In North America the Rowan tree is called a Mountain Ash but it’s not actually an Ash.  It is in the Rose family, producing the characteristic fruit of that family, looking like clusters of bright red rose hips.  Early Americans called them Ash Trees because they had compound leaves like the Ash.  A compound leaf has a main stem with little leaflets coming off of it.  This was good news for my daughter who wanted to plant one in her yard but was concerned about the Emerald Ash Borer Beetle.  I told her not to worry about the Emerald Borer.  Beetles know their trees. 

I was disappointed when I first sketched the drawing for this painting.  The panel was too small to allow individual leaflets to show.  Each leaf became nothing but a streak of paint while the clusters of berries became red blobs.  So I sketched another drawing on a larger panel.  On the larger panel I could paint individual leaflets and berries, but it was very time consuming.  The painting took over 100 hours to complete.  It was time consuming but satisfying; one of my interests in painting is the celebration of details like these compound leaves.  At least I didn’t have to count the leaflets!  Rowan Trees are rather forgiving about the number.  Anywhere from seven to seventeen leaflets are allowed.

By luck I encountered this tree at a most interesting time in the development of its fall color.  About half of the leaves had turned color.  They ranged from deep summer green to a spectrum of yellow, orange and red.  Even more surprising were the variations within a single leaf.  Leaflets at the end of the leaf were often a different color from leaflets nearer the twig.  Sometimes there were even variations within a single leaflet.  A leaflet might be dark orange where it attaches to the leaf and grow progressively more yellow toward the tip.  To execute a single leaf could take 20 applications of paint with the tip of a knife.

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I prefer the name “Rowan” because it avoids confusion with the Ashes but especially for this painting since Rowan is derived from Old Norse raun, and ultimately from a proto-Germanic word raudnian meaning “getting red”.

The Rowan is clearly a Northern tree, ranging across Eastern Canada and the most northerly states.  Isolated patches grow as far south as North Carolina but only at the coldest heights of the Appalachian Mountains.  If you bought a Rowan tree from a nursery for your garden it likely was the “Showy Mountain Ash” (Sorbus decora) preferred by gardeners because of its brighter fall color rather than its cousin, “The American Mountain Ash” (Sorbus Americana).  By the way, if you are curious about the pink flowers in the foreground they are the dried remnants of Joe-Pye-Weed (Eutrochium).

Trees need fresh water, stable soil, oxygen for their roots and, if they are to reproduce, an expanse of ground upon which to sow their seeds.  The Red Mangroves (Rhizophora mangle) thrive in a habitat which has none of these basic requirements.  How do they do it?  One answer is their marvelous prop roots which you can see at the bottom of this painting.  These roots stabilize the tree in the muddy and infirm soil, filter out salt from the water and enable the tree to absorb oxygen directly from the air. 

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The ecological contribution of these prop roots is enormous.  They tame surges during storms and provide habitat for breeding fish.  I wanted these roots to be a major part of the composition.  However, whenever I have looked at Red Mangroves from a canoe or kayak all I can see are masses of green billowing out over the water.  I wanted a perspective from which I could look out onto the water through the roots.  Such a perspective would also allow the viewer not only to appreciate the complexity of their root tangles but also the islands in the distance that are formed by these roots.  I found this scene by hiking down a trail that led to the edge of a Mangrove thicket. 

Mangrove is not the name of a particular plant but a number of plants that share a tolerance of salt water.  In Southern Florida there are four such plants, often found together, the Red, Black, White Mangroves and the Buttonwood.  In case you were wondering why the large tree, second from the right, has such rough shreddy bark compared to the others.  Good spotting.  That one is a White Mangrove (Laguncularia racemosa).  The trunk is not standing in the water but behind the Red Mangroves, closer to solid land where I was standing.

And how do their seeds germinate in water?  They don’t.  They germinate into little plants while still on the tree.  Then they grow into long candle like forms that plop off into the water and float like little buoys until their bottom end drags on the mud.  Then they root.  What an amazing adaptation.

One of the features of a successful painting is a broad color range.  A scene combining brilliant blue water, rich green leaves and bright flowers usually grabs our attention.  This scene is the opposite.  It is a study in muted colors.  But it fascinated me because of the harmony of the colors between the trees and the Hawk and the story that they told. 

