From Max Blagg’s article for Man of the World:
Turner grew up around stables, living an itinerant life with his family in northern New England, where his bohemian parents homeschooled him, and where he came to know something of the solitary life. He now divides his time between New York City and his studio deep in the Maine woods, where he paints alone in an uninsulated barn through the winter, an act that would seem to verge on masochism. Smoke from a thousand wood stoves perfumes the air; someone is buying a quart of oil and a pint of vodka in the One-Stop at 8 a.m.; snow is falling; cows’ ears are snapping off in frozen meadows. Through the long winter nights that begin around 3 p.m., the only sounds you hear are tire chains churning the tarmac. This icy solitude suits a guy who sees man as animal, and defines nature as a state of war.