Chatham is a man of consistent, insistent, unrelenting passions, wreathed with paradoxes. He painted all throughout his youth—put in the requisite time of 10,000 hours—yet he says that when he moved to Montana he knew nothing about painting; had not yet learned how to paint. As with the casting, he had been painting relentlessly, following intensely in his grandfather’s magnificent steps. Even to a layperson, the similarities are visible: in the composition’s arrangement of curves, not necessarily voluptuous but graceful; in the brushstrokes, rich and dreamy, yet powerful; and in the most basic essence of a painting, the palette. It would be easy to consider that the penciled sketch underneath, and the wash below, are the dream, blueprint, and path of a painting, but that is like saying a dry riverbed is a river. The water is the real river. The color is the painting. The palette is the real dream.