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The pale grey color of the bark distinguishes the Pond Cypress (Taxodium ascendens) from its big cousin, the Bald Cypress (Taxodium Distichum).  In poor and drier soils, where the Pond Cypress often grows, it forms thick savannas of stunted trees.  These dwarfs can be hundreds of years old and yet attain heights of only 20 or 30 feet.  In this composition they form a grey-brown tapestry—a tangle of twigs and small trunks dotted by bits of blue sky.

The brown and ochre tones of the Red-Shouldered Hawk blend into this background.  Even the russet colors in the feathers are echoed in the Cypress cones and in a torn section of the branch.  The Hawk’s hunting success depends upon stealth, its brown and creamy flecks blending into the surrounding forest.  Notice that its tail feathers are spread rather than ending in the usual point, indicating that it is preparing to fly.  And fly it did, moments after I took the pictures from which I made this painting.

I used the edge of the painting knife to make the feathers, creating many fine cracks and ridges.  This texture broke up the light so that the surface looked soft.  I painted the trees in the background imprecisely so that they would appear out of the focus of the viewer.  I wanted to push the viewers’ focus to the harmony between the tree in the foreground and the Hawk.

Most of the thousand species of Rhododendron are small shrubs.  I remember as a child being fascinated with their brilliant flowers just at eye level.  But since I’ve grown a few feet taller I usually admire their flowers from above.  That is, I did until I went hiking in the Smoky Mountain National Park where giants live.  Here the Rhododendrons towered over us as we hiked.  This painting therefore represents an unusual perspective for these plants—looking up from underneath.  Huge trees and the famous Smoky Mountain mist provide the background.

The leaves Catawba Rhododendron (Rhododendron catawbiense) are so dark green and leathery that I have never observed their veins before.  But from the perspective of looking up into the sun the veins were revealed as darkened stripes with lighter patches between.  I first painted the leaf with a dark green and then repainted the patches between the veins with a lighter green.  Notice none of the leaves have bites taken out of them, probably because they are poisonous to deer.  The roundish holes chewed in some of the leaves suggest that some insects have stronger stomachs than deer. 

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Long lengths of bare twigs are visible because the leaves are clustered in whorls at the ends.  I made sure that a short segment of the larger branch was included in the painting because I wanted to show how the bark becomes scaly with age.  I enjoyed making this bark with a painting knife, one of the many occasions when I’m glad that I paint with knives.  This scaly bark would be difficult to make with a brush.  While I am on the subject of the twigs, notice that the ends of the twigs are green.  This is the new growth.  Twigs grow about six inches per year, which is not very fast, a realization that increased my respect for these giants.

I have low expectations when hiking in the rain, but I shouldn’t.  Colors are more saturated in low contrast lighting.  And Sumac is unsurpassed for the brilliance of its autumn colors. They range from pale yellow-green through orange, red and scarlet.  A month earlier these Sumacs would still have earned their reputation for outstanding redness but not on account of their leaves.  In late summer dense cones of brilliant red fruit protrude from the ends of green leafy branches.  Indeed, the name “Sumac” is derived from the Arabic for “red”.

While we are imagining how this scene looked a month earlier, those brown clusters were once brilliant yellow flowers of the Tansy (Tanacetum vulgare).  It’s a good thing that they are not in their prime.  Their vibrant yellow would overwhelm the subtle yellow of the Sumac leaves.

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In contrast, the violet sprays of Joe Pye Weed (Eutrochium purpureum), which were still in flower, do not distract from the composition.  Their dusty rose and ochre provide a contrast with the warm Sumac colors.

The Sumac fruit is the source of a red spice used in Middle Eastern cuisine to impart a lemony taste to salads and meat.  In North America we make a lemony drink (called “sumac-ade”) by crushing Sumac fruits in cool water, straining the liquid and then adding sugar or honey.

Staghorn Sumac (R. typhina) grows mainly in the Northeast, Midwest, Appalachian Mountains and Great Lakes regions including Ontario.

This field of flowers at the edge of the forest captured my eye as we were hiking down a mountain near Taos, New Mexico. My wife and I took a multitude of photos.  Later we realized how limited the camera is compared to the human eye.  Most of our pictures were focused on only one part of the field: either the foreground, middle or the background.  The rest of the photo was blurred.  And when we adjusted the camera so that everything was in focus, the resulting image was flattened like wallpaper with all the flowers squished together.

