Where the River Bends -- Oil on Canvas: 30x24

When it comes to animal intelligence, admittedly, the chicken is not the first one that comes to mind. An excellent horror movie could be wrapped around a giant form of one of these primeval fowls, pecking its way through Tokyo or New York, perhaps landing at the top of the Empire State Building and flapping its wings in victorious crow.

But I digress. We were discussing the wisdom of chickens.

Perhaps it is not so much that the chickens are wise themselves, but that we, watching them, can gain some wisdom of our own.

Consider the pecking order: yes, chickens have this, and yes, it is so named because they literally do peck those birds that are under them, sometimes to death.

Do we do this to each other?

Anyone who remembers junior high or middle school can most certainly remember a pecking order; as we get older, we refine our methods, but anytime we find ourselves in a group, we also find the tendency to classify ourselves and others within that group, and many times, those classifications are not very kind.

Our daughter once attended a group that sectioned the participants into one of four major animal types, based upon their perceived personality traits. I don't remember all four, but I do remember that one was a lion -- and the leader, naturally, told everyone that he was a lion with all the attendant leadership qualities -- and that another animal trait was a labrador retriever, so named because it was compliant and obedient and subservient to others. Our daughter, according to the leader, was a labrador retriever (interestingly enough, so was the leader's wife; I cannot imagine my wife's reaction were I to describe her as a labrador retriever).

This exercise was apparently somehow supposed to bond the group together and increase their understanding of themselves and one another, but from our daughter's perspective, the only lesson that she took out of this foray into futility was that she was . . . a dog.

Not only do we classify others around us and allow others around us to classify us, but we willingly slap broadreaching, self-fulfilling labels upon ourselves.

"Oh, I'm a Melancholy," we may announce, or, "I'm a Type A Obsessive Compulsive," or "I'm a repressive depressive analytical nerd with a broad-ranged sense of humor." It is easy to fool ourselves into thinking that we are giving detailed, accurate descriptions of who we are -- understanding who we are is one thing; boxing ourselves up is another.

My wife says that one of her favorite aspects of artist receptions is that she knows nothing about any of the people she will be meeting and talking with through the evening: "I don't know their political views, their religious leanings, their educational backgrounds, their family dynamics -- anything," she explains to me. "I approach them with nothing more in common than that we are both human, and it is refreshing to converse with someone and have absolutely no pre-conceived idea of who they are, or who I think they are."

I find this point of view liberating, and perhaps it explains why I, too, enjoy interacting with people at these receptions. In a short space of time, we find the elements on which we connect, and if the connection is strong enough, then we continue it through the future.

If this works at a reception, my wife and I tell each other, then perhaps this principle is one that we can apply more broadly, say, in our day to day life. Perhaps instead of classifying people within our minds and assigning them a loose number in an abstract pecking order, we can approach even old relationships as if they were new, and interact with friends, family, and acquaintances as if we know nothing more about each other than that we are both human, and maintain an open mind in the continued growth of the relationship.

Perhaps we can transcend the Wisdom of Chickens and tap into our humanity.

Moonlight Sail -- Oil on Canvas -- 9x12

Is the economy turning around?

Not being an economist, I don't know, but from what I'm reading in the paper and hearing on the news, even the trained economists don't know either.

Out here in Eastern Washington, we joke that during the boom times, things look pretty much the same over here, and during the bust times, things look pretty much the same over here.

The Main Streets in this region boast a series of small, independent business people -- one- to five- person shops -- specializing in baking bread, selling toys, stocking yarn (my wife is big on that, especially if it's a fiber that started out in the underbelly region of a camel), brewing tea -- odd, unique places selling odd, unique things that one doesn't generally find in the Mart stores.

From interacting with these people, I get the idea that yes, things are tough, but then, things are always tough in this area. Sales are happening, and people are willing to buy even luxurious things (as in the above camel haired product).

My wife and I joke that our brilliant timing led us to launch serious sales of my fine art right at the beginning of the recession, but, frustrating as it can be hearing over and over, "Oh, sales at this event were nearly triple this years ago!" we also see a refreshingtly independent type of person buying art -- these are people  who, during the boom years, never overextended themselves, but saved up for the things they wanted, like fine art, and purchased them when they had the money in hand. During the bust years, many of these people follow the same pattern -- they set aside money, and once they have enough, they contact us or one of our galleries and buy fine art.

