“Side Piece”

Oil on canvas, 16”x20”

It helps to have a side piece. This is one of mine.

Obviously, I’m talking about a painting, not some handsome hunk on the side.

When I’m deep into a realistic commission, I crave freedom. Realism is demanding work. It’s slow, precise, and full of details that test my patience, something I’ve never had much of. Every millimeter has to be considered. Every color has to make sense. It’s rewarding, yes, but grueling.

That’s where my “side piece” comes in. A painting that’s loose, experimental, and much faster than a commission. It’s where I get to play with new brushes, color mixes, strokes, and mediums.

These recent seascapes have been perfect for that. They’re fun, pretty, loose, and always a little unpredictable. They give me a creative high, then send me back to realism refreshed and ready to focus again.

Side pieces are a breath of fresh air, a fling with freedom, a quick escape before returning to the grind.

(And no, I wouldn’t know anything about the other kind!)

“A Lost Love”

This painting is very special to me. It reunited me with a long-lost love, a former flame who was by my side when I first started painting and who stayed with me for years.

It was I who ultimately let them go. Not intentionally, we just drifted apart, our connection fading little by little until it was gone. Every so often I’d think about my old love, feel a twinge of guilt, then move on. Life was fine without them. Or so I thought.

Then I started painting this seascape. Once I began, my old love suddenly came roaring back into my life. They sat next to me, encouraging me, guiding me, helping me paint better, smoother, faster.

They’ve stayed by my side nonstop ever since, offering tips and tricks while I work on other paintings, especially a large commission, reminding me how effortless things can feel when we’re together.

So who is this lost love of mine?

Ryan? Chris? Eric? John?

Nope.

Brian? Gary? Oscar? Graham?

Not even close.

It’s the fan brush.

Oh fan brush, how I’ve missed you. I can’t believe I let our silence go on for so long. How did I paint all these years without you?

In all seriousness, this brush has really been changing the flow of my work for the better. It’s saving me a ton of time (and sanity), helping paintings make sense again, and bringing a lot of joy back into painting. I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve used it. The last brush to sweep me off my feet like this was the script liner.

Now it’s the fan brush’s turn. I’ll always remember this pretty pink seascape for bringing my long lost love and me back together.

“The Forgotten Roast Beef”

“Hi, hon.”

My husband had just gotten home from work.

“I forgot the roast beef.”

“What?” I asked confused.

“Dammit! I forgot the roast beef. I had this roast beef I was going to bring home, with au jus, and I forgot it.”

He’s literally starting to panic.

“That’s okay,” I tell him. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is a big deal. We have to go back.”

“Oh, come on. Seriously? Did you leave it out?”

“No, I don’t think so. But I can’t be sure.”

I know he’s lying and he knows he’s lying. He knows damn well he didn’t leave it out. He’s just a fat kid wanting his roast beef. I get it. Every morning I wake up salivating over my daily egg wrap: three eggs, reduced-fat mozzarella, Slap Ya Mama spice, and turmeric, all wrapped in a low-carb tortilla. It’s what gets me up in the morning. It’s what I dream about at night when I go to bed hungry. It’s my only “cheat” meal of the day and it’s not even a cheat meal. I get it, fat man. But still, driving twenty minutes there and twenty minutes back is extreme, even for me.

“Let’s go,” he says. “Grab the dogs.”

Are you kidding me? I sigh, grab some blankets, grab the dogs, and off we go. I’m annoyed, but I get it. I’m a little OCD myself, and the idea of some forgotten roast beef would probably drive me nuts too.

We climb into the truck and hit the road. It’s beautiful out…rolling hills, farms, trees, and a soft late-afternoon light that makes everything glow. My fat dog is happy, and his sister is too.

We arrive at his work, Ten Mile River Preserve, and it’s gorgeous. Wide green fields, a big barn, a few outbuildings, and that peaceful countryside hush that settles in at the end of the day. I’ve been there before, but never when it’s this quiet. Never when the light is like this.

I start snapping photos, the wispy clouds catching my eye, the warm splashes of sunlight, and the clean lines of the barn. I want to remember the peacefulness.

“Do you like our new flag?” Michael asks. “It’s seventy-five feet high.”

“I love it,” I say, lining up another shot with the flag in the frame.

He shows me around a bit, and I love watching him in his element. He finds the roast beef, which of course he hadn’t left out, and we load up the dogs and head home.

Guess what we had for dinner?

It’s always the spontaneous, unexpected trips that end up meaning the most to me. That evening reminded me how lucky we are to live in such a beautiful place, and how something as random as forgotten roast beef can inspire a painting.

This painting captures that moment at Ten Mile River Preserve, with the new flagpole, the wispy clouds, and the warm countryside glow.

And somewhere, hidden deep inside one of those buildings, lies some delicious roast beef with au jus sauce.

Eleven minutes

One year, I decided to experiment with timed painting sessions to see which ones worked best.

I was single, living alone, and painting all the time. To keep from losing my mind, I started inventing little experiments for myself.

One of them went like this. I wanted to work on eight different paintings, three times a day, morning, afternoon, and night, like an assembly line. I would set a timer, paint on one painting for a fixed amount of time, then move on to the next when the timer went off. Once I reached the eighth painting, I would take a break and start the whole lineup again. I wanted to find the best time limit to work on each painting.