To our eyes, on the other hand, everything appears in focus at the same time because our eyes refocus instantly to wherever we look.  Also, we don’t see the field as flat wallpaper because we see in stereo.  Nothing beats the human eye.  As an artist, I attempted to mimic the experience of the human eye rather than the camera by painting all of the flowers in focus, but making them distinct from one another so we could appreciate the depth.

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Tall Delphinium (Delphinium barbeyi) are well named.  Their Blue-Purple flowers heads nod at about five feet (1.5 m).  The flowers, while deep purple in the shaded foreground, are distinctly blue in the sun.  I used Permanent Mauve for the shaded flowers and French Ultramarine Blue for those in the sun.  The yellow flowers also shift in color from shade to sun, moving from an orange-yellow toward a lemon-yellow, but the shift is less dramatic.  They are called Tall Ragwort or Groundsel (Senecio serra).  The suffix “wort” in plants’ names sounds like a disease, but it simply means “plant” in Old English. 

Together the two flowers made a stunning combination, especially when framed by the dark forest.  Delphiniums live in areas of partial shade such as this meadow, surrounded by tall trees.  You can find them at high altitudes in Wyoming, Colorado and Arizona and in New Mexico.  Tall Ragwort is much less demanding.  It grows in almost every Western State and almost every habitat from sagebrush and woodlands.

The striking contrast of the brilliant patch of Fireweed against the dark shadow of the Spruce drew me to this scene.  Fireweed virtually sparkles because of the brilliant white flags that stick out from the center of each flower.  These are the stamens, the male flower parts that contain pollen.  By reaching so far out of the flower, their pollen is more likely to reach other flowers rather than their own, one of the objectives of sexual reproduction in plants.  This is all very interesting to me because I love the story behind the scene, but from the artist’s point of view, the white flecks added sparkle to the brilliant pink.

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Fireweed (Chamerion angustifolium) is brilliant in other ways too.  Its network of underground runners (rhizomes) stabilizes the soil after a fire.  Moreover, according to Janis Huggins, author of “Wild at Heart”, the shoots are eaten by indigenous people and the flowers produce so much nectar that Russian and Canadian honey industries depend upon it.

The trees in this scene are Engelmann Spruce (Picea engelmannii).  Engelmann are among the few trees that can survive the harsh conditions at the tree line in these mountains of New Mexico.  It should be no surprise that a little further along the trail we encountered Bristle Cone Pines, the all-time champion of mountaintop survival.  I cannot be absolutely sure that some of the smaller trees in the background are not Blue Spruce (Picea pungens) because the Blues also live at high altitudes and the bluish cast of the leaves is not a reliable discriminant. Both species have variations that are quite bluish.

Hiking in the hills above the sea on the California Coast, I found this little Morning Glory clinging to dry stalks of grass.  The petals seemed too delicate to compete in such a harsh environment.  It made a direct hit on my protective instinct.  How bravely it seemed to hold onto the grass on this dry, windswept hill.

After finishing the painting I reached for my flower guide certain that it would confirm my discovery of some rare and delicate native beauty.  Here’s a summary of what Wikipedia has to say about Convolvulus arvensis (“Field Bindweed”).

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Although it produces attractive flowers, it is often unwelcome in gardens as a nuisance weed due to its rapid growth and choking of cultivated plants. It is one of the most serious weeds of agricultural fields in temperate regions of the world.  Its dense mats invade agricultural fields and reduce crop yields; it is estimated that crop losses due to this plant in the United States exceeded US $377 million in the year 1998 alone.  It was most likely introduced into North America as a contaminant in crop seed as early as 1739, as an invasive species.  It intertwines and topples native species, and competes with other species for sunlight, moisture and nutrients.  It is difficult to eradicate because the seeds remain viable in soil for up to 20 years and one plant can produce up to 500 seeds! The deep, extensive root system stores carbohydrates and proteins and allows it to sprout repeatedly from fragments and rhizomes following removal of aboveground growth. It’s even toxic to cattle.

It’s a monster!  I had to laugh at myself.  This little vine challenged my moralistic principle of painting only plants in their natural habitat.  It forced me to choose between two perspectives—art or environment.  I asked myself, as a dedicated environmentalist, if had known about the history of this vine would have painted it?  My answer was “yes”.  Aren’t there beautiful faces in a rogue’s gallery?  Besides, this tough little plant was here before the United States was a country.  Doesn’t that give it some “native” status?  And art is in the eyes of the beholder.  In this composition it evokes my sympathy. 

