Behind the Block Print: The Inspiration Behind Amargosa Valley by Craig Mitchell

Every block print begins long before the first line is carved into wood. Behind the Block Print is where I share the true stories behind each image—the places, the moments, and the years of experience that quietly guide my work.  Check out others in this series: The Inspiration by Arborglyphs and Sundazed — Lake Tahoe.

Amargosa Valley began the way a lot of my work begins: with something I couldn’t ignore.

I was driving my truck down Highway 95 through Amargosa Valley, Nevada—about a thirty-minute drive from the Nevada entrance to Death Valley. I glanced at the thermostat on my dashboard. It read 109 degrees.

Then I passed a low-lying mountain and saw it: purplish, geometric shadows laying across the slope, with an atmospheric sky behind it. Geometric shapes in nature always get my attention. They’re a common thread through my work. And on that day, I knew I needed to turn around and look closer.

So I did.

I pulled off into the gravelly dirt, stepped out of the truck, and stood there for a moment—admiring the scene and imagining how good the art could be if I could extract what I was seeing. It was so hot I felt like I was melting. But few things can ever really prevent an artist from doing what it takes to bring an idea to life. That has always been the case with me.

Capturing the Temperature

I set up my easel and painted a small field sketch in oil, working hard to capture the most important thing about that moment: the atmosphere.

The entire scene had a greenish-yellow temperature that seemed to pervade every color. So I mixed a pile of that greenish yellow, added some white, and then injected it into every color I mixed before it went onto my panel.

Even if the color was purple, it had green-yellow in it.

That’s one of my methods for creating the feel of an atmospheric sky—or an atmospheric scene in general—where one temperature quietly lives inside everything.

Quiet Desert, Interested Ants

What I remember most about that day—besides the heat—was how quiet it was. An occasional 18-wheeler or motor home would roll by, but otherwise there was little sign of life.

Other than the ants.

I had set up next to an anthill, and they got very interested in my turpentine-soaked rags—crawling up my leg while I worked. If you paint outside long enough, you learn that nature doesn’t always make it easy. But when the idea is strong enough, you keep going.

I stood there for a couple of hours and drank what seemed like a gallon of water. Fortunately, I had a small umbrella attached to my easel—just large enough to make a little shade for my palette, my panel, and for me if I tucked myself in close enough.

As difficult and exhausting as it was, I captured what I needed. And I remember feeling a small sense of accomplishment—not because it was comfortable, but because I did the work to preserve the idea.

A Rusted Can That Stayed With Me

There’s something about places in the Nevada desert where humans have passed through decades ago—even a century ago—and left something behind. Those things can still be there, untouched and unnoticed, for years.

That was the case that day.

Near where I was standing, I noticed a heavily rusted steel beer can—made of heavier metal than what we know today. It had clearly been used for target practice at some point.

I picked it up, shook the dirt out of it, and realized it was a work of art in itself. I brought it back with me, and it’s been in my living room ever since. I have little souvenirs from hundreds of trips, but that one is special.

When You See It, Get It

When I got back to my studio at the end of that trip, I remember thinking: I’m really glad I made that effort. Because otherwise, I would have had no reference from which to design the block print that came out of it.

For an artist who’s inspired by life and works directly from it, there’s a hard truth: if you don’t get the idea down on paper or canvas when you see it, you pretty much never will.

It’s easy to think, Oh, I’ll come back here.

But you won’t. Or if you do, you won’t see it the same way. Your state of mind will be different. The lighting will be different. The day won’t be the same.

A year later, I drove down Highway 95 again and tried to find where I had stood. I looked. I went back and forth up the road, trying to see the place again.

I couldn’t find it.

The place didn’t disappear. It’s just that I couldn’t see it the same way that day—and that’s exactly the point. The idea often lives inside a fleeting combination of light, temperature, timing, and attention. Miss that window, and it’s gone.

There are exceptions. Sometimes a lighting effect comes in late evening and disappears fast, and you can plan to return the next day—arrive early, get everything drawn, get the paint mixed, and be ready when, and if, it happens again.

That can work.

But happening upon a scene, having an idea, and thinking you can go back and get it anytime you want?

You just won’t.

About the Print

Amargosa Valley began as a small oil field sketch painted in extreme heat along Highway 95 in Nevada—built around geometric desert shadow shapes and an atmospheric temperature that permeated every color. Like all my prints, it was designed in the studio from real outdoor reference, then hand-carved and hand-pulled in small editions in my Reno studio.