In “Sunhalo Thaw,” I explore the fragile intersection of memory, place, and seasonal transformation through an abstract landscape born from the heart of a Green Bay winter. The painting captures a dreamlike moment when the snow, once harsh and opaque, begins to recede and reveal the quiet truths buried beneath it.
The ghostlike structure emerging from the textured whiteness is a symbol of home, traced out in the melting frost. Around it, textures evoke the residue of snowdogs (sun dogs), the illusion of a rainbow-ringed sun blurred by ice crystals and wind. The suggestion of a ribcage, with the blue sky peeking out in the sun rays, in the upper right corner alludes to nature’s endurance, the skeletal remnants of winter’s grip on the land.
This piece lives in the tension between stillness and anticipation. In northern winters, just before the snow fully gives way, there is a moment when the light shifts. You feel the sun trying to break through a blizzard’s density. That light isn’t just warmth, the change is a coded signal saying the thaw is coming. Get to work. If you wait until it is warm enough, it will be after the 4th of July and all of the mulch and plants are sold out at the local plant nurseries.
Underneath the surface of this work are hints of soil, roots, and the rusted outlines of tools—early reminders of yard work, renewal, and the mundane beauty of seasonal labor. The palette is quiet and cold, but not without hope; the subtle colors creeping in suggest the inevitable return of color, of spring, of life.
This piece is about emerging. About learning to see home even when it’s buried. About recognizing the sun through the snow and preparing for what comes next.
