Why am I compelled to paint field after field of poppies, of succulent orchids and of that place where river meets the shore? The historic symbolism of these subjects intrigues me. In Greco-Roman times, poppies were a symbol of resurrection, orchids of the perfection of the Christ, and marsh reeds of rest beside quiet waters.

These ideas resonate with me and yet the symbol isn't the thing I want to paint. The thing I want to paint is the sense of longing that these subjects stir within me.

What is this longing? I don't know. I can't name it. It's the thing that sits deep within me - the thing I know yet have never seen. It is the happy ache a joyful memory brings which is itself sweeter than the moment it remembers.

Sometimes the struggle to convey this unnamable thing feels intensely frustrating.  I often feel like the thing I want to communicate is in a foreign language that I've never heard before--that poppy fields and flowers and river scenes are the one or two letters of a word I found scratched on some scrap of paper.

It is in these moments of frustration that I remember that poppy fields in particular have long been depicted in art and literature as symbols for the horrors of the battlefield. If the poppy flower is to be symbolic of resurrection, it must first be symbolic of ugly death. The poppy is not just a another pretty flower. A field of poppies can be dangerous--just ask Dorothy or any Afghan farmer.

Although the river is where I most often return to for rest and reflection, it's also a place of barnacles, sand flies, and swift currents. Growing up in Northeast Florida I have learned that a river is a serious thing with which to reckon. It can carry me safely home one day and desert me on unseen sandbars for hours the next.

And what of the orchid? I only recently found out about its use in the symbology of the Christ figure. If I think about why I paint them, it would have to be at least in part because of how brazenly sensual I find them. They exude both exotic succulence and architectural elegance. They are graceful and somewhat bizarre. And in their anthropomorphic sexuality they remain wholly uncontrived, unmade up, effortless. I do not see this as diametrically opposed to the symbolism of the perfection of Christ but rather as an aspect of the symbolism to be explored.

To continue the analogy, I want to be open to stumbling across more letters in the alphabet of the unknown language I hear echoes of. In the end I hope this will create more space around me for truth in all its unexpected forms and with that, more space for grace.