“Stress Balls”

I’ve been working on this painting for a while, but it hasn’t really improved much in the last month. I could probably work on it for a few more months and it would still feel the same. I don’t consider it finished, but I also don’t see it going much further. That being said, this painting holds a very special place in my heart. I’m thinking of calling it “Stress Balls” (you know the balls you squeeze when you’re stressed)?

I live a peaceful life and try not to let in a lot of stress. Every once in a while, life does what it does, and stress knocks on the door. And when that happens, I’m reminded of how out of practice I am with dealing with it, as well as my emotions surrounding it. If I had a wild and crazy life, I’d probably be a pro at dealing with stress, but I don’t, so I’m clueless. Recently, some stress came into my life. Nothing major, no big deal at all, just regular old stress that would probably be next to nothing for most people. I took particular notice though, of how hard it was for me to process. I was walking around my house like a robot on the fritz… “can’t compute, can’t cogitate”. I couldn’t focus. Music, audiobooks, distractions, none of them were working.

Eventually a quiet inner voice suggested, “Why don’t you go into the studio and work on that grape painting?” I thought, “well, that’s pretty random but why not give it a try”. So I went into the studio, pulled this painting out, and started working on it. Almost immediately the stress began to dissipate and I began to feel relief. It was incredible. The thoughts were still there, but they started moving in and out, flowing instead of sticking. Minute by minute, the stress eased. I paint all the time. I know painting helps me. But I’ve never really felt it happen in real time like this. I’ve never sat down at the easel specifically BECAUSE I was stressed, and felt the stress dissolve so quickly.

I don’t think it would have worked with just any painting. Some paintings are complicated and create stress of their own. This one didn’t. It’s not a commission, there’s no end point in sight, no real expectation. Just color, shape, repetition, almost like a meditation.

I don’t think I’ll ever finish this one. I’ll probably just keep it off to the side and come back to it when I need it. My own little set of “stress balls.”

I’ve always intuitively known that art is therapy. But this painting in particular made me witness just how true that is for me. I’m extremely lucky (and grateful) that I get to paint every day. Otherwise I would probably be a basket case lol.

Art = Therapy. An adult coloring book, doodling, crocheting, a random painting of grapes, ANY kind of art equals therapy. Just my opinion. 🎨

Oil on canvas, 16” x 20”

“33 Years”

Thirty-three years ago today, my aunt and uncle made my sisters and me pancakes for breakfast. “But why???” I whined. “I want to hang out with my friends.” My aunt insisted. I reluctantly sat down to a nice Sunday breakfast…where she then told us my dad had died. Silence. Shock. Crying. And then my two favorites showed up: indifference and anger.

We had been living with my aunt and uncle in New Jersey for several months by then. My dad had terminal brain cancer. Months earlier, we were living in Kansas City with him. He started getting headaches. His personality changed. Then came the diagnosis. Brain cancer. He told us the operation was successful, that everything was going to be fine. The school year ended. That’s when he gathered his three girls together and told us the truth. They couldn’t remove the tumor, he was going to die, and we would be moving somewhere completely different without him. The biggest thing I remember is him crying and repeating, “I won’t be able to see my babies grow up.” To me, that was the moment my dad died.

We moved. Months passed. A few phone calls. One visit. And then a pancake breakfast. I don’t remember much from that day except my determination to not care. “I want to go see my friends,” I said at the breakfast table. I went. We hung out. I was “fine”. I went to school the next day while my sisters stayed home.

I remember one class in particular, I think it was health class? We had an assistant teacher and I had a bad attitude. I got into a laughing fit. I don’t remember why, but I remember not being able to stop. I could hardly breathe. I was disrupting the entire class. The assistant teacher was confused and frustrated. I put my head down on my desk, trying to get it under control. Without warning, the laughter turned into uncontrollable sobbing.

I kept my head buried in my arms, trying to hide it. I panicked. What the hell just happened? I couldn’t let anyone see what was going on, so I got up, head in my hands, and ran out of the room. The poor teacher followed me into the hallway, where I stood facing the wall, hiding my face, sobbing. He had no idea what was going on, and frankly neither did I.

My regular teacher came running out from across the hall. She wrapped me in her arms. “I know, honey. It’s okay. You poor thing. It’s okay.” I remember her compassion. I cried harder. What a release! I later found out that all my teachers had been told about my dad, except for the poor assistant teacher, of course.

It still amazes me how similar hysterical laughter and sobbing are. Both are such a huge release. The switch from laughing to crying was instantaneous. It was wild. I guess my teenage determination to not care didn’t win out in the end. That was 33 years ago.

I have this painting of my dad, it hangs in my house. I walk by him multiple times a day. Of all the paintings I’ve ever done, this remains one of the most powerful. It brought a little of him back to me. I feel his presence every time I look at it. I feel like he’s here, watching me. It’s a huge gift I gave myself by painting it.

I don’t know what you’re supposed to say on an anniversary like this. So I’ll just say this:

Number one, hysterical laughter and sobbing are one and the same.

