time but for one thing: I don't like being uncomfortable. Call me a woose, but I don't do temperature extremes, full sun, rain, snow, or (especially) wind. I admire more hardy plein air painters, those so dedicated to their art that they ignore gale force winds sandblasting dirt into their oil paints, pastelists with frostbitten fingers, watercolorists who cheerfully work raindrops into their washes. But I think if God had meant for me to be miserable when I paint, He would've staked me out in Houston or Dallas instead of steering me to  the arid mountains of West Texas, where we scarcely even run our air conditioner. (Nothing against Houston, or even Dallas. If green is what turns you on, somewhere humid is the place for you— our natural color out here is brown. I think brown is beautiful, but brown isn't becoming on everybody.)  So I have a warm, dry studio, and I use it year-round. But whatever the season, I try not to let perfect painting days slip past without going out on location. Painting weather calls to me like a Siren to a sailor.

I keep a Soltek easel (I love this easel for plein air painting, and highly recommend it) packed with pastels and pads of Wallis pastel paper. All I have to do is grab it and go. Once I'm in the locale I want to paint, I search for shade, and for snakes. Once shaded in a snake-free zone, I seek a level spot. Shade is the most critical, though. I've set up on slopes so steep, I had to hang onto my easel as I painted, but at least I didn't have to fight the sun while dodging serpents. I'm not a total woose. Any other comfort, such as a rock to spread my paints on is gravy. I even handle biting insects pretty well, once I'm working. Once I'm working, I toughen up.

I hate the wind, though. And we've had wind constantly this spring. The old-timers say this is the windiest spring they've seen in twenty years, and that usually, a windy spring means a rainy summer. A rainy summer would be good, so I hate to complain too much about the wind. But it has seriously limited my plein air painting, and I've gotten a little claustrophobic in the studio.

Painting on location is an exercise in discipline. It challenges an artist to be extremely selective and very decisive. Like any discipline, it must be honed and practiced. The less I paint outdoors, the harder it is the next time. I hate the wind.

One afternoon, the wind calmed. I squared my shoulders, strapped my easel to my back and started hiking before the wind picked up, as forecast. I didn't have long to paint so I didn't hike far and didn't get too picky about a subject: I chose a scraggly tree. The tree was only just so interesting, and the wind was gathering steam, so I taped a 4" x 6' piece of paper to my easel. Not much time, not much interest, not much paper.
 
I whipped out a likeness, didn't like it, brushed it off and did another. And another. An hour later, I had nothing to show for my efforts but a stiff back, a smudgy scrap of paper and dirty fingers.

And I felt seriously wonderful, the way you feel when you spend quality time in fresh air and crunchy leaves with a wasp or two circling your head. I didn't even mind the gusty wind in my face.

I wriggled the easel, safe in its backpack now, onto my sore shoulders. Then, I trudged downhill, empty-handed and exhausted from my efforts. As I scanned for snakes along the gametrail I followed, a plate-sized crescent of white caught my attention. I bent to examine the sun-bleached mandible of a javelina, one of those hog-like creatures who snort through our world on a fairly regular basis. Tusks and teeth intact, the complete jawbone was a museum specimen. I wondered how the beast had died. Old age? Predator? Disease? Carefully, I carried the mandible home with me. I'm not sure why, but it seemed like that's what I should do with it.

It was a hugely successful painting day. The next day was very windy. I started a studio painting. As I worked on that complex landscape from photo references in the comfort of my studio, my fingers remembered painting that nondescript tree. That day's studio landscape ultimately turned out so nice, I entered it in a national competition. You can't convince me the teensy tree sketches that don't even exist anymore and the javelina mandible propped outside my door aren't integral to that exhibit-worthy studio pastel.

The thing about painting, any kind of painting, is this: Creating is a process, not a goal. It's about the journey, not the destination. That's easier to intuit when you're standing on a mountainside (watching for snakes). And if you happen across a javelina jaw as you stagger home under the weight of your easel?
Words just can't describe that kind of trip.
 

Check out some Lindy Severns paintings done on location. Visit Old Spanish Trail Studio.com now!