Michael Scott
A painting can be more than an image. It can be a witness, a prayer, and a record of what someone leaves behind. We’re in Santa Fe with nationally acclaimed artist Michael Scott, standing in front of a five-by-five canvas he carried for seven years after the loss of his mother: a boat filled with flames gliding through a marsh at night, smoke rising like calligraphy, a dove and a crow holding opposite truths about spirit and the here-and-now.
From that single work, our conversation expands into the deeper engine under Michael’s practice: the four elements, environmental art, and the way landscape painting makes mortality unavoidable. We talk about fire as destruction and renewal, why dead trees and cattails can feel like a nervous system, and how science and art can share the same frame through geology, glaciers, and evidence you can feel. We also touch the urgent edge of the present with habitat-focused paintings that confront climate change through the polar bear, Arctic wolf, and caribou.
Then Michael takes us somewhere even more personal: the St. Michael series born from heart surgery, medication-driven visions, and a battle he couldn’t forget until he painted it out. The thread that ties it all together is presence, the daily choice to pay attention, whether you’re staring into a fire, cooking in a kiva, or making marks that refuse to stay predictable. If you’ve ever wondered how artists turn grief into meaning, or how creativity can help you live more awake, this one stays with you.