The meandering Corkscrew River is the life blood of the Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary, a protected habitat for a stand of ancient Bald Cypress.  Its visual complexity has inspired a number of my paintings.  There is so much plant life in this forest that almost everywhere you look you can find sufficient variation in foliage and color range to make an exciting composition.

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Clearly the central feature of this painting is the Long Strap Fern (Campyloneurum phyllitidis).  A magnificent specimen dominates the center of the painting.  It has earned its place in the name of the painting. These epiphytic ferns take root on and grow on top of other plants.  They are not parasites; they take nothing from the plant but a boost into higher elevations and more sunlight.  I enjoyed making the scalloped leaves with my painting knife by twisting little blobs of white into each curve of the edges.  The texture of these edges creates an undulating effect as you walk past the painting.

Adding to the visual feast are the ferns and bromeliads hanging from every place that provides a foothold.  On both sides of the foreground the large leaves of Alligator Flag (Thalia geniculata) frame the painting.  They are called Alligator Flag (Thalia geniculata) because the waving of the tall flower stalks may indicate a moving alligator hidden in the leaves below.  Their fading leaves lend shades of ochre and orange to a scene that is dominated by green.

Even the cypress trees themselves add to the complexity.  These are not the giant Bald Cypresses (Taxodium distichum), which stand tall and straight like pillars.  These are Pond Cypress (Taxodium ascendens), a closely related but smaller species that, in contrast to the Bald Cypress, lean and twist unpredictably. 

The meandering Corkscrew River is the life blood of the Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary, a protected habitat for a stand of ancient Bald Cypress.  Its visual complexity has inspired a number of my paintings.  There is so much plant life in this forest that almost everywhere you look you can find sufficient variation in foliage and color range to make an exciting composition.

Clearly the central feature of this painting is the Long Strap Fern (Campyloneurum phyllitidis).  A magnificent specimen dominates the center of the painting.  It has earned its place in the name of the painting. These epiphytic ferns take root on and grow on top of other plants.  They are not parasites; they take nothing from the plant but a boost into higher elevations and more sunlight.  I enjoyed making the scalloped leaves with my painting knife by twisting little blobs of white into each curve of the edges.  The texture of these edges creates an undulating effect as you walk past the painting.

Adding to the visual feast are the ferns and bromeliads hanging from every place that provides a foothold.  On both sides of the foreground the large leaves of Alligator Flag (Thalia geniculata) frame the painting.  They are called Alligator Flag (Thalia geniculata) because the waving of the tall flower stalks may indicate a moving alligator hidden in the leaves below.  Their fading leaves lend shades of ochre and orange to a scene that is dominated by green. 

Even the cypress trees themselves add to the complexity.  These are not the giant Bald Cypresses (Taxodium distichum), which stand tall and straight like pillars.  These are Pond Cypress (Taxodium ascendens), a closely related but smaller species that, in contrast to the Bald Cypress, lean and twist unpredictably.

The dark trunks of these grand old pines and the shadows they cast on the shrubs in the foreground formed a dramatic frame for the scene.  The valley stretching out below created a striking bright window provided by pale yellow tops and white trunks of birch trees.  As I stood on the edge of the bluff looking out I could see beyond the valley to the next hill and the one beyond that.  The yellow colors of the birches faded to dusty rose and then pink in the distance.

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The composition required the pine trunks to be very dark.  Dark colors alone were insufficient.  I used the side of my knife, laying each strip of bark on separately until they formed a pattern of little ridges that trapped the light.  Then I lightly dragged the knife over these ridges to create the mauve and green overtones to depict lichen and reflected light.  The result would look rather stark were it not for the riot of color in the foreground provided by the Viburnum shrubs that turn multi colored in the fall.  Each leaf seems to be able to turn color independently.  The birch leaves, too, range in color from butter yellow to orange and ochre tones, but the effect is more subtle.

The “white” in the name White Birch is obvious, although the botanical name refers to another aspect of their bark, namely its papery texture (Betula paperifera).  As for the White Pines (Pinus strobes), the whitish lines on the leaves (needles) give them a shiny whitish appearance, but you surely can’t see this in a painting.  I made the Viburnum leaves egg shaped with a rather long point to distinguish them from another species that looks very similar.  These are “Downey Arrow-wood” (Viburnum Rafinesquianum) for Constantine Samuel Rafinesque (1783-1840) naturalist and author of many new plant names.