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| The Battle of Coon Creek Historical Marker, Kansas, U.S. Highway 50 acrylic on five shaped ragboard panels, artist-made frames 6 x 48 7/8 x 1 3/4 inches |
The historical marker for The Battle of Coon Creek is
located two miles east of Kinsley, Kansas, on U.S. Highway 50. Although the sign
failed to position the conflict, I am fairly certain that it didn’t happen
right by the highway. The Arkansas River crossing comes up before that of Coon
Creek, on the way in to town. It may have made more sense, to place the historical
marker somewhere along the creek. Although where it is might be closer to the
actual site, it’s not that easy to envision the battle terrain, surrounded by mounds
of prairie covered sand dunes. I liked the historical maker; it was a
designated place to pull over. That fondness extends to any set of trashcans
cans, with or without the presence of picnic tables. The opportunity to stop
and inhale a spot along the highway is a significant part of traveling. Without
it, a journey can be reduced to mileage, a meaningless quest for destiny, where
time steals from the spectacle of oncoming horizons.
The battle involving U.S. troops and Plains Indians occurred
in 1848. I’ve decided to skip most of the posted information. In two trips
across Kansas, separated by a year and a half, a new sign replaced the old with
a different history. That discrepancy could be due to what to cover in the
limited space of couple of paragraphs. However, what each sign had in common was
the description of an Indian woman clothed in silver ornaments and a scarlet
dress, supervising the removal of the wounded while riding around on horseback.
Based on the difference between signs, a motorist restricted to seeing just one
of them, would come away with a less complicated view of the solidity of history,
written about events grounded in the shifting sands of Kansas.
The intriguing thing about photographing a site is that I
usually know how much to include. However, once a scene is moved to my computer,
I no longer recall exactly what I saw, until the information is laid out for
painting. When I saw the pencil rendering extend across the panels, I was
delighted and surprised by the latitude of the tree’s shadow. Although I keenly
remember seeing the shadow, I was unaware of how much it would influence the
mood of the painting.
Painting a designated place to pull over is not a new arena
for me. I’m smitten by any landscaping that leans into the immediacy of scenery.
I find such a site a difficult invitation to skip. Although my father was not
in my thoughts when I stopped to look around, when the painting begin to materialize,
something about the broad shadow and the vista beyond, reminded me of traveling
with him. I’ve consumed a lot of time wondering why that should be. Traversing
the plains of Kansas was not an experience I had with my dad. Everything about
life included something to do with mountains. When you’re raised in Utah and Nevada,
there is no place to go, where you can outpace the face of geology. Anywhere out
on the highway, slumbering mountains arise all the way to the coast of
California. The only thing that this painting shares with the memories of traveling
with my dad is the presence of a trashcan. It’s hard to believe that such a minor
detail could be so meaningful. But as he drove, he seemed to fill ordinary
mileage in with a sense of adventure. The highway wasn’t just about getting to an
astonishing site, it also included a veneration for all the places in between.
I never uncovered a specific reason why this painting
reminded me of traveling with my father. Perhaps, it just comes down to where I
happen to be. He has been dead ten years now, and so it may be easier to fully appreciate
the vision his living gave to me. With his dedication to the highway, it is not
surprising that I grew to love the swell of every oncoming horizon. The clout
of topography can be measured by the fact that it precedes the parameters of meaning.
It is there. It is out there. And as such a place, narrative has no sway within
the realm of surroundings. That’s the thing I admire about landscape painting.
It is an open ended enterprise, mysterious enough to be the original Rothko.
Because earth and sky defy description, painting never reveals anything about
me, leaving the terrain vacant for anyone wishing to engage in a narrative free
mystery.