I tested time limits ranging from five to twenty minutes. I logged notes on how each felt, it was very scientific. Eventually, I narrowed it down to three favorites: eight, eleven, and fifteen minutes.

Eight minutes was best when I did not want to paint but knew I should. Eleven minutes was perfect when I wanted something quick and stimulating. Fifteen minutes was for when I needed a little extra room to breathe.

Working on eight paintings, three times a day, twenty-four sessions total, meant the time limits could not be very long. Out of all of them, eleven minutes was my favorite. It was just enough time to get into flow and feel good, then bam, time’s up.

I still work in timed sessions today, though they have grown longer. Twenty minutes, thirty minutes, sometimes forty if I am feeling ambitious, although forty often feels like too much. I like to stop right before I get irritated, though sometimes I wonder if I should push through that irritation instead of running from it. Some paintings don’t need time limits, usually the more abstract ones, and I let myself work on them for as long as I want, as long as I have spent time on all my other projects.

I don’t juggle eight paintings anymore, more like five. I usually work on each one just once a day. Every now and then, I set the timer for eleven minutes, just for fun, to turn the work back into a game.

It changes everything.

I think, “I only have eleven minutes, what am I going to do?”

Only the most important things.

Of course, I always cheat and keep painting after the timer goes off. But back then, with eight paintings and a full schedule, there was no time to cheat.

The photo above was taken during that phase. My sister came to visit me, probably regretting it the moment she arrived. I am sure she had to endure endless talk about my scientific painting study. She is sitting in front of the exact lineup I used for the experiment.

I finished all eight paintings pictured above in eight days, using the eleven-minute method.

“The Voice”

“You have to paint yourself.”

What? Who said that?

“Your profile. You have to paint your profile. Eyes closed. Black background.”

I stop what I’m doing. I sigh. Here we go again.

It’s… cue the scary music… that voice again.

The one that appears out of absolute nowhere, demanding I paint or do something RIGHT NOW. She starts out quietly enough, but give her a minute and she becomes a full-blown lunatic, hell-bent on pestering me until I give in.

I can already hear my husband saying, “You do that to me all the time.”

And my younger sister chiming in, “You used to do that to me when we were little.”

It’s not me, guys. It’s the voice.

How do you think I feel having to listen to her day after day, night after night? You only get the occasional visit. I get the whole residency. She’s constantly talking, explaining why I should do something and how I should do it.

The only way to silence her is to just…DO IT.

“Fine. I’ll paint my profile.”

I stop whatever painting I was working on, and I paint that self-portrait she wanted. And, of course, it goes well. I really like it actually. It’s peaceful, simple, beautiful. Finally, I can get back to my life in peace and quiet.

Months later…

“You have to turn that self-portrait into an abstract.”

At that moment, I’m peacefully doing something other than destroying a painting.

“No,” I say. “Absolutely not.”

But the voice begins her hellish campaign of badgering. I hold my ground.

Until I don’t.

Next thing I know, I’m blacking out parts of the portrait and adding all kinds of abstract lines and shapes. The voice grows quieter, more agreeable.

“Yes, just like that,” she purrs. “Perfect.”

See below.

At last, she’s quiet. For now.

This is a true story. There is a voice inside me that does exactly what I just described. Over and over again. The only way to shut her up is to do what she says.

Sometimes I feel bad for my sister for having to deal with it when we were kids. Sometimes I feel bad for my husband when my “great ideas” strike out of nowhere at 10 p.m. And sometimes I feel bad for myself, for having to listen to her every single day.

Especially when she convinces me to ruin a perfectly good painting.

In reality though, the voice has helped me more than not. She’s pushed me in directions I never would’ve tried. She’s relentless, but she gets things done.

I’d credit her for at least a thousand failed paintings.

But I’d also credit her for every success.

“I think I’ve Figured it Out”

“I think I’ve figured it out.”

This phrase is all but banned in my household. It’s my fault, I use it too much. And when I utter those six words for the tenth time in a day, I’m certain, deep down in my bones, that I’ve really figured it out this time. I’VE GOT IT. I’ve solved the puzzle.

I am wrong 100% of the time. But that never stops me from thinking “I’ve figured it out” again and again.

Exhibit A: see above photo. That’s my husband sitting outside one of my “I’ve figured it outs.”

During this time, we were participating in local art shows. We “figured it out.” If I showed my paintings where people actually went to buy art, we’d make a killing.

We were wrong. Boy, howdy, were we ever.

I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand why there wasn’t a line of people begging to buy my paintings.

In my delusions, the crowds were wild.

“Calm down, everyone!” I yelled to my adoring fans. “There’s enough art for everyone, just be patient!”

Why wasn’t this happening? I couldn’t figure it out.

But then…guess what?

I figured it out.

It was because we didn’t have any paintings hanging on the outside of our booth. They were all hidden inside. How could anyone know what greatness lay within if they couldn’t see it?

“Don’t you understand?” I manically rambled to my husband. “We’re so stupid! They can’t see the paintings! We have to hang them on the outside to bring people in. They’ll see them from far away and come running! Let’s goooooo!”

I started rearranging paintings frantically so I wouldn’t miss another potential sale. This one had to go here, that one there, this was going to be great. This was it. Finally, I’d sell some paintings. This was my ticket.

Michael went along with it, though part of him was probably starting to wonder.

