Landscapes are forever protean, moving from our outer perceptions to our inner imagery. They have a fluidity that other figurative painting doesn’t. They are not constrained by anatomy, and are easily convinced to morph their colors and their positions in geography and memory. We readily accept strangeness in a landscape that we might resist in a face, a body or even a house. We know that they speak equally of what we see and what we sense. For me that is a realm of ecstatic possibilities. Or mundane deliriums. And sometimes a way to nail down a memory/emotion with oil & dirt. Then my eyes can lick over it as my head turns, it can inhabit my home with an echo of other homes, other lands, other planes; otherness made palpable.