Trying to create feeling.
To harvest your own wood, you want to do it efficiently, a process that demands both precision and forethought. There’s this rule of thumb: touch each piece of wood as few times as possible, minimizing the steps it takes to get from point A to point B. Sure, if it’s just one log, an extra step or two doesn’t matter much—but if you’re splitting and stacking a truckload, those wasted movements pile up fast. By the end, you’re left wondering why your back hurts more than it should.
I’m starting to paint landscapes now, and it’s funny how similar it feels to splitting wood. Only instead of logs, I’m working with pigments, and instead of an axe, I’ve got a brush. But the principle is the same: touch it as few times as possible. Each extra stroke, each moment of overthinking or trying to “fix” something, just makes it worse. It’s like picking up the same log three times—you don’t notice it at first, but after a while, the inefficiency adds up.
At the beginning of my time down here, I set this lofty goal for myself: paint a different scene of Mount Discovery every day so I could really “learn” the mountain. It might sound overly earnest, but it comes across a bit like I’m in art school, searching for meaning where none exists. Like I was trying to wring some profound lesson out of a mountain that’s just… there, doing its mountain thing. The only real lesson, I think, was to take in the beauty and smile about it. Maybe that’s shallow or uncultured, but looking back at that whole “paint Mount Discovery every day” idea, it feels ridiculous.
For one, I was at McMurdo Station—possibly the most chaotic place on earth, where you can eat 24-hour pizza and hear forklifts beeping at all hours. Time wasn’t the issue; the problem was that I was trying to get something out of the mountain and the pigments that wasn’t there. I wanted the mountain to do the work for me, to magically open my eyes to colors, shapes, and angles. But it turns out that seeing—and translating what you see into something others can understand—is a learned skill. You have to work at it.
There’s a difference between painting what you see and painting what you feel. That’s why I started with Gabagool. Gabagool wasn’t tied to anything real. A creature like them doesn’t exist on this earth, so there was no comparing, no expectations. Gabagool couldn’t be “good” or “bad,” “accurate” or “off.” They just were. That’s what I liked about them—there was no pressure to measure up or compare. Gabagool simply existed as they were, a character free of judgment and full of possibilities. That’s what I liked. Gabagool became a blank canvas for emotions, a scarecrow waiting to be filled with a soul. Writing their story was like stuffing them with hay until they could stand on their own. Nobody needed to explain Gabagool. People were just surprised by how much love they felt for this weird little character.
Now I’ve moved on from Gabagool—temporarily, at least. I had to take a couple of days off from creating because moving on too quickly felt like rebounding from a breakup. I needed time to celebrate and reflect on what Gabagool meant to me. But now, I’m shifting gears, I think..
The Antarctic landscape provokes both visual and soulful emotions. People say pictures don’t do it justice, and I think that’s because they can’t capture the feeling. They don’t show the way the light rolls off distant hills like a halo or the way the cold makes your whole body feel alive. Trying to translate that into art is intimidating. How do you make someone feel what you felt? How do you cast emotions into pigment?
It’s easier to feel goosebumps when you’re standing in a landscape, and seeing it for the first time. Maybe its the scene itself or the 30 knot wind slapping you in the face. Its easier to feel goosebumps there than to feel them while looking at a painting on a coffee table. Ther artist isnt there to beg you to see it, to share the back story, why it is special, why it is different than the infinite number of landscape paintings that have come before it. The painting just has to do the talking. That’s intimidating—but that’s what I’m trying to do now, to share the feeling that these places bring, even if I am not there to actively express gushing emotions over it.
Last night, I started with a painting of Mount Erebus. I worked on my bedroom floor, supplies scattered everywhere. There’s now a maze of wet paint and murky water jars you have to navigate just to get to the door. It’s an act in progress—something I can pick up whenever.
Admittedly, I’m slightly terrified of painting landscapes. They’re so beautiful on their own that it feels impossible to match their impact. All I can do is imitate—and figure out how to imitate in my own way. I had a breakthrough, though: painting with acrylic is a lot like stacking wood.
When you’re stacking wood, the most efficient method is also the smoothest, fastest, and easiest. You touch each piece as few times as possible. If it’s just five pieces of wood, it doesn’t matter much. But for a truckload, every extra movement adds up. Painting with acrylic feels the same. You can’t replicate the same pigment twice, so you have to use it all at once. Do all your layers and details with that color in one go. Don’t come back later to “fix” it with something that doesn’t quite match. One step at a time, finish it completely before moving on.
If I’m lucky, I might end up with something worth looking at. And if I do it right, maybe—just maybe—the viewer will feel what I felt when I first saw the scene. Painting, like splitting wood, is about efficiency—not just in action but in emotion, too. Both demand focus and intention: one clean motion that leaves you with something whole, something satisfying. Whether it’s a well-stacked pile or a finished painting, the payoff is the same—a quiet sense of accomplishment that makes the effort worthwhile. One smooth, clean motion, and you’re left with something whole, ideally.