Why I Paint the American West
My grandpa on Nugget and great grandpa, name of horse unknown, in the 1940’s
I was on horseback before I could walk.
My grandfather put me there. He’s the real cowboy in the family. A Navy submariner, a carpenter who built his own homes and barns, and a horseman through and through. Whether it was on Decatur Island when I was little watching him shine his boots, or on his small ranch later seeing my favorite mares hour old baby, being around him was where the West took root in me.
He isn’t a myth. He is a man who worked with his hands and loves his horses. His father before him was a cowboy too. That legacy doesn’t live in a museum for me but in memory, in the smell of hay, in the creak of saddle leather, in the cattle running towed me from the other end of the pasture because they think I have cubes.
I grew up around Herefords in the Pacific Northwest. Not exactly the postcard version of the West, but no less authentic. That’s part of why I paint it: because it’s not always what you think it is. Cowboys don’t only live in deserts. They live in Montana and Kansas and in the wet green valleys of western Washington.
My work leans Southwestern, sure. Partly because I’ve spent most my adult life in Texas. I’m drawn to prickly pear, Texas prickly poppies, and the dry golden tones of wide open country. But I paint the American West because it makes me happy. It’s not always solemn. Sometimes it’s funny like an armadillo wearing a cowboy hat or one stuck in a boot. I like the unloved things such as opossums, rough coats, things that make people wrinkle their noses. I see beauty in them.
My favorite flower is tough enough to bloom in heat and thorns. That feels honest to me. So does coffee and blackberries. I may be a little Texas but western Washington will always be part of who I am. Kansas can suck it… I’m kidding. Kansas is beautiful and if you don’t believe me go for a day hike in Kanopolis state park.
My first cowboy hat was an ugly painted purple and white Resistol with a feather in it. I was maybe three nut I loved it. My first boots were rubber boots to trudge through wet pastures as a kid but my first cowboy boots were pink, worn for my mom’s wedding around age eight. The rodeo was the first sport I ever cared about. I loved watching the bull riding. Now as an adult I cuddle my best friends Holstein named Daisy. Help her brother with his Hungarian gray steppe cattle. Well my husband helps more I always think I’ll be more help than I am but taking photos of each animal is really my job when working cattle. I also assign myself as calf cuddler. Y’all calf cuddler is an important job.
Someday I want my own herd. Not just for the art references out my back door but because it’s part of who I am. The dust, the animals, the way the sun hits worn wood and old leather. Painting the West is how I stay close to my roots. It’s how I carry on a story that started long before I picked up a brush.
And at the end of the day, that’s really it.
I paint the American West because it brings me joy.
Keep riding, keep painting
MERC