Calaveras. Skulls. The first home Blaise Rosenthal remembers was on the edge of nowhere. At the end of a dirt road in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Rosenthal spent his formative years. The elemental character of this environment and its aesthetic vocabulary became archetypal for him. Earth, water, fire and wind; all in local forms. Seasons. Dusty bare feet and no shirt through dry heat summers, and the sound of crickets at night. Stars beyond counting. The still death of autumn.  Winter, with rain on the roof, the smell of cold smoke, and darkness. And then spring, and resurrection. This place formed Rosenthal's bones, blood, and much of what is true about him. It made what is his, and what he has to share. It is from the residue of this experience that he forms his paintings.