An art teacher once told me that the viewer reads a painting from left to right, and from top to bottom. So if I wanted you to travel with your eyes up the trunk of this magnificent dogwood, perhaps I should have flipped the composition. But this was not the intention with “My Beloved.” I set out to have the viewer travel to many places within the painting, to have an adoration as I did for this great lady. She had persevered through hardships and weathered many storms, and yet she was able to deliver a spray of abundant and graceful flowers. If you look deeper, there are many other symbolic messages. For example, the wedding ring quilt in the window was purposeful. And so was the almost symbiotic relationship between the tree and clapboard house. The old painted boards showed the same hardships and storms that the tree has endured. I tried to personify them both, such as that they are almost embracing one another, as if sharing the spotlight. Nine times out of ten, I title my works before starting the first brush stroke. This way I stay focused and committed to the prize at the end. I will usually pick a few words about the atmosphere in the painting, and repeat those to myself along the way. Here I found myself chanting “My Beloved, My Beloved, My Beloved” and naturally I kept thinking of my beloved wife, Bonny.
- Alan Shuptrine
I have always been inspired by the seemingless endless waves of evergreens that tower over little towns and homesteads in the Appalachian Mountains. There is a peculiar rhythm here, unlike any other rugged terrain, a cadence for which life subsists and passes its bounty to the next generation.
- Alan Shuptrine
In Thirteen Susans, I purposely hid the last blossom. Perhaps I wanted you to challenge my count and to go into the denseness with me. Come into this deep jungle of stems and leaves and blossoms, and you will feel the sun’s warmth, as well as the cool shadows on the stone.
- Alan Shuptrine
Close your eyes. Hear the wind and smell the mist. It is a mist that flows like a river, or some say crawls like a serpent. It fills each valley along the Appalachian Mountains with a white veil.
- Alan Shuptrine
When the sun went down behind its mountain, the long shadows left me standing, quietly, reverently, beside her. The eerie glow in the clouds above cast an abiding light on the peeling clapboards. I could almost hear the old hymns ringing forth from the opened steeple.
- Alan Shuptrine
High above, it begins with only a trickle falling off of a moss-covered rock; but further down the mountain, it gathers all of its memories into a cool deep creek.
- Alan Shuptrine
At a roadside stand, a farmer was selling gourds. There were thousands of them, some hanging and others in a field by the barn. I asked, ”How much are your gourds?” “They’re two dollars plain, three dollars drilled,” he said in a rehearsed reply. I bought a dozen of the drilled ones for my purple martins back home.
- Alan Shuptrine
In case you haven’t noticed, I am fond of the dogwood. I lived in Highlands, North Carolina deep in the Appalachian mountains for part of my childhood. I can remember as a 7 year old, on late Spring evenings, running in sock feet through hundreds and hundreds of dogwoods, occasionally I would have to stop and pick the lichen off of my socks, and that’s when I would study the rough and scaly texture of the branches, juxtaposed with the softness of the blossoms, The way that one blossom, when it bounces in the breeze just right, casts its cool shadow on the next. It is in my opinion the most graceful of flowering trees. Graceful for finding a way to grow upwards towards the light. Graceful for the thin and delicate petals. Graceful for it’s beauty.
- Alan Shuptrine
In the Blue Ridge Mountains, there were hundreds of dogwood trees to choose from. I would lie down on a blanket under a canopy of white and look to the heavens. The morning light would awaken a symphony of blossoms against a cobalt sky.
- Alan Shuptrine
There is a spot near Hot Springs, North Carolina that is one of the most revered places I know. The ancient Celts would have called Max Patch “a thin place”, a place where heaven and earth are very close.
From its highest point of 4600 feet in elevation, you can see a panoramic view of the Blue Ridge Mountains and the distant Smokies, all at once.
It was a bright sunny day on my first visit to what would become my favorite spot along the Appalachian Trail. I was prepared to paint a scene from the top of Max Patch in plein air so I was well equipped. I had my easel, watercolor paints, watercolor paper, brushes, a bottle of drinking water, paper towels, and every conceivable thing an artist would need on site...except for an umbrella! Just as I got organized and started my drawing, a curtain of mist began closing in on the field of Queen Anne’s Lace. The effect was stunning, despite that everything got soaked with rain. I brought home several loose and watery studies and began painting in my studio the next day. I can still hear the stalks of grass in the wind while blossoms of lace dance against a palette of evergreens.
