The pace of a public school art teacher can make one dizzy. I have become dizzy. It is time to close the art room door, step into my own studio, and see what form of horse emerges.

My children are raised, my old horse is buried. I live on the shore, in the woods of Deer Isle, Maine, where I watch the sun rise over the islands. I do not paint the beauty around me. Over the years, the horse has crowded out all other imagery, and I find myself categorized as an equine artist.

Abstract or representational, the imagery excites me. Certainly, it becomes a metaphor for human emotion and condition, yet my hope is that the essence of the horse remain forefront, inviting the viewer into this mysterious mix of human and beast.

I look out my studio window and see two tiny, beguiling beings looking in. My heart stirs. I fetch and chop and toss out an apple and watch Chipotle Rose and Adobe Mae rump each other out of the way to get more than the other. I walk out to the paddock with my coffee and go nose to nose with my minis. I've had my kisses in life but there is nothing like the animated nuzzle of those tiny, shaggy muzzles.

Can one really set one's spirit free with the image of a horse? Perhaps, for a moment.