Bare Naked

In winter, when the leaves are gone, trees reveal themselves —exposed, vulnerable, unhidden. Without their summer canopies, they no longer blend into the forest. Each one stands in plain sight, showing its unique shape, its history, its journey to reach for the sun. Some are gnarled and weathered, others tall and straight, but none is more beautiful than the next. They are simply themselves—bare, strong, and unashamed.

There is something inspiring about this uncompromising presence. A tree has no pretense, no need to impress. It just exists, deeply rooted, shaped by its environment yet wholly individual. I am drawn to this honesty.

In Virginia, where I live, trees tell stories. A cluster of oaks in a hayfield reveals where an old farmhouse once stood. The shape of a tree tells how it grew, how the forest influenced it, how it sought the light. But each year, more of these trees disappear—cut down for pine plantations or housing developments, their decades of growth reduced to stacks of logs and piles of burning roots. It hurts my heart. 

When my heart hurts, I paint trees.

Painting them is both an act of grief and of solace. When I am low, I return to them, drawing inspiration from their forms, their endurance. Bare Naked is a reflection on relationship—of trees standing alone, yet deeply connected. It is about the beauty of being seen exactly as you are.