Interestingly, many of these people are small business owners themselves, or professionals running a small to mid-sized practice, and they run their personal lives with the same wisdom and acumen that they invest in their businesses, showing that, in more ways than one, this country is truly run on the back of its small business owners.

Hurricane River: Oil on Canvas -- 24x20.

Years ago we had a friend who was in advertising. Being in college at the time and cobbling together a series of jobs to make ends meet, we were impressed by his vocation because it was fulltime and it paid the bills, something that cannot be said about counting grasshoppers for the USDA during the spring and summer.

Our friend, however, had a different opinion. "The very nature of advertising," he told us, "is to convince people that they need and want something that they don't actually need and want. Ethically, there's a fine line."

Years later, after years of working fulltime jobs that do, indeed pay the bills (and do not, fortunately, involve counting grasshoppers), I think back to what our friend said, especially in light of marketing my own work.

Fine art paintings are unabashedly in the "wants" category, and I am grateful for my clients who save their money in order to grant themselves and those they care about an item of luxury for their walls. Often, it is the ones who save the longest who write back months later to tell me how much they enjoy a particular piece.

These people remind me of my wife's high school math experience. A lover of language, not numbers, Carolyn worked herself through the higher math classes, but never easily. She looked around at others in the class that appeared to understand mathematical concepts simply by breathing in the air of the classroom.

"Not me," she said. "I always felt that I was a chapter behind. Mid-way through chapter 3, I finally understood the concepts of chapter 2, and so on and on through the year. I was able to keep my head above water, but only by dint of a lot of hard work."

Because understanding math concepts required so much study and work, Carolyn figured that math just wasn't her thing, even though she actually enjoyed studying it. Years later, she realized that, just because something doesn't come easily to a person doesn't mean that the person can't actually pursue the subject. Indeed, working hard to master a subject or skill adds a dimension to that mastery that a natural aptitude sometimes overlooks.

And how does this relate to buying fine art?

The general impression about purchasing original fine art oil paintings seems to be that one must be independently wealthy to do it, but my many clients who dream about art, look for fine art, and save up for what they want, disprove this. Indeed, it is the very acts of dreaming and looking and saving up that add dimesion to their enjoyment -- and mine.

Original Fine Art Oil Painting by Steve Henderson Fine Art

The Quiet Place -- Oil on Canvas: 24x30

Unlike the stereotypical hapless husband, I do not forget my wedding anniversary, and I am happy to celebrate that momentous event today with my wife of 27 years, Carolyn.

We have been through a lot together -- a bicycle trip through Venezuela and Colombia, during which time we lived in a roofed over alley in the Andes highlands; the birth (two at home) and the raising of four incredible children, all of whom we homeschooled; the building of our modified timberframe house and the living in the barn (six of us) while we built; the foray into grandparenthood; the building of our fine art painting business.

When we first started dating, we were so wretchedly poor that the only way we could afford to go out was to take long, long walks in the countryside. We kept up those walks as the children joined us -- first in a double racing stroller, then on bicycles. Now, on our country property, we take three one-mile rounds everyday, discussing everything from painting to politics.

Although we can now afford more than one cup of all-you-can-drink coffee between the two of us, we treasure the time we spend walking, and talking, together, and are grateful for those days in which we couldn't afford to do anything else.

Original Oil Painting by Steve Henderson of Steve Henderson Fine Art

Into the Sun -- Oil on Canvas: 12x24

Anyone who has seen the musical Fiddler on the Roof quickly recognizes that the theme of tradition is tightly interwoven throughout the entire plot. In the same way, anyone who spends time with my wife or kids recognizes that tradition is big, very big, in this family, and the quickest way to get a rise out of any of them is to disparage something traditional, like, say, a Christmas tree.

Having been raised in a family where family birthday parties, Easter egg hunts, and long discussions about what to put into Christmas stockings didn't really play much of a part, I have been engaged in an ongoing training session for the last 27 years, ever since I married my wife. As children were added to the family, she brought them into the fold with the tradition element, so that now she has four stalward advocates to back her up on crucial issues, like, say, Christmas trees.

The first couple years of marriage, before kids (and before money, incidentally, as we were the proverbially poor college students), there was no Christmas tree, a fact that is trotted out now and again to the composite horror and loudly outspoken outrage of the children.

