Upon Loose Ground

The field moves in concentric rings, like rippled water or a cross-cut onion, contour lines of color standing in for grass and light rather than describing them directly. Near the far edge, one or two willowy trees climb up out of the meadow, their leaves picked out in small, careful brushstrokes, a quieter touch against all that thick, worked texture below. The grasses seem to warm and sway as they spiral inward, more sensation than depiction, the kind of place you feel in memory rather than see with your eyes. Down in the foreground, the palette turns rich and dark, and out of that shadow the wildflowers ignite, bold, stylized blooms built from heavy swipes of paint, some fingerpainted, some knifed on in thick, confident wallops of color. Nothing here is meant to be exact. It's closer to a doodle of a landscape, a memory sketched fast before it fades, something felt more than observed, warm and encircling, like the field is folding itself around you rather than sitting still to be looked at.