- Alan Shuptrine
I am drawn to things in the landscape which have stood the test of time and have stories to tell. The old red barn isn’t used anymore; but rather than tear it down, the farmer keeps it standing as a reminder of the good years.
- Alan Shuptrine
This barrel is being put to rest after being back/forth from Scotland and used for 225 years. It was haunting seeing her alone , against the sooted walls, still very strong after her travels, nicely aged....now waiting to go to a rest area. She (the barrel) is charred inside for fine scotch or whiskey, and has been reconditioned for years. The sooted walls behind her show where deep scratches are made when all the barrels are put into storage as they roll them in for their 5/10/20 year holding area.
- Alan Shuptrine
“Please close the gate behind you,” she said as made my way to the 100 acre farm behind her Antebellum house. I was just glad that she had granted me permission to walk back there and study the shadows on her haybales which glistened in the morning sun. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll shut the gate behind me, I promise.” As I approached the gate, I noticed the horseshoe right away and remembered that turned upwards, it brings good luck. The slide was quite rusted and slightly bent so opening the gate was going to be a chore, I thought. Someone else had been keeping the same promise for decades. And that’s when it hit me. The symbolism was deeper than “Please shut the gate behind you.” Suddenly I was studying the gate and latch and I had all but forgotten those haybales in the fields. The many colors of rust, the lichen on sun-bleached oak, and temperature of shadows became my focus that morning. I lightly sketched it in while I imagined her watching form the window. She was probably standing there, peering through the drapes, I thought waiting to see if I would close the gate behind me. Actually, I never even touched the gate, out of respect. There was no need.
- Alan Shuptrine
No heels, tripods, purses, or sharp objects may touch this hallowed ground. No touching or climbing either. For here, where her moss branches are buried in centuries of sand, only bare feet will do for My Angel. (on site, Charleston, SC).
- Alan Shuptrine
Her name was Henrietta. She allowed me to photograph her for a painting subject. As she gently worked the delicate cloth with her worn and beautiful hands, she told me of her life growing up on a corn farm in southern Mississippi.
- Alan Shuptrine
Down this mountain and then up another. Something swaying in the breeze catches my eye—a bed of white daisies; and like stepping stones, they point the way.
- Alan Shuptrine
It would snow five or six times a year in Highlands, North Carolina. Every twig would be dusted like powdered sugar before the sunrise. The dead silent stillness would transform into a white playground, with purple and blue snow shadows.
- Alan Shuptrine
In case you haven’t noticed, I am fond of the dogwood. I lived in Highlands, North Carolina, deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains for part of my childhood. I can remember as a 7 year old, on late Spring evenings, running in sock feet through hundreds and hundreds of dogwoods. Occasionally I would have to stop and pick the lichen off of my socks, and that’s when I would study the rough and scaly texture of the branches, juxtaposed with the softness of the blossoms. The way that one blossom, when it bounces in the breeze just right, casts its cool shadow on the next. It is in my opinion the most graceful of flowering trees. Graceful for finding a way to grow upwards towards the light. Graceful for the thin and delicate petals. Graceful for it’s beauty.
- Alan Shuptrine
All the others are gone, but I am still here, hanging on. My roots are deep into this hillside and my branches bend. So, bring on the drought, the wind, the ice, and the lightning. I will survive, for I am strong. I am independent.
- Alan Shuptrine
These wounds have a story to tell—of brutal winters, parasites, and other hardships of life in the mountains. But I remain steadfast in my climb. Upwards, and with as much grace as I can muster.
- Alan Shuptrine
"Three is a more artistic number than two,” my father would say. I agree.
- Alan Shuptrine
I had been hiking all morning in a dark green tunnel of rhododendrons and Mountain Laurel. The forest is dense here in the Smokies, and everything that touches me is wet from the fog and the mountain’s breath. Even the dead leaves and moss are alive once again, exuding their pungent scent of earth, of peat and dirt and minerals. It all returns to the mountain, I thought, or down in the valley if a stream takes it there. These were my childhood trails, and the circle of life is right here before me.
I pressed onward and upward, determined to reach the end of this endless tunnel. Suddenly, a shaft of light pierced through the darkness and I was delivered into the clearing.
It is a moment or place like this which fascinates me, where dark meets light, or where death become life. I have always looked for contrast, ever since my father taught me to paint my darkest dark next to my lightest light.
- Alan Shuptrine
As the sun slips behind the foothills, the witching hour is ushered in by the rhythmic drone of katydids. Sitting on a limb of a twisted dogwood tree, I have a balcony seat to watch the fading light on the landscape.
- Alan Shuptrine