Number two, I’m so grateful I painted this portrait of my dad. It feels alive. Maybe he’s able to see me grow up after all. I feel his presence every time I look at it.

And number three, I love you, Dad. ❤️

“Happy 30th Anniversary”

Recently, I came across a video about songs that were turning 30 this year, and it got me thinking, what was I doing 30 years ago?

Oh right. I was smack dab in the middle of a 2½-year prison sentence.

Okay okay so, it wasn’t exactly a prison, just a school far away in the California mountains for bad kids. If anyone from my NJ high school ever wondered why I suddenly disappeared halfway through sophomore year, that’s why. And if anyone from college had ever thought, where did this crazy artist come from and why is she so nuts? Well, I had just gotten out of prison. I mean a cult. I mean reform school.

I remember my first day there vividly. I knew I was in deep shit when I asked my dorm head, “Okay, so what are the rules here?” She smiled and said, “We don’t have rules. We have agreements.”

I’ll never forget that moment. I was screwed, and I knew it.

That said, no matter how crazy and culty the place was, I met some of the best people of my life there. I felt so much love for so many different people from all over.

My aunt says that school saved my life. I don’t know about that. But I do know that I fell deeply in love with art during those years.

We had to go through these intense overnight emotional growth workshops, and I used to make big signs for when they ended…sort of welcoming people back after whatever wild experience they’d just gone through. Making those signs got me out of cleaning duties and work assignments (a couple photos included below). I was alone, content, and oh so peaceful. I never wanted to leave the art room.

My obsession with art began in that school, and apparently that was 30 years ago (which is crazy to think about).

I don’t know if the school saved my life, but I’m pretty sure ART did, and continues to do so every day.

I miss all of you reform school hoodlums.

Happy 30th Anniversary! ❤️

“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.

“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.

“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”

“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.   

“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.

“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.

“Travis Scott”

Oil on canvas, 36”x36”

This commissioned portrait request of rapper Travis Scott came from a sweet woman I knew in Arizona, who wanted it for her son. What makes this painting especially memorable for me is the timing. She ordered it just before COVID hit.

I had already started the painting when businesses began to shut down. She was a waitress and suddenly unable to work, like so many others. When I checked in, she told me she still wanted the painting, but there was absolutely no rush. With that reassurance, I slowed my pace. What would normally take me weeks stretched into months, maybe triple my usual time. And it felt good. Without a deadline looming, I could spend long, unhurried days in the studio, working at my own rhythm. It was a tricky painting, and that freedom made it a better experience. Rushing seems to always creates problems for me.

While I painted away in my studio, the world outside felt uncertain and somewhat frightening. Eventually, COVID began to ease, businesses reopened, and I put the final touches on the portrait.

Shipping it to Arizona was the last surprise - $200 to send a 36”x36” painting at the time. I was completely shocked. Now, five years later, as I work on another commission of the same size, I’m really hoping the shipping won’t be quite as steep.

“Piggy”

Oil on canvas, 24”x24”

This is Piggy, my beloved dog who passed away unexpectedly a few years ago. For a long time after her death, I couldn’t even bear to look at photos or videos of her, the loss was too sharp. It took a couple years before I could tentatively browse through photos. I painted this before she passed away, though I didn’t realize then how little time I had left with her.

The moment in this painting came while she and I were waiting in the car for my stepson (her favorite person) to get out of school. I was feeding her popcorn and filming as she ate it. After every bite, she would look up at me with those big, wide, beautiful eyes. The painting came from a still frame of that video. I left the background black so nothing could pull focus from her. It’s just Piggy, being my little Piggy, enjoying her popcorn and waiting for more.

Today, this painting hangs in a veterinary office in New Jersey. I hope it offers a moment of connection to anyone who sees it, a reminder of the bond we share with our animals, and how they stay with us long after they’re gone.

My husband pictured with Piggy the painting, and Piggy the dog. This photo is hard for me to look at because it was days before her passing.

“The Catch”

Oil on Canvas, 24” x 36”

This commissioned painting was created to celebrate a husband’s 50th birthday, honoring one of the most iconic moments in NFL history, “The Catch.” It captures the game-winning play in the 1981 NFC Championship between the San Francisco 49ers and the Dallas Cowboys.

The commission came from a couple I met years ago when I lived in Arizona and regularly hung my paintings at a wine bar called D’vine. They were both regulars there, and when his wife reached out to me after six years of living in New York, I was touched. It’s always meaningful when people from my past return to commission a painting.

What I love most about this painting is the balance between realism and painterly texture. The uniforms, helmet shine, and body proportions are true to life, yet the softer brushwork in the crowd and stadium keeps the focus squarely on the main figures. The rich red of the 49ers jersey pops beautifully against the cooler blue-and-white of the Cowboys uniform, creating an instant visual contrast.

