y fondest memories of childhood were spent on the beaches of Northern California. There was a brief period where our family and neighbors would load up our cars and caravan out to Chronkite or Stinson. Bundled up in parkas, my sisters and I would become invisible around the fire as the adults drank red wine and talked. With wide eyes we would take in the luxury of our parents relaxing. Gladly we exchanged numb fingers and runny noses for a few hours of levity. There on sandy wool blankets, with the fog softening our surroundings, we could briefly ignore the creeping emotional apocalypse, and focus on the bounty of Fritos with pork and beans.

These stormy cliffs linger, waiting to take me back to my past. The paintings are a reminder of my experience, the light again glimmers through the fog and the smell of salt is in the air. These are bittersweet moments, yet mixed into the darkened sky there is encouragement and optimism.

Landscape is a language understood by all of us. It's a visual common denominator with metaphoric capacity strengthened by the viewer’s own life experience. For me, these blustery scenes hark back to my painful childhood. For others, they may be reminders of romance or adventure. Each painting is unique in the eyes of the beholder, each view is seen through the filter of one's own memory.

Nila Oakes
October, 2003