Why I Paint Mountain Scenes
Blue Ridge
When one of my best-selling galleries recently closed, it sparked a conversation at home about selling art online. My wife dove into research and discovered that collectors are often drawn not just to the artwork itself, but to the story behind the artist—why they paint, what inspires them, and how their journey has shaped their work.
I’m 71 now, and I’ve been painting since 1980. That’s a long story. These days, we live in Ashe County, North Carolina—a place I consider heaven on earth—and I paint every day. So I’d like to share the story of how I came to paint the mountains of North Carolina.
In my early years as an artist, I didn’t paint mountains. I was more of a coastal guy. But my mentor, Eleanor Seng, lived in Waynesville, nestled in the western North Carolina mountains. In my fourth year of painting, she invited me to join her for a weekend in Valle Crucis. I could draw portraits, still lifes, and landscapes, but when I set up my easel for plein air painting in the mountains, I was completely lost. I didn’t know where to begin. I ended up sketching volcanic peaks—completely wrong for the ancient, worn Appalachian terrain. Eleanor, ever encouraging, never taught by instruction. You painted first, and then she told you what she liked. That weekend was fun, but artistically, a total misfire.
My next major mountain painting experience came in 1985, during a two-week trip to Valle Crucis with Eleanor. We stayed at the Mast House across from the Mast Store. It was fall, and I was eager to capture the season’s colors. Armed with paint and canvases, we explored every corner of Valle Crucis, Matney, Sugar Grove, and Villas in my little ’78 Toyota Corolla. That fall was the most spectacular I’ve ever seen—colors shifted in perfect harmony: yellows, then reds, then raw sienna, before fading to brown. Entire mountains looked ablaze. We painted three to five times a day, in every light and weather condition. The energy was electric. But despite my excitement, I flubbed every painting. Watching Eleanor wasn’t enough to keep up with the rapidly changing palette. I was stunned by how poorly I did, and it stuck with me.
Over the years, I returned to the mountains each fall, often solo. Gradually, I began producing some decent fall paintings. On one trip, bad weather kept me in the car, where I sketched quick value studies—white, mid-tone, and dark. No color. That weekend taught me more about mountain composition than any other. The lesson: do lots of thumbnail sketches to get familiar with unfamiliar subjects. I still resist this step, but it’s a discipline worth keeping.
For most of my life, I’ve made the effort to return to the mountains and try again. I’ve painted from photos in the studio, but it’s never quite the same as plein air. I’ve created some good mountain pieces over the years. Eleanor passed around 2008, and I visited her three days before. We talked about many things, but she made a point to say, “You still need to learn to paint the mountains.”
My wife adores the mountains—far more than the coast. On one painting trip to Valle Crucis, our truck was totaled in a wreck. We tried to extend the trip, but no rentals were available. Our friends Jeff and Emmaline were living in Glendale Springs, so we headed to Ashe County to visit and rented a place to salvage the vacation. Ashe County has a unique mountain beauty—it’s made to be painted. We fell in love. With the means to do so, we bought a second home in Lansing, NC. Jeff, as it happened, had just become a realtor.
Now, we spend about half our time in our mountain home, and I’m in my fourth year of daily painting here. I invite you to visit my website, , to see my mountain work. I think Eleanor would be proud. I know I am. And this year, I hope to get back outside and paint the fall again. I spend far too much time in the studio.
