I read somewhere that an artist ought to risk his career about every two years just to keep the work fresh. I was long overdue, so in the year 2,000 I left my heart in San Francisco and moved a hundred miles east to the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. The challenge of transitioning from painting the concrete, glass and steel of the city to deciphering a jumble of jack pine, oak, toyon, manzanita and the constant motion of running water turned out to be like learning to paint all over again. Seventeen years later when I moved on from my beloved mountains, I left a piece of my heart behind. All of the paintings in this group have been sold long ago.