And so we arrive at the photo above.

“Oh, this is perfect,” I said. “Let me get a picture of you before the huge crowd shows up. This is amazing. This is it. I’ve really figured it out this time.”

Do I even need to ask if you think I sold a single painting that day?

“You Know What Would Be Fun?”

It always starts the same way.

“Hey, you know what would be fun?” I turn to my sister Jenny with a mischievous grin. We are young, maybe seven or eight, sharing a bath. She is behind me, trying to soak in some warmth and peace. I am in front, in charge of the faucet. I let the water drain, then crank the cold full blast.

Jenny stares at me in horror.

“Listen,” I say, “if we ever get caught in the freezing waters of Antarctica, we need to know how to survive. So let’s practice now!”

That twinkle in my eye, the one that still shows up whenever a crazy idea takes hold, sparkles back at her. She does not argue. She just shivers in silence, enduring me.

⸻

A couple years later, walking home from school, I hit her with it again. We are at the top of a hill about half a mile from home.

“You know what would be fun? If you run home, grab the bike, and ride it back up here, then we can both fly down this hill together. Now go!”

Off she runs. She comes back, panting, with the bike. Of course I steer, and of course she is balanced somewhere awkwardly on the frame. But when we are flying downhill, wind in our faces, it feels epic. (At least for me).

⸻

Fast-forward twenty years. I am 28, Jenny is 27, and we are back on Kauai visiting.

“You know what would be fun?” I ask.

Jenny narrows her eyes. She knows what is coming.

“Let’s hike up Sleeping Giant, drink sake at the top, and I’ll take photos of you for a painting. You will be my muse.”

She reluctantly agrees.

We climb the mountain. At the top, the view is breathtaking. We sip sake, talk, laugh, and take photos. But then it hits us. We have about 15 minutes of daylight left, and it is a 45-minute hike down.

Uh oh.

We scramble. Darkness swallows the trail. I panic.

“This is bad. We are going to have to sleep here. What about wild pigs? I cannot do this! I was supposed to meet someone about a commission! Jenny, this is really bad.”

Jenny says nothing. She just keeps walking, almost running, somehow knowing the way. I follow her, moaning and groaning, filling the silence with every fear that crosses my mind.

And then, suddenly, we are almost at the bottom. Lights appear. Relief floods in.

“Oh my god, that was amazing, Jenny! How did you do that? You are incredible. Best day ever!”

Just like that, my rambling flips from disaster to triumph without missing a beat. Jenny endures the switch.

By the time we make it to Sushi Bushido, I have already rewritten the story in my head as an epic adventure. Jenny just looks at me with that face, the face she has been making since childhood, the same one in the above photo after we finally reached the restaurant. The face of someone who has endured a lifetime of,

“Hey, you know what would be fun?”

“Sleeping Giant”, oil on canvas, 16”x20”

“The Quiet Finish”

Finished! I think?

There are countless times throughout painting when I wonder whether or not it’s finished. That question came up again and again with this one. Reaching the end isn’t a single, clear moment; it’s a drawn-out, draining stretch of doubt, and after all this time I still don’t hear a booming “you’re done.”

To keep myself from overworking and to protect the delicate balance here between realism and abstraction, I set shorter timed sessions toward the end, just 10 to 15 minutes a day. It slowed my pace enough to see whether the next brushstroke would truly add something. After repeating this for a few days, the finish arrived quietly on its own. No party or celebration, just a quiet “I’m done.”

Finishing a painting rarely feels like a huge victory; it feels more like letting go.

The Sunflower Versus the Candle

“You know, you haven’t written in a while.”

My husband looks at me with pure judgment in his eyes.

“At least two weeks now.”

You know when you’re young and there’s that one kid in school, the tattletale, the know-it-all? That’s what my husband’s tone reminds me of.

“I know,” I say. “No one ever really reads what I write anyway.”

“It’s a waste,” he scolds.

So, I dedicate today’s writing to you, honey.

Ring, ring.

I look at my phone.

“Hi honey,” I say.

“You sound really weird,” he says.

“Ummmmmm…”

“Anyway,” he continues. “I need you to get a painting ready to donate to tomorrow’s shoot. It’s for the Boy Scouts fundraiser. Do whatever you have to do, varnish, backing, whatever.”

“Okay,” I squeal (yes, squeal) with delight. I’ve been on a “give-as-many-paintings-away-as-I-can-before-my-husband-tries-to-stop-me” kick. A little painting giveaway on TikTok turned into a slightly bigger painting giveaway on TikTok, and I couldn’t be happier about it. I literally suggested, just the other night, that we hand out paintings to random people on the street, and I still think it’s the best idea ever.

My husband does not agree.

“Which painting do you want?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You pick. Could be a candle, flower, landscape, doesn’t matter. Just have it ready for tomorrow.”

“Okay, love you, bye.”

I sit back, relax my mind, and start figuring out the best painting to donate. Obviously, an abstract won’t work. A portrait won’t work. The landscapes I’m working on are too new. I do have a couple of smaller candle paintings, but I think I should save those for future TikTok giveaways because they’re cheaper to ship.

I have a ton of 16”x20” flowers. I start flipping through them. Hmmmmm… and then I see it. The sunflower. I love that painting. Sunflowers are popular, bright, and recognizable. It practically jumps out from the black background. It’s noticeable. I choose the sunflower.