"Don't worry, Mom," I have overheard assorted progeny reassuring my wife. "When we're all grown up, we'll make sure that you still get a Christmas tree," as if the woman were not perfectly capable of finding a tree on the lot of some retail store, stuffing it into the Honda Civic, and driving it home -- something she did yesterday, by the way. It is still in the car, acting as an air freshener far more powerful than any cardboard cutout that hangs from the mirror, awaiting my saw and trimming abilities.

Although I don't admit this too loudly or too often, after 27 years I have been brought to see that there is indeed something about this focus on tradition, and while I am still not to the point of agonizing over what to put in the Christmas stockings, I very much enjoy decorating the Christmas tree. Thanks to the local dollar store, we have a large stock of tradtional Christmas music (interestingly, as much as my daughters argue with me about the importance of tradition, they are definitely Scrooges about Christmas carols, and would prefer Motley Crue over Bing Crosby); the goats provide milk for hot cocoa (which must, according to all four children, be garnished with a candy cane); and every year we add more lights to the ever growing grapevine outside, which acts as a year-round Christmas night light to evening visitors.

We'll be at it tonight, especially as the car won't be able to handle smelling any fresher than it presently does.

Original oil painting by Steve Henderson of Steve Henderson Fine Art

A Bit of Sun -- Oil on Canvas: 9x12

Years ago, when we built our house, we stretched our small budget so that we could get decent insulation professionally installed, a decision that we have been grateful for ever since. Although at the time, we would have preferred spending the money on something more obvious, like luscious cherry wood cabinetry or new furniture to go with the new construction, we look at each other each cold winter and each hot summer and say, "Sure glad we insulated this place well."

As I write, it is 7 degrees outside, the sun streaming into the windows. That sun, in conjunction with the wood stove, is keeping the interior temperature a comfortable 75 degrees, despite the number of times the children open and close the door. A minimum of wood is required to keep the house temperature where we want it.

Insulation is an example of one of thsoe investments that, at the time, doesn't look so exciting, but, as time goes on, becomes something you can't imagine not having done. We opted for a smaller house constructed with better materials, and although sometimes when everyone is at home we think that a bit more space might be nice, we also like the bit more money in the bank account that a completely paid for house results in. It was well worth saving up for the insulation so that we could enjoy it for years to come.

Saving up money is even more fun when you are saving it for something exciting and beautiful, like a piece of art. Many of my clients have "indulgence funds" into which they deposit regular amounts; then, when they have a sufficient amount, they contact me and with total joy and abandon purchase the exact painting that they want for their walls, which they enjoy, guilt free, because they have saved up for it.

Paintings, indeed, are a luxury, but with forethought and a mind to deferred gratification, they are most definitely an affordable one, well within reach of many of us. And although they are decidedly in the more "fun" category than house insulation, both are able to provide that sense of appreciation and gratitude that we get when we save up for something well worth having. Perhaps we in America will return to the concept of deferred gratification and saving up for the things we want, and thereby be able to enjoy them more when we get them.

Original Oil Painting by Steve Henderson of Steve Henderson Fine Art

Stillness -- Oil on Canvas: 12x24

The other day my wife was setting up an informal get together with friends to knit for an evening when one of the women commented, "Do you think it will be all right to do this the week before Christmas? I mean, won't it just add to all the stress?"

My wife said that two things blurted out of her mouth nearly simultaneously: One, "Knitting is stressful?" and Two, "What are people getting so stressed about the week before Christmas?"

As I don't knit, I don't know about the knitting being stressful part, although my wife looks like a contented cat when she's doing it, but I am as frustrated as she is about the Christmas tension and trauma situation.

Just how, as a society, did we get to the point of taking such a happy, fun holiday and turning it into a series of assignments and deadlines that need to be slogged through? If Christmas cards are so expensive and time consuming, why do people send them (many of the ones we receive are simply signed with no message, or whatever message is included is one of those laughably wretched year-encapsulating  brag sheets that make everyone reading them feel inferior about their own lives).

If purchasing presents is stealing from the grocery fund, then why the guilt feelings about forgoing purchasing or scaling down -- especially when the gifts are for acquaintances, distant distant relatives, or co-workers and associates? Are all of the parties truly necessary? And the children's plays and choral concerts that the participants so diligently complain about and the parents so stoically sit through -- will society collapse if we collectively say "no" to them this year?

