"To work," I would tell them.

Many non-artists were taken aback by this response, for two reasons. First of all, they were startled that my metier, painting, was considered work. Second, they wondered whether it was possible to do any work at all in what they assumed would be hostile climatic conditions.

Undaunted by their reactions -- and by the sinking of the cruise ship MV Explorer, which struck an iceberg in the South Shetland Islands, Antarctica, at the end of November -- I set out for the ice on the MV Polar Star from Ushuaia, Argentina, on Dec. 9, 2007.

Painting in polar conditions is not new for artists. Early 19th-century exploration ships always carried artists, some of them women. Later in the century, Frederick Church invited viewers to consider polar climes through his wonderful images of ice floes. These early painters who feverishly documented icebergs, ice floes and polar bears did not have the benefit of insulated clothing or a heated exploration vessel to which to return after work, as did I.

Arriving in Antarctica on Dec. 11 after two rough days crossing the Drake Passage, and armed with the necessary equipment -- three layers of insulated clothing, life vest, balaclava, light backpack, double-layered gloves, sun glasses, hand and toe warmers, spiral notebooks, water-soluble felt pens, field watercolor box, ski pole and camera -- I set to work.

One of the biggest challenges was taking care of my own physical needs while attempting to reach the "art" site. The drill with Antarctic expeditionary voyages is that you saddle up for "wet" landings on the continent: You weather the elements between the ship and land in a Zodiac rubber dingy, jump out of the craft into the sea and wade to the shore. In all, I made eight wet landings.

Sometimes the sea between ship and shore was rough. Under no circumstances did one want to fall into the Antarctic Ocean -- 10 minutes in the icy water and you're dead. So taking care of camera and art supplies became secondary to hanging onto whatever was available.

At times, lurking around the Zodiac were leopard seals, which have a reputation for attacking penguins and a penchant for pulling mammals (sometimes humans) underwater just to look at them. Given this animal's predilections, it wasn't always safe to hold onto the rope on the side of the Zodiac. At each landing one arrived on shore grateful to have arrived at all.

But the pristine beauty one saw on landing on the Seventh Continent (as the Antarctic is called) acted as an immediate trigger to get to work. Despite the wind and cold, the purity of the ice forms and the majesty of the wildlife were so compelling that it was easy to forget one's bodily state -- to a degree.

Sometimes it really was too cold to take off the outer glove or to use water in painting. As I worked, I constantly asked myself, "Is this image worth the risk of losing my fingers?" Most of the time my answer was affirmative.

I sketched and painted icescapes, brush-tail penguins on stony nests, male elephant seals practicing challenging behavior in readiness for mating and sea birds feeding. Trying to capture them in images made me look very closely at my subject matter, making me even more sensitive to the landscape and its inhabitants than I might have been had I not tried to create works of art.

It also made me a convert to promoting support for the retention of the Antarctic Treaty with its mission of preserving the pristine nature of the Seventh Continent, not only for its inhabitants but also for the general health of our planet.

Since my return to Carrboro at the end of December, I have been continuously engaged in my studio trying to do justice to my unequalled and wonderful subject matter. It is a big but thrilling challenge that I hope I can measure up to.