I spend time varnishing it, adding backing, and touching up the sides. I wrap it safely in glassine paper, bubble wrap, and cardboard. I even consider making handles on the cardboard so it’s easier to carry, but nix that idea. By the time he comes home, it’s wrapped and ready. I put it in his truck.

“The painting’s all ready for tomorrow,” I tell him. “I chose the sunflower.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Of course you did.”

“What?” I ask. “It’s a good painting. It’s a great choice.”

Side note: I’m normally not the best at choosing paintings for giveaways (or anything, really). I paint so many different subjects that I never know what fits where. I usually pass that task off to someone else.

“You said to pick what I wanted. You said it could be a flower.”

“I know, I know,” he says. “But it’s the Boy Scouts. I was thinking a candle or something. Not a flower.”

Now I roll my eyes, remembering him specifically telling me a flower would work.

“Fine,” I say. “I have a really nice candle that’ll work. And it’s already varnished.”

Time passes.

“You know what? Just take both,” I say.

“They don’t want both.”

“Then give one away to someone else at work. Leave it in the guide’s room or something with a sign that says Free Painting.”

Like I said, I’ve been on a giveaway kick.

(For context, the guide’s room is basically the break room where his people at work gather).

He rolls his eyes, again.

“I’m not putting a painting in the guide’s room.”

“Give the Boy Scouts both then.”

“They don’t want both, only one.”

“Just try it. If not the Boy Scouts, find someone else to give it to.”

He rolls his eyes…yet again. What’s with all the eye rolling?

He took both paintings with him this morning. What’s he going to do? Any guesses?

If it were me, I’d donate both paintings to the Boy Scouts. If they only wanted one, I’d let them pick, then subtly hang the other in his workplace. Just sneak it into a corner. No one would even notice. And if that didn’t work, I’d still find someone to give it to.

But since it’s my husband, my money’s on this: he’ll completely ignore my beautiful sunflower painting, leave it wrapped in his truck, and only donate the candle. When he gets home tonight, I’m almost 100% sure he’ll hand me back a carefully wrapped sunflower painting, untouched, unloved, and unappreciated.

Anyone want to bet?

We will see.

And by the way…to everyone else but my husband…which do you think would have made the better donation to the Boy Scouts fundraiser, the sunflower or the candle?

“Facebook used to be Fun”

I swear it’s true! Facebook used to be fun.

What does that have to do with these two separate paintings? I’ll get to that. But first, please believe me when I tell you…Facebook really did used to be fun.

I was just moving from Hawaii to Arizona when people first started buzzing about MySpace and Facebook. At the time, I wasn’t very interested. Texting was just becoming popular, but I still had a flip phone. The kind where you had to press a button three times to get a single letter. The first iPhone had just come out, and I remember being shocked when a friend flew all the way to Oahu (we lived on Kauai) just to stand in line and spend six hundred dollars on this new thing called the iPhone. Six hundred dollars for a phone?! It sounded insane then. (Now it would be a steal.)

Once I settled in Arizona, though, I started to miss my friends. That’s when I grew interested in both MySpace and Facebook. Suddenly, I could keep in touch with people from Hawaii. Then college. Then came the real gold mine: I reconnected with friends from a little reform school I’d gone to in California called CEDU. The bonds we had from that school were deep, forged by years of strange and intense experiences. Finding those people online felt like striking gold.

Little by little, MySpace faded, and Facebook became the place where all these connections lived. I found friends from every part of my life…Hawaii, college, my old high school, even my elementary school in Kansas City. My past, right there in front of me, lighting up my screen.

After a breakup, I began living in Arizona alone. I leaned on Facebook even more. The people from CEDU had started a survivor group, and it felt like home. Finally being among people who understood what we had all been through. I felt surrounded by friendships and love.

I showcased my art on Facebook. I shared my feelings on Facebook. Back then, people responded. I felt heard, connected, less alone.

Facebook is so different now. Ads clog the feed, random groups I never joined pop up, and posts from actual friends are few and far between. These days, Facebook mostly makes me feel lonelier. But back then? It was magic.

One night during Facebook’s prime, I was frustrated with my art. After a couple of drinks, I posted something like: “I don’t know what to paint. Tell me what to paint and I’ll paint it. I just want to sell art.” Then I went to bed.

When I woke up, the comments were overflowing. Friends rallied around me. They commissioned me. It was wonderful. One of my CEDU friends commissioned a portrait of his sister’s baby. That’s who you see here.

He only asked for one portrait, but the postal service had other plans. I painted the first one in oils, shipped it to Hawaii two months before Christmas…and it disappeared. Panic set in. I quickly painted a second version in acrylics and rushed it out the door. That one arrived in time. Then, of course, the day before Christmas, the original finally showed up. In the end, his sister received not one but two portraits.

Those commissions, those connections, those conversations…they all happened because Facebook really did used to be amazing. It connected people. If I posted the same thing today, I’d probably get a couple of “hugs and prayers” comments, but nothing like the flood of love and support I got back then.

I’m glad I got to experience Facebook at its best, even though its downfall is really sad. I have to ask though, where did everyone go? If not Facebook, then where are you guys?

First painting: oil on canvas, 16”x20”

Second painting: acrylic on canvas, 16”x20”

“Don’t Wake the Baby”

Oil on canvas, 12”x12”

Pretend it’s December, 2016.