Lest I be called a Grinch, allow me to point out that none of these societal obligations has anything to do with Christmas, or the meaning of Christmas, or the reason behind Christmas, or the spirt of Christmas -- but rather, they are a series of non-spoken obligatons that we impose upon ourselves and others, and, when they reach the point of not being fun, then they have outlived whatever usefulness that they had.

Giving and receiving gifts, sending cards, attending parties, listening to concerts and plays -- all of these are fine as long as they remain meaningful and do not detract from their value by adding to a sense of overwork and obligation. I have always likened activities to the offeirngs available at a potluck -- there's a lot of incredibly delicious food on those tables, but each plate can only hold so much. If we overload ourselves, then we either wind up getting sick from overeating or wasting what we can't consume.

In the long run, wouldn't it be better to step back a few feet and choose a half-portion each of two desserts?

I wish for all of you a sense of stillness and peace in this season of grace.

Original oil painting by Steve Henderson of Steve Henderson Fine Art

Lady Camp -- Oil on Canvas: 12x24

For 27 years, we have not owned a dryer, choosing to hang our clothes up on an outside line or inside rack. Recently, our college aged daughter mentioned that, without trying, we have become ecologically fashionable, and without knowing it, have for years been participating in an earth friendly, trendy, although still not very popular, activity.

When we built our house, I overheard the plumber arguing with my wife about not installing a dryer in the laundry room.

"Think of the re-sale value," he urged. "Your house is an investment."

"It's our home," she replied. "It's the way it is because that's the way we want it, not because someone else wants it that way."

It is often said that art is an investment, and indeed it is, and like many artists, I appreciate it as the valuation of my work rises. At the same time, however, it is intriguing to think of art in the same way that my wife thinks about our house -- it, too, is an investment (and although we never installed the dryer, we did leave room so that a future buyer can do so) -- but first and foremost, it is our home, and it reflects who we are and what we like to do.

How many people have artwork on their walls that they truly enjoy and connect with? My favorite art sales are to clients who love a piece because it reminds them of a place that they used to know, or dream about seeing someday, or simply want to have on their walls to inspire contemplation.

One day at an art gallery, we overheard one patron murmer to another, "I really, really like this painting -- but I don't know -- do you think it would be a good investment?"

I thought to myself, "If you can afford it, and you like it, then buy it, put it on your wall, and enjoy looking at it everyday. Isn't that investment enough?"

Original Oil Painting by Steve Henderson of Steve Henderson Fine Art

Sacajawea Mountain -- Oil on Canvas: 12x12

The words one chooses to describe a particular item or concept are important, and with the flexibility and adaptability of the English languge, we who speak this tongue are frequently able to choose the precise word we need to accurately convey our message.

With this in mind, I want to look at the term landscape in view of its meaning in the art world. A composite of land and scape, the obvious sense of the word is the representation, somehow, of land -- trees, mountains, hills, rivers, meadows, grasslands -- elements involved with the earth. To distinguish from ocean scenes, which don't have a lot of land in them, we use the term seascapes or oceanscapes when the view involves a lot of water; marine art also gives the reader a reasonable idea of what to expect.

Now, however, we enter the realm of urban scenes -- buildings, streets, subways, buses, sidewalks, shops, alleyways, graffiti, park benches. Are paintings that represent these scenes landscapes?

If you look at contemporary competitions and artist magazines, the answer would appear to be yes, since many of these venues showcase "landscapes" that focus on the inner workings of the modern metropolis.

As a painter who appreciates the rapidly disappearing tracts of unspoiled land, however, I take umbrage at this lumping of manmade environment in with the natural one, annoucing that all of these are landscapes, only, in the case of cityscapes, the skyscrapers replace mountains, the municipal water system represents rivers, the acres of glass stand in for sky, Any land involved in these scenes is pretty much confined to the dust on pedestrians' shoes.

Despite this era of poltical correctness, there is fortunately still no official language police, so whether to call a cityscape a landscape is a personal choice -- and my personal choice is, no, a cityscape is not a landscape, because its primary focus is not to highlight the elements of land, but rather, to focus on the engineering feats and lifestyle energy of a place where a lot of people live. To deny that that there is a difference between the two is misleading and marginalizes the sometimes intense feelings that different people have about the environment in which they choose to live -- rural people have some pretty strong feelings about where they lives, as do their urban counterparts -- and these feelings go back a long way, as evidenced by the children's fable, The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse.

This mouse enjoys the coutnry -- that's why I paint it.