STATEMENT

I was not trained in the old way — atelier studies, classical grounding and grounds, oil on copper, any of it. It was what I wanted, but I studied at Pratt in New York when Abstract Expressionism was thought to be the only valid style of painting. It was everything I was not. I got laughed out of classes because I had the temerity to attempt painting what was in front of us all.

My only choice was to teach myself. I went deeper. More time in front of skeletons and statues and light falling on drapery than is generally considered healthy. Form came slowly, color was glacial. Understanding flitting in and out like a will-o'-the-wisp, most of the time out of reach.

But I loved the pursuit of it, the control of it. The quiet. The sense of working within something proven. That’s what I thought painting was. Order. Stillness. Precision passed down.

And then a young Cooper’s Hawk started showing up at my studio window. Every day, for a week, she came. Just stood there. Not hunting, not startled. Just…watching me work. Occasionally lifting her head and screaming, silently. Or maybe waiting. I didn’t paint her. I watched her for hours but I didn’t know how to paint her. At the time, I told myself it was a coincidence.

But it didn’t feel like one.

After she stopped coming, I kept the drapes open. Not wide. Just a little. And a few days later, a goldfinch flew up to the glass. I opened the window. He didn’t land right away. He hovered. Right over the palette. Then he perched near my yellows and looked directly at the mix I’d just laid down. He didn’t speak. But I remember thinking: he disapproves.

That was the beginning.

Since then, the studio’s become something else. It’s not just a space for painting anymore. It’s a place where birds arrive, pose — some briefly, others like they’ve been planning this moment all year—and somehow, without words, ask to be painted.

And so I do.

It’s changed everything. The way I work. The way I think about form. About tone. The birds don’t just bring feathers. They bring mood. Pride. Melancholy. Even a kind of guarded affection, possibly? Each one asks something different from me, and each one offers something I wouldn’t have found on my own.

I still use copper, when it isn't too expensive. I love it. It holds the light in a way that nothing else does. It’s slow and exacting, but when you get it right, the color doesn’t just sit there—it breathes. And it keeps breathing, years later. Copper bonds permanently with oil paints and colors do not fade, crackle or flake.

I guess I’ve always believed painting is a kind of listening. But now, that’s literal. The birds come. They wait. Sometimes they correct me, without saying a thing.

The Goldfinch? He became something like a court painter’s assistant. Or an advisor. The Queen Barn Owl eventually forgave me for painting the Goldfinch before I painted her. It was tense for a while, in the way that things with Owls can be, but it resolved. Birds are proud, but they’re creative too. And maybe they recognized creativity in me.

Anyway. I paint the birds who come. I try to get it right. And if I’m lucky, they come back.

My work is represented by Principle Gallery (Washington, DC and Charleston, SC) and Waterhouse Gallery (Santa Barbara and Montecito, CA). Some of the paintings are in private collections. Some stay in the studio, waiting for someone to recognize the bird in them. The studio windows are usually open. The perch is ready. And they still arrive.

ABOUT

Born and raised in Massachusetts, Richard J. Murdock studied painting at the Pratt Institute in New York and later refined his technique through rigorous self-directed training. Now grounded in the traditions of the Old Masters yet unmistakably modern in spirit, Murdock’s work explores the timeless interplay between light, emotion, and nature.

At first glance, his compositions are serene and precise—elegantly restrained. But step closer, and the paintings erupt with dramatic chiaroscuro and intricate detail, evoking the theatrical intensity of Caravaggio and the intimate stillness of Georges de La Tour. His influences are clear, but never imitative. Instead, Murdock translates Baroque grandeur into a contemporary idiom that resonates with emotional weight and poetic nuance.

His preferred medium—oil on copper—has become his signature. This historically rare surface allows for superior control and permanence, with pigments that retain their brilliance over time. The medium not only honors classical technique but also amplifies his voice as a modern interpreter of nature’s subtle drama.

“I have no problem delving into the art of the past with a vengeance,” Murdock says. “Like my predecessors, I filter nature—something common to all humanity—through my unique perspective as a living contemporary painter.”

Inspired by the observational rigor of Ruskin and the philosophical depth of the Dutch and Italian masters, Murdock’s paintings are more than representations; they are emotional meditations. Each piece invites the viewer not just to see, but to feel.

Murdock is represented by Principle Gallery (Washington, DC and Charleston, SC) and Waterhouse Gallery (Santa Barbara and Montecito, CA). His work has been featured in numerous national publications and is held in private collections across the country.