Yesterday, my husband was a little surprised when I declined to go to the gym with him in the morning.  

"That's okay," I said.  "I'll go later in the day."

He looked at me quizzically. 

"It's the puppy," I said.  "She likes to sleep in the morning.  It's the only time I can get anything done.  Once she wakes up around 11:30, she'll be up for almost the rest of the day, and she'll be very interested in playing with me the entire time."

He shrugged and said, "you wanted a puppy."

That's his new line.  It's actually pretty funny because it's true, I did want the puppy.  In fact, he had almost no say in the matter whatsoever.  A few days after our beloved Piggy died, we found ourselves driving 45 minutes to the Humane Society "just to look" at a puppy I saw on their website.  

"Let's just go look," I said.  "I just want to look, I promise.  It will help us feel better."

We both knew this wasn't true and that I wanted a lot more than "just to look."

Four days prior, we were tasked with the devastating responsibility of putting our beloved chihuahua, Piggy, down.  Never in our worst nightmare could we have ever envisioned having to do something like that.  But there we were, in an emergency animal hospital, listening to the veterinarian tell us that there were no other options.  She left the room to give us some space.  As we waited, my husband cried and said that there was no way he could be in the room with her when it happened.  The vet came to take her.  She asked if we wanted to be there when they put her to sleep.  At the same time I said "no," my husband said "yes."  I looked at him questioningly.  "It's the least I can do," he said solemnly.  "Look at her, she's so comfortable."  And she was.  According to the staff, she had not been comfortable at all the night before during her stay at the hospital.  And if it was anything like the last week, where I spent every night awake with her, holding her, trying to comfort and cradle her, all to no avail.  She wanted to move, but couldn't figure out how to operate her little body.  She wanted to walk, but only walked in sharp circles if she could even stand at all.  She wanted to sleep but was too restless.  It was a nightmare, sitting up late at night, holding her through those times.  And now I was looking at her, comfortable and nestled in my husband's arms; she had even begun to snore, and was not restless at all.  

I could not let my husband do this alone so I reluctantly followed him into their "room of death."  Which was a very peaceful room actually, with calm lighting, carpet, couches, a private exit, and who knows, maybe they had music going as well, but I didn't notice.  They left us alone in that room with Piggy to say goodbye.  I sat on the couch in complete shock as I watched my husband sob uncontrollably and tell his little Piggy over and over again how much he loved her.  The only thing I knew to do was take some final pictures and I even had the balls to videotape this interaction between them, (without his knowledge or consent, of course).  

I won't get into the rest.  It's too painful.  I'm already sobbing just writing this.  I'm still not over it.  The entire experience was too painful.  The events leading up to it were too painful and the events in the immediate aftermath were too painful.  

The next day, my husband and I spent walking around several different malls in the valley.  Why?  Because I wanted to see some puppies.  Because we were in shock.  Because we needed to walk.  We needed to get out of the empty house.  We needed to do something we've never done before.  We are definitely not mall people.  But my reasoning of just wanting to look at puppies, drove us to three or four malls.  My poor husband was in complete shock, too devastated to fight me for once when I had one of my crazy ideas.  We ate Panda Express at the food courts.  I never eat Panda Express.  Some of the malls didn't have puppies but we walked their 'streets' anyway.  

I forced him to start looking at puppies online.  To my dismay, he found a toy chihuahua site, and was looking at $10,000 dogs.  I could see it was making him feel better though so I went along.  I found a more affordable site:  The Arizona Humane Society.  They also had some really cute chihuahuas to look at, although not quite as spectacular as the ones my husband was looking at.  

"We should go look at these dogs at some point," I said.  I handed him my phone whenever a cute chihuahua showed up on their site.  He wanted to look at his $10,000 dogs though.  "She was so beautiful," he said.  "I know," I responded.  And she was.  Piggy was one of the most beautiful and photogenic dogs I've ever had.  One top of that, she had the most explosive personality of any dog that I've ever known.  There would be no replacing her and I knew this.  But we would be getting another dog, this I also knew.  Not only did I need one, not only did my husband need one, but my dog Sammy, Piggy's best friend, was also in complete shock.  A couple days ago, his best girl was here.  And now she wasn't, and he began spending his time just staring at the wall.  It was scaring me.  It took four days of badgering to convince my husband to just "take a look".  We were planning on going to a completely different Humane Society, when this cute brown chihuahua popped up on their website (which I checked every hour).  Instinct kicked in and I switched locations.  

"Let's go here instead."  He shrugged.  He was just going through the motions.  He was so lost without his little Piggy.  

Once we got there, we made our way through a ton of people (they were having a big sale on older dogs).  I kept asking him which way we should go and he responded the same, "how am I supposed to know?  I've never been here."  Big dog after big dog, barking, smelly, loud, and crowded.  I turned a corner.  I saw a glassed in case with two tiny, light brown chihuahuas curled up in the middle.  "That's her," I exclaimed in wonderment.  Once we got closer, her brother began barking like crazy.  She laid still.  He was so protective of her.  I stuck my finger in a crack and she softly licked it as her brother tried to kill me.  I found one of the workers, and they grabbed her and took us into a special room.  I held her, then my husband held her.  She put her head on his shoulder and didn't move.  He stared at the wall in complete sadness.  I took a picture of this moment.  She was so sweet and docile.  He was so sad.  The next thing I knew, we were driving home with her.  

