A mobile art studio in the Pacific Northwest

My name is Benjamin Vanderwerff and I am a Skagit Valley artist based in Washington State. I work primarily in plein air painting, meaning my paintings are created entirely on location and directly from observation. Over the past several years my practice has evolved beyond traditional plein air painting into something closer to an expedition based process.

Rather than spending only a few hours at a location, I often travel into remote DNR (Department of Natural Resources) lands, forest roads and backcountry areas for a week or more at a time. I live and work from a converted Toyota Sienna that serves as both a mobile studio and a base camp.

As my work has grown in scale, so have the challenges involved in creating it. Vehicle modifications, route planning, power management, weather and self sufficiency have become integral parts of the creative process. The landscape is no longer just the subject of the work. It actively shapes how the work is made.

I've spent nights stuck on rough forest roads, discovered forgotten locations far from established trails and learned that some of the most rewarding places require a level of commitment that goes beyond simply visiting them. There is a direct relationship between the experience of a place and the painting that emerges from it.

Recently I completed a more comprehensive mobile studio build featuring an integrated platform bed, a power station and Starlink connectivity. These additions allow me to spend extended periods working in remote locations throughout the Pacific Northwest. The Sienna gives me enough space to sleep, store supplies, protect unfinished paintings and continue working far from the routines of everyday life.

One expedition from the summer of 2025 immediately comes to mind. My fiancée and I spent several days exploring remote roads in the Cascade Mountains, searching for a location to paint. For two days we drove along rough forest trails, climbing higher into the mountains and following roads that often led nowhere. Every promising turn seemed to end in disappointment.

Late on the third day, near the end of a distant mountain road, we found exactly what we had been searching for. Tucked between steep peaks was a small clearing beside a flowing stream. Sunlight reached the valley floor unobstructed and there was only a single campsite, isolated from everyone else.

Some locations reveal themselves slowly, but this one felt different. Even before setting up my easel, I had the distinct feeling that something important was going to happen there. Perhaps it was the effort required to find it or the obstacles we had overcome to reach it, but the place felt strangely familiar, as though I had returned home despite never having been there before.

Remote work also comes with conditions that can be difficult to predict. One winter expedition stands out in particular. I spent several days painting deep within a mountain valley in the North Cascades. Moisture hung in the air from morning until night and the surrounding peaks blocked much of the sunlight. The sun would only fully reveal itself around midday before disappearing again by 4:30 in the afternoon.

Everything was damp. The ground had turned to mud, moisture collected on every surface and even the paintings themselves struggled to dry. At the end of each day, I placed the painting inside the van and ran the heater in an attempt to remove moisture from the surface. Painting became as much about managing the environment as creating the artwork itself.

The physical conditions added another layer of difficulty. I wore heated foot pads inside my boots, a balaclava to protect my face from the cold and carried hand warmers in my pockets. Even something as simple as holding a brush became a challenge as temperatures dropped.

The valley, the weather, the shortened winter light and the constant moisture all found their way into the final painting. It became more than an image of the landscape. It became a record of what it felt like to exist within it.

Waterways have always been among my favorite subjects to paint. Rivers, streams and waterfalls possess an energy that feels fundamentally different from other landscapes. They are often the most complex environments I work in, both visually and emotionally.

The sound of moving water fills these places continuously. Whether it is a rushing river, a small mountain stream or a waterfall echoing through a canyon, the noise becomes a constant companion throughout the entire painting process. After enough time, it fades into the background like static, yet its presence is always felt. There is a rhythm and energy to these places that extends beyond what can be seen.

I believe that energy finds its way into the paintings themselves. The movement of water influences the marks I make, the direction of lines and the overall structure of a composition. Unlike mountains, which often feel stable and permanent, waterways are in a constant state of change. They carve landscapes, move sediment and reshape their surroundings over time. Standing beside them is a reminder that nature is always moving, whether we notice it or not.

Many of my favorite paintings have emerged from these environments. While viewers often focus on the visual beauty of rivers and waterfalls, what I hope to capture is the sensation of being there. I want the work to carry something of the sound, movement and force that make these places feel alive. They possess a character that is easy to take for granted, yet once experienced directly, it becomes impossible to ignore.

Spending extended periods in the backcountry has also taught me how little you actually need to begin. Many people imagine that adventure requires expensive vehicles, elaborate equipment or perfect circumstances. My experience has been the opposite.

The best vehicle is often the one you already own. I have reached remarkable places in a front wheel drive minivan with more than 200,000 miles (321,000 kilometers) on it simply by moving slowly, thinking carefully and respecting the terrain. Too often, people place barriers between themselves and the experiences they want to have. The adventure itself is the point and time passes more quickly than we realize.

Spending extended periods alone outdoors has also taught me patience. Nature does not care about your plans, deadlines or expectations. Weather changes, roads wash out and conditions rarely align perfectly. Learning to adapt rather than fight those realities has become one of the most valuable lessons in both painting and life.

Painting directly within the landscape creates a relationship that cannot be replicated in a studio. The environment influences every decision. The temperature, changing light, weather, sounds and even physical discomfort become part of the process.

After spending years painting and living in Mexico, returning to Washington reminded me how unique the Pacific Northwest truly is. There is a depth and character here that reveals itself through effort. Nature is not kind, fair or moral. It pushes back. It soaks you with rain, blinds you with sun, freezes your hands and forces you to adapt. Yet those challenges are often what make the experience meaningful.

Ultimately, painting on location remains essential because the process is inseparable from the work itself. The painting is not simply an image of a place. It is a record of an experience within that place. By spending extended periods in remote landscapes, I am constantly reminded of both my smallness and my connection to the world around me. Looking outward has become one of the most meaningful ways I have learned to better understand myself. A simple minivan has become the tool that makes this possible, carrying me, my supplies and my studio into the places that continue to inspire my work.