I often think about why I like to paint. When painting feels impossible and my efforts to portray the imagery in my head on a canvas seem futile, it seems like a particularly wasteful way to spend my time. But then I am reminded of the artwork that I was exposed to in my formative youth.
Most of the paintings hanging in our homes were works by my maternal grandfather, Robert Fiske Hightower. His family worked for the railroad in Helper, Utah for years before, and after, his birth. An architect by trade, painting was more of a passion hobby. He passed before I was ever really able to know him, but I am quite stuck by how “real” a person he is to me because of these paintings that I saw every day.
With this in mind, I have filled my own home with paintings that I feel have been particularly successful. Pursuing a form of immortality through objects that will endure after my passing remains irresistibly appealing.
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