My husband continually asked me to check the website to see if her brother was still here.  If he wasn't adopted in a week, we were going to drive back and get him as well.  He ended up getting adopted (THANK GOD because I had forgotten how much work puppies are, and her brother didn't seem to be my biggest fan while we were there).  

Here we are today, two months later.  My husband recently disclosed that he will soon be attempting to steal my puppy away from me.  Right now she sleeps nestled with me.  Right now, I'm her caretaker, but if I know anything about my husband, he knows how to steal your dog away from you, and he'll do it.  He did it with Piggy.  This is a good sign.  This means his heart is opening up once again.  Piggy will never be replaced, but soon, he'll be ready to fall in love with another little angel.    

Until then, I won't be going to the gym in the mornings, I will worship any safe dog bones that keep her occupied for longer than 15 minutes, and if you see her sleeping..... shhhhh.....don't wake the baby.  

"You wanted to get a puppy," he says, knowing full well he'll be luring her away from me soon with treats, love, and chicken.  "I know," I say, excited, and ready to see him love again.   

“She’ll Wake If You Open Her Eyes”

Oil on canvas, 16”x20”

This is a painting of my mom.

The only memory I have of her is something I believed for years was just a dream I had as a child.

I’m in the back seat of a car parked in our driveway. My mom is lying on the grass in our front yard, surrounded by people trying to wake her. My three-year-old mind is absolutely certain I know the answer. If someone would just hold her eyes open, she’d wake up. I can’t believe no one else realizes this, and I’m frustrated. In the next instant, the scene shifts and I’m kneeling beside her, my little hand holding her eyelid open. She doesn’t wake, and the scene dissolves into confusion.

This image has never left me. I’ve carried it closely through the years.

Decades later, I asked my aunt, “When our grandfather found Mom in the garage, were we sitting in the car in the driveway?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Was she moved to the front yard?”

“Yes.”

Maybe that scene was real after all. Maybe it was a mix of memory and a dream.

When I was three and my sisters were two and five, our mom dropped us off at church daycare and never came back. The staff couldn’t reach my dad, so they called my grandfather. He picked us up, brought us home, and that’s when he discovered my mom’s lifeless body in her running car inside the closed garage. We were with him.

I still wonder how different life might have been if she had lived.

When I asked my older sister if she remembered that day, she told me she recalled coloring at the neighbors’ house, watching the chaos unfold through their window. Our house swarmed with police and EMS, our dad running in and out wearing a gas mask. I don’t know if her memory is accurate, but I’d like to believe it is.

The only other witness, apart from my two-year-old sister who remembers nothing, was my grandfather. He has long since passed away. I’ll never know for certain which parts of that day were a memory and which were a dream.

Sometimes I wonder if the moment my sister described, us coloring at the neighbors’ kitchen table while my world fell apart across the street, was the actual beginning of my art career. To this day, what I love most about painting, and what has never wavered, is the way it lets me retreat into my studio, my own world…shutting out the noise, chaos and sorrow beyond.

“Discount Dog”

Oil on canvas, 16”x20”

“What do you think of this little guy?”

I texted my husband a photo of a black Chihuahua just listed at the Arizona Humane Society. His name was Bobby.

“And he’s on sale,” I added.

Ever since we adopted Betty Boops eight months before, I knew she would eventually need another dog her age. She was the baby in a geriatric dog ward…two older dogs were still kicking, while their sibling Popeye (the infamous “time-out dog”) had just passed away. I didn’t really want another dog. Honestly. My dog obsession has faded over the years. But Betty Boops needed a friend who wasn’t going to croak in a couple of years.

So, for months, I casually “just looked” at puppies on the Humane Society’s site, sending photos to my husband with disclaimers like, “No pressure.” (Of course, I had every intention of breaking him down this way.) After about eight months (and the fact that Bobby was “half off”), my persistence paid off.

“Maybe you should go look at him,” he texted.

My heart stopped. We both knew what that meant. I don’t just “go look.” He knows this better than anyone. I threw down my paintbrush and ran out the door.

Minutes later, I was standing in front of Bobby’s cage, trying to pet him while dogs barked and howled around us. Before I knew it, I was driving away with a squirmy eight-month-old Chihuahua crawling all over me.

“He barks a lot, especially at people,” the adoption worker warned. “His last owner brought him back because of that. She already had too many dogs.”

“Suspicious,” I thought. “What else did you do, Bobby? And why were you half off?”

When we got home, he introduced himself by taking a shit in the dog bed, then humping my blind old dog Ruby, who had no idea what was happening. Finally, he met Betty Boops.

“Baby, meet your new brother.”

She wanted nothing to do with him. She barked, growled, snapped, and ran. He chased her gleefully like it was the best game of his life. I had to hold her nonstop while “Bobby” (soon to be renamed Jackie) relentlessly tried to get to her.

“This isn’t going to work,” I told my husband the next day. “I have to take him back.” And I absolutely meant it.

“No, you can’t. Someone already gave him up once. How do you think he’d feel if you did it too? Just give it a few more days. Baby will come around.”

