Light in the Forest

The conceptualization for Light in the Forest began with a desire to experiment with metallic colours. Adding blue to my palate helped the silver and gold pop. As I developed a theme that would complement the golds and silvers on my palate, I felt that a mythology based theme would work well. In this painting the viewer is peering into a forest clearing, where nymphs are dancing. As they dance they bring life and light to the night forest around them, which baths the forest in hues of gold and silver.

I started this painting expecting that I would finish it before medical school, but as it was I started school a semester earlier than I originally planned, and didn't finish the painting. When I began clinical rotations, I thought that I would have more time to paint, so I took the painting with me from city to city, as I traveled to each rotations. I quickly learned that I would not have as much time as I had anticipated, and it took me the whole remainder of my medical education to finish the piece. I sketched the piece and painted the background in Salt Lake City, UT, my home. Then I made background adjustments in New York City and Detroit. The forest was painted at my parents home in Saint George, UT, at my brother's home in Salt Lake City, and in Shreveport Louisiana. I painted nymphs in New York City, Cleveland, and finally finishing the painting at my brother's home in Salt Lake City.

From my sketchbook to the canvas.

Staining the canvas.

Painting the night sky.

Painting the forest floor, which I repainted three times in three cities. 

Sketching in oil tree branches.

I painted the foreground trees with a palate knife. Here the foliage is done in silver and pewter mixed with ivory black.

Painting the tree trunks with a combination of gold, Renaissance gold, and burnt umber. 

My beautiful wife is painting a miniature version of my painting, although she says her nymphs will be clothed.

Mixing skin tones was an uncharted territory for me, and I spent many hours sitting at my palate mixing paints. In the end, I felt I did reasonably well for my first attempt at painting the human form. Upon completion, I gave this painting to my brother, Steven King.

"Light in the Forest" 2016
Oil on Canvas

Crux Invicta 2015

A painting for my mother-in-law to be.

Stage I: Prep 

Stage II: Laying down a foundation of colour. 

Stage III: Blending

I wasn't really happy the results so I decided to start afresh. 

I wanted more of a glowing feel.

But ended up with more of a sunburst. 

"Please, Hunny Bunny, can I paint too?" 

"Ladies and Gentleman, I present to you..." 

"Crux Invicta" 

"Ta da."

"Look at me! I'm an arteest."

"A little dab of paint here, a little there."

"Hmmm, I think it is missing something, ahh yes, the cross.." 

Phase IV: Palate knifing in the cross.

I do contortionist work on the side. 

Behind me, that is Assyrian for: "You are in trouble Mister.", because I'm taking a selfie while standing on a chair.  (Really, I was using the phone camera, like a mirror, to view the top edge of the painting better,  but shot a selfie while I was at it.)

Crux Invicta 2015

Rum Shrimp and Butternut Squash Ravioli Alfredo

Mom and dad invited the missionaries over for dinner tonight, so I offered to quickly throw something together for mom. It would be best if we don't tell the missionaries that the dishes was cooked with rum.

I present to you butternut squash ravioli drizzled lightly with Alfredo sauce and topped with rum sautéed shrimp seasoned with garlic, nutmeg, cinnamon, and allspice, accompanied by butter herb asparagus, crisp snow peas, and fresh tomatoes  finishing off the dish.

Romanticism of Death

I had a friend once say there is “something romantic about Death”, yet very wisely understood that it is only one's own death that is romantisied -for the remainer of us the bitterness of the one's death is cruel. My parents have long romanticised over their own death, as many people do who come to that stage in their aged life. To the uncomfort of his children, dad has for years been discussing the inheritance that each child will receive. Ironically, I realize that the paintings I have given my parents will one day return to me. Although mom doesn't often bring up the subject, she too has recently broached her own burial. My parents long ago purchased burial plots in St. George, the place that I identify as home, but now mom has recently expressed the desire to be buried in a small farming town with the roots of my family, in Goshen Idaho. I realize that I do not have many years remaining with my parent and what little is left must be cherished. 

Today I have been studying human development across the life span. As I read, I cannot help but to romantise upon my own death -when and how it might take place, and what will come of my memory. In my romaticised view, in the day that I die, I would like the vestage left behind to be burned to ashes. I would not have those ashes reside in an urn on a dusty book shelf, but rather mixed into the earth of my secrete garden with a young seedling planted above. As the colourful maple's roots penatrate deep into the soil, the reminants of my existance will give life and beauty to the world around. 

Image taken from lightcapturephoto.com

Work of My Hands

Dancing upon the taste buds, a chef's work delights the most refined of palates. Yet a less refined palate would have no less of an appreciation for the delicacy of a French pastry.

Meticulously ground into cold pressed linseed oil the purest of pigments shimmer vibrantly along the corridors of an architectural wonder. It is a work of art contained within a work of art. A child's crayon scribbles are of no less value than Monet's oils.

Metaphorically written pros have been known to move the nations. Wars have been fought and nations have been born under the allspice of a feather quill. Did not God himself write upon the stone with his finger? The world moves by words.

What then, I ask, is the work of my hands? I like to think of myself as an artist and a poet, and I certainly enjoy food, but the works of my hands in these has yet to prove itself. I put paint on a canvas and call it art, but a child's crayon probably would sell for more. And how I wish I could write to move people, but I misplace the words. I certainly can't write upon stone.

I ask again, what is the work of my hands?

Paix Bouche = Peace Mouth

Fighting crime at nigh, fighting micro-organisms by day.

It will probably be the only time in our careers that we are allowed to practice medicine in flip flops and tee-shirts. We take full advantage of it. 

My health education activity went well.

My co-clinic coordinator and myself after a successful clinic. 

Returning from the clinic with the afternoon shift. (I wasn't able to get a group photo of the morning shift.)

This is the work of my hands. My work is that of the children. They are the stone tablet that I write upon, the canvas of crayon, the delicacy of life. My work may not be visible to the world, but the future of the world is held in my hands.

The Freeway Effect

In order to improve my scores I've been trying something different this past month. I stopped attending lecture and have rather been watching the recorded lectures online. There are advantages and disadvantages to each system. 'Mediasiting' a lecture allows me to go at my own pace. I can stop and pause to take notes, or I can speed it up. Many students choose to watch the lectures at double speed. I don't do it often, but I have been guilty of double-speeding lectures when I'm behind. It's interesting to note that after a few minutes have passed you forget that you are watching the lecture at an accelerated rate. Once in awhile the webpage has need to reset itself, and when that happens the lecture restarts from the cue where it left off but at normal speed. It takes a moment to realize what has happened, but before realization hits you ask your self "Why are they speaking so s-l-o-w-l-y?" I call it the Freeway Effect. Inertia is propelling forward at a pace that has not equilibrated with present.

I've always walked a little slower than most, yet my life is racing by at an uncomfortably dangerous pace. I try to take moments to enjoy the sunset, but I'm on a freeway without rest stops or lookouts. Am I to become accustom to the day disappearing into the night, or will I forever long for the slower paced life?

5K

One of the clubs that I'm involved with held a fundraising event today -a 5k race. I volunteered to help with the race and was delighted to be given the task of photographing the race at a certain location. Many of my shots of the runners were pitted against this lovely rainbow.