The Cypress Hills

We were a dot on the prairies, within a sea of wheat and cattle as far as the eye could see. Perfectly flat. Everywhere. Except one place. The Cypress Hills stood off in the distance as something wholly different. A interruption on the horizon that seemed like it shouldn't belong, and was all the more magnetic for it.

In the summers we would frequently visit the park on the Saskatchewan side to sell newspapers to the campers (why campers would want a newspaper is beyond me, but sell newspapers we did). For me it was never really about hawking papers. It was about the opportunity to get into the woods, to explore somewhere wild, to exist in a completely different world than the one I was accustomed to.

And I loved it.

To this day I think about how I felt as a child, driving up into the hills; that magic I felt deep in my bones. Every visit, that wonder rushed back as if for the first time.

That's what I'm chasing in this painting. That specific feeling of awe, belonging to a specific kid, in a specific place. Whether I captured it or not, I can't say with any objectivity. But it feels right to me, and that's good enough.