Why was Michael, the one who didn’t even want another dog, defending Bobby/Jackie? Truth be told, even though he’s a crazy Gemini chef, he has the softer heart between the two of us.

So I gave it a couple more days.

Eight years later, I carry Jackie down the stairs every morning, pressing him to my chest, showering him with kisses, whispering:

“You handsome devil. How’d you get so handsome? You’re my Big Boy. I love you so much.”

Was I really going to take this guy back?

(“Yes you were,” my husband is saying in his head as he reads this. “And I saved him.”)

Best half-off sale I ever stumbled into.

“10/10/18”

Oil on canvas, 24”x30”

What I remember most about this painting isn’t the subject itself, but a few specific moments happening around me as I painted it.

It was the first time I painted an entire underpainting in a single color, blue. I spent more time on that underpainting than I ever had before, or since. It still surprises me, because underpaintings are incredibly useful, yet I usually cut them short. (I’m not the most patient person.) For some reason, I didn’t this time.

I had set up a temporary studio outside on my patio. It was mid-October in Arizona, the weather was perfect, and I was enjoying the sun while listening to Stephen King’s 11/22/63. I rarely remember the exact book I was listening to while painting. But this one stayed with me. I was completely lost in the book and loving it.

Meanwhile, Hurricane Michael was hitting Florida. My husband, Michael, had recently left the cheffing world to become an EMT. He’d just returned from deployment to Hurricane Florence and was on standby for Michael. I thought maybe he wouldn’t be called this time, it was cutting close to landfall, but then my phone rang. I remember the exact moment: I was painting Bob, layering color over that blue underpainting, when Michael called to say he was being deployed.

I’ll never forget the excitement in his voice. He rushed home, threw things into a bag, and barely made it back to the station in time to catch his flight. And just like that, he was gone for 30 days.

Which meant 30 glorious days of solitude. Not that I don’t enjoy my husband’s company, but when I’m alone, I can feed my painting addiction until I burst. I was happy for him, and happy for me.

This painting is special to me because it carries the excitement, hope, and sense of peace I felt while creating it.

“Sarah, Meet Sarah”

Oil on canvas, 18”x18”, 14”x18”

I was going through some old, unstretched paintings when I came across the gem on the left…one of my very first self-portraits. It took my breath away a little. Did I really used to paint that terribly and think it was good enough to keep? I know I probably didn’t spend much time on it, maybe it was just a practice painting, but still… wow.

I decided to hang it in my house next to my most recent self-portrait. Side by side, they became a reminder of where I started versus where I am now. That early portrait reminds me of how badly I wanted to learn, how desperate I was to paint better.

What’s funny is… nothing’s really changed. I’ve just raised the bar. I still feel that same desperation to improve, to keep reaching for more, every single day.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s a good thing. Shouldn’t we be happy with where we are, with what we already have?

Maybe.

But for me, the striving is what keeps me going. It keeps me moving forward. I’ve never felt perfectly content, and maybe that’s what keeps painting alive for me.

“A Candle in the Dark?”

Oil on canvas, 16”x20”

Sometimes I take a perfectly good, realistic painting, like a candle burning in the dark, and make a few changes. Just a couple of tweaks. That’s exactly what happened here.

I love turning realistic paintings into abstracts, especially when I’m painting faces. And especially when they’re not going well.

But neither of those things applied this time. The candle painting was fine, just too boring. So I decided to spice it up.

“Don’t Forget to Eat Your Blueberries”

Oil on canvas, 11”x14, 12”x16”

I’ve painted blueberries twice. The top painting is definitely better (at least in my opinion). It’s smoother, more refined, and I didn’t realize just how different they were until right now.

Anyway.

Here’s a secret. Please don’t tell anyone, especially my husband. I fantasize about painting a massive canvas full of blueberries, like 48”x60”.

“Please don’t,” my husband’s voice whispers in my head.

“Don’t tell me what to do. A huge painting of blueberries would be amazing.”

Yes, I even sound a little crazy to myself.

There’s this persistent, bossy voice in my head that insists on what I have to paint next. Blueberries, powdered doughnuts, blueberry pancakes, a leopard, a chess board, a White Russian, Al Pacino, you name it, it’s probably been suggested by that voice. Sometimes I resist, but often the easiest way to quiet it is just to give in. That’s how I end up with so many random paintings. Abstracts help too, they let me spill all that chaos onto one canvas instead of several.

But a massive painting of blueberries? That’s trickier. It would be time consuming, huge, and basically pointless. That makes it easier to ignore the voice.

Almost.

Because the truth is…it would look good once it was finished.

Hmmmm……….

“The Shadow”

Oil on canvas, 24”x30”

I love this painting. It’s all about that single, gorgeous line of shadow curving along the nipple, almost tickling it before sliding down the side of her body. Like a feather brushing across the skin, it’s soft, ticklish, and gently sensual.

“Side by Side”

Oil on canvas 16”x20”

This is a strange and dreamlike painting. I wanted it that way. I painted it loosely, almost surreal, because I was trying to capture a moment when my past and future felt like they were merging.

It shows my now-husband, Michael, and my dog Popeye (now gone) walking laps at Red Mountain Park in Arizona, a place that was a lifeline for me during those months.

