Notes on Southern Utah: Finding My Way Back to Painting

 

When I arrived at Maynard Dixon’s home and studio in Southern Utah, I was carrying more than my desire to paint. I was looking for space to think, to slow down, and to reconnect with the part of myself that feels most alive when I am making art. I wanted to step away from the familiar rhythms of everyday life and give myself the freedom to explore without knowing exactly where the work would lead.

There was something about being in this landscape, surrounded by ancient rock formations and the immense openness of the desert, that invited a different kind of attention. I began to look more closely, to wait longer, and to consider what it means to translate a place into paint. Coming to Dixon’s home also gave me an opportunity to reflect on his relationship with the American West and to consider how my own interpretation of the landscape might evolve.

 

I am not a plein air painter, nor do I aspire to reproduce nature exactly as I see it. I am drawn instead to landscapes of the imagination, using the natural world as a point of departure. I want to take what I observe and transform it through my own visual language, allowing color, shape, and gesture to express something beyond the literal appearance of a place.

Here in Southern Utah, the rock formations seemed like hieroglyphics, but older than any human language. Their surfaces hold the traces of time, weather, and geological transformation. They seem to communicate something ancient and unknowable. I found myself wondering how to translate these forms into paint without losing their mystery.

One of the most important lessons of this residency has been to slow down and wait for the light. Light transforms the landscape moment by moment, revealing shapes and dissolving them again into shadow. Painting takes time, and time becomes part of the medium itself. Every mark carries a decision; every layer of paint records a moment of looking, waiting, and responding.

I also remembered to push paint with my brush rather than simply apply it. There is a physicality to this process that feels liberating. I am becoming more interested in the movement of paint across the surface, in the way one shape meets another, and in how color can describe a landscape without having to imitate it. I feel so much better when I allow myself to paint shapes instead of trying to make a painting look realistic.

Throughout the residency, I listened to Sweeney Todd’s Nightcap Lounge podcast, which became a tremendous source of inspiration. Its presence accompanied me throughout my time in Southern Utah, providing a kind of creative companionship as I worked, observed, and reflected. The podcast became part of the rhythm of my days, enriching the experience and giving me another way to remain curious and receptive to new ideas.

Seeing Maynard Dixon Differently

Spending time at Dixon’s home and studio gave me a deeper appreciation for the artist behind the paintings. I learned about his complicated professional history, including his early work as an illustrator for books and advertisements. Some of that work participated in the stereotypes of the American West and its Indigenous peoples that were prevalent in commercial imagery of the time. Later in his career, Dixon increasingly turned toward a more personal interpretation of the West, moving beyond the conventions of illustration to explore the land and its inhabitants with greater seriousness.

Dixon possessed a profound admiration for the vast, seemingly unbroken expanse of the American West. His paintings often distill the landscape into monumental shapes, dramatic light, and a powerful sense of space. He did not simply record what was before him; he transformed it.

His relationship with photographer Dorothea Lange added another dimension to his story. They married in 1920 and traveled extensively in the Southwest, including journeys to Arizona in 1922 and 1923, documenting people and landscapes through their respective artistic practices.

Walking around the property, I caught a glimpse of Maynard in the shadows of a cottonwood tree. Of course, it was only my imagination, but for a moment I felt a connection across time. I could picture him observing the same landscape, waiting for the light to change, considering how to translate what he saw into a painting.

The house itself carries traces of his life and work. The property contains original furnishings made by Dixon, including his easel. Preserved through the efforts of the Thunderbird Foundation for the Arts, the home has become part of the Maynard Dixon Legacy Museum. The house was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 2002. Being surrounded by these objects made the act of painting feel immediate and tangible. Art was not an abstract idea here; it was something made by hand, through attention, persistence, and time.

Letting Go

The residency also brought me face-to-face with some of my own uncertainties. I have sometimes carried a sense of urgency about life, a feeling that time is limited. Taking time to pause and reflect helped me recognize what I truly love to do: work with color, shape, and landscape, interpreting the world through my own visual reality.

I began to understand that I do not have to paint the landscape as it exists outside me. I can respond to its essential elements—the rhythm of a mountain, the geometry of a rock formation, the contrast between a sunlit ridge and a deep shadow. I can simplify, exaggerate, rearrange, and invent. The landscape can become a language through which I express something uniquely mine.

During the final two days of the retreat, something shifted. I began to move beyond feelings of inadequacy that had followed me into the studio. I realized how much energy I had spent wondering whether my work was good enough, whether I was doing it correctly, or whether my paintings needed to resemble the places that inspired them.

I want to leave that pressure behind. I want to enjoy making shapes, pushing paint, and discovering what happens when I give myself room to experiment. I want the landscape to inspire my work without dictating its outcome.

What I Am Taking Home

I am leaving Southern Utah with a renewed sense of direction and a clearer understanding of the kind of work I want to make. I want to continue exploring the relationship between color, shape, light, and the imagined landscape. I want to be more adventurous with paint, to work with greater freedom, and to allow the physical act of painting to become part of the meaning of the work.

This residency reminded me that inspiration comes from many places: the ancient forms of the desert, the shifting light, the history of another artist’s life, the companionship of a podcast, and the quiet moments when ideas begin to take shape in the studio.

Most importantly, I left with a renewed appreciation for the simple pleasure of painting. I do not need to make the landscape recognizable or explain every mark. I can let a shape be a shape, allow color to carry its own weight, and embrace the unexpected discoveries that happen along the way.

I came to Maynard Dixon’s home to study an artist who understood the power of shape, light, and form. I am leaving with a deeper appreciation for the possibilities of my own work and a willingness to follow them.

Sometimes, to move forward, we need to look back. Sometimes, we need to stand still long enough to see the light change. And sometimes, the most meaningful thing we can do is give ourselves the time and space to discover what comes next.

Julie Green

October 17, 2026