At the time, I had three dogs: Popeye, Sammy, and Ruby. I was living alone in a small Arizona apartment, painting almost nonstop, sometimes sixteen hours a day. If I wasn’t at the gym, walking laps in the park, or hanging work in local stores, wine bars, and restaurants, I was in my apartment with a brush in hand. It was a period of major life change, and I was trying to paint my way through it.

During that obsessive stretch, I came up with something I called “time-outs.” (Obviously I didn’t invent them, but I adapted the idea for painting.) Whenever frustration boiled over, I made it a rule that I had to lie on my white faux-leather couch with Popeye stretched out on my chest. He embraced the role completely, earning the title of my “Time-Out Dog.” None of the other dogs could stretch out and lie motionless for a significant period of time like Popeye could. The rule was strict: no computer, no phone, no distractions. I wasn’t allowed to paint again until I felt calm. Sometimes I lay there for hours, awake, just waiting. But it always worked.

Looking back, those time-outs were as much about survival as they were about art. Popeye the Time-Out Dog, kept me grounded when the rest of my life felt uncertain.

Eventually, I realized I needed to step out of that solitude and meet people again. I got a part-time job hostessing at D’vine, a wine bar where I also hung my paintings. It felt perfect…a way to earn a little money, talk to humans again, and maybe sell more art.

On my first day, another hostess, someone I love to this day, showed me the ropes:

“The first thing you do when you get to work is come into the kitchen, grab a cup, fill it with ice, and pick your drink.”

I grabbed a Diet Coke and thought, If this is my first official work task, this is going to be fun.

Then she introduced me to the kitchen crew. That’s when I met Michael. He had just started as the sous chef. My first impression? He looked straight through me with zero interest.

Chefs are always jerks at first, I thought, and made a mental note: I’ll win him over. You’ve got to have the chefs on your side in a busy restaurant.

A few days later, at a staff meeting, he reintroduced himself. This time, he actually looked at me with interest instead of straight through me.

I thought to myself:

“Gotcha.”

A couple days later, we were dating.

Before long, he was walking laps with me in my favorite park alongside Popeye, the Time-Out Dog. Seeing the two of them together felt strangely significant.

One afternoon, as I walked behind them and watched them stroll, an idea occurred to me. My past and my future were moving forward, together. Popeye had carried me through my solitary, obsessive painting days. And Michael was the beginning of a new chapter, the life I was stepping into.

I took a photo that day and later turned it into this painting. It became a way to memorialize the merging of my old life with my new one, my past and future walking side by side.

Slaughterhouse: The Day My Family Butchered Betty Boops (and My TikTok Dreams)

“I hate this painting. I absolutely hate it.”

I’m standing in the kitchen with my aunt, staring at what I think is an amazing painting of my Little Betty Boops.

“I don’t know, I just don’t like it. Actually I can’t stand it.”

My hands shake slightly as I slowly pull my phone from my pocket. My breathing goes shallow. If only I could get her to say this on video. It would make the BEST TikTok.

“Katelyn hates it too, you know.”

I make a mental note to talk to Katelyn. You’re talking to this nut about how much you hate my painting, but not to me? You don’t think I’d want to hear feedback?

My arm inches into position. I HAVE to get this on video.

She spots the phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Just say that again,” I nudge.

“Say what again?”

“Say what you said about my painting again.” My phone is pointed at her, recording.

Please GOD, if you care anything about me, anything at all, please please please have her say this on video.

“No,” she says, suddenly acting shy.

I go with honesty and tell her that her brutally blunt feedback would make an incredible TikTok video. (Also, I bet people would roast her in the comments, but I don’t mention that part.)

“No.”

Sigh.

My dreams of going viral are obliterated.

She backtracks: “I wouldn’t have said it so many times if you weren’t arguing with me about it. I just don’t like the painting and you kept pushing me and asking why.”

It’s true. She probably started with “It’s not really my favorite” before it morphed into a bloodbath. What can I say, I was stunned. I LOVED this painting. That doesn’t happen often with me.

Halfway through this painting, I’d hit trouble. After my standard meltdown, I switched my medium to Safflower oil, and everything melted together perfectly. (Safflower oil slows drying, which is magic if you’re blending and plan to work for a while.) My thoughts slowed down, I started enjoying myself, and somehow finished the painting in a day.

Then came the “I hate it” feedback. From not one, but two family members. I eventually worked on it some more after hearing actual constructive criticism (once I got a hold of Katelyn), and it’s still a work in progress. But it’s of my little chicken nugget, so the painting’s not going anywhere. I pick at her on and off.

I think I often judge a painting’s “goodness” by whether I had a decent time painting it. If it flowed, if I learned something, if I solved a problem, it’s a beautiful painting. Nothing beats turning a disaster around. But if it fought me the whole way, my brain just stamps it “bad” and ugly, no matter what other people think.

Obviously, I’m not the most objective judge of my own work if that’s the criteria. So I’m generally pretty open to feedback. (For the most part.)

With my little Betty Boops painting, I was so lost in the high of turning a negative experience around, I was flabbergasted to hear it wasn’t the best painting ever.

What was even more flabbergasting was the gall my aunt had, talking to me like that.

Just kidding. I actually thought it was pretty funny.

It was the fact that she refused to make my TikTok that really devastated me.

So I’m writing about it here instead. Pictured is the original painting my family slaughtered. I still think she looks amazing. What can I say? I’m biased.

“Betty Boops”

Oil on canvas, 16”x20”