The slightly blurred background mimics the way our eyes naturally focus in a high-adrenaline moment like this, adding a sense of immediacy. My goal was to capture not only the likeness of the scene, but also the energy and emotion of an unforgettable moment in sports history.

“Memory Collage”

Oil on canvas, 16”x20”

Painted in 2003, this painting comes from my earliest years of exploring abstraction. I had been experimenting with abstracts since 1998, balancing that with my deep love of portraits. Even then, I felt the pull to move between styles and subjects, a tendency that still shapes my work today.

This painting is a snapshot of that time in my life. It’s filled with symbols that held meaning, some tied to people I knew, others almost like doodles. The composition blends intentional imagery with spontaneity, allowing randomness and memory to overlap. The muted colors differ from my palette now, yet they carry the mood of that period.

It may not be my most technically refined work, (not even close), but it holds a special place for me. It’s a reminder of where I started. I still paint abstracts in a similar style today, but they are far more refined, and I continue to explore different ways to merge realism and abstraction.

“Desert to Durango”

Oil on canvas, 12”x12”

This painting captures the feeling of a long drive, watching weather unfold far ahead on the horizon. It’s expansive and freeing, the kind of scene that makes you want to roll the windows down, take it all in, snap a few photos, (and paint it later).

For years, my husband and I made the eight-hour trip between Phoenix and Durango almost every other weekend to see his family. The route was gorgeous, a true Southwest journey through Payson, Holbrook, Gallup, and Farmington. Full of desert plains, shifting light, and endless sky, Colorado felt familiar to Arizona in many ways, but its skies held surprises: fast-changing weather, towering clouds, and bursts of color that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

This was one of those moments… a fleeting rainbow breaking through a storm. The skies of Colorado still stun me to this day. I will always appreciate those road trips and the beauty we witnessed along the way. We live in upstate New York now, which has its own kind of beauty, but nothing quite like those Colorado skies.

“Tide and Time”

Oil on canvas, 16”x20”, commission

This commissioned painting remains one of my favorites, particularly because it’s not posed. No forced smiles or staged expressions, just a shared moment of curiosity, connection, and play. There’s something timeless about the way these two children are absorbed in their own little world, completely unaware of the camera or the viewer.

I absolutely love when people send me photos like this, snapshots of real life. I can almost hear the waves breaking in the distance, feel the water and sand beneath their hands, smell the salt in the air. There’s a dreamlike quality to the light and reflections that makes the scene feel suspended in time.

It reminds me of childhood. These are the kinds of moments worth preserving in paint. Unposed, honest, and full of quiet nostalgia.

“Evening Watch”

Oil on canvas, 16”x20”

This painting captures a peaceful moment I witnessed at Red Mountain Park in Mesa, Arizona, a place I used to walk regularly when I lived nearby. I was out doing laps at the park when I caught this scene just as the sun was setting and the lights around the lake started to glow. Something about it stopped me…the calmness of the water, the softness of the sky, the quiet silhouettes along the path.

What made it even more memorable was seeing a police officer chatting with local residents, just connecting as part of the community. It was a simple moment, but it struck me as warm, human, and meaningful.

I wanted to capture not just the visual beauty of the sunset, but the feeling of peace and the way evening light can soften everything, even the pace of life itself.

“Self Portrait in Pieces”

Oil on canvas, 24”x36”

This painting is built from pieces. Photos of past drawings, fragments of earlier paintings, a strange doodled face I once made, and circles cut from old artwork. At the time, I was floating, emotionally untethered, grasping at art to ground me. I lived alone and painted constantly. In an effort to find something solid, I began creating collages from my older work, stitching together scraps of my artistic past into something entirely new. This painting emerged from one of those collages.

The cartoonish figure at the center is a distorted self-portrait. It’s playful, strange, and fragmented. My sister’s face appears in the upper right corner, almost laughing at me and at the absurdity of life and the state I was in. During that chaotic time, she was my anchor, the quiet, steady presence who helped me feel less alone.

This piece is messy, funny, intimate, disjointed, and deeply personal. It’s not polished or pristine. It’s a visual diary entry, a record of a moment when I felt lost and was reaching backward and inward, trying to create my way into something more solid.

“Aftershock”

Oil on canvas, 14”x14”

This painting began one way and ended another. It carries a powerful contrast in style, tone, emotion, and timing.

The vibrant patterned background was created before a personal tragedy took place. At the time, I had no specific destination in mind. I was simply exploring rhythm and color through shape and pattern. The pinks, purples, reds, and oranges felt joyful, decorative, almost celebratory.

After the tragedy, I returned to the canvas in shock. I added the black-and-white figure as a form of art therapy. The figure is sparse, raw, and emotionally exposed. The tears are simple but heavy. Boxed into the center of the painting, drained of all color and pattern, it creates a stark rupture. A moment when everything stops. A visual silence surrounded by noise. Numbness.

Together, the two sections now live as one. The painting became a record of my joy and grief. The tension between styles, that fracture in the surface, is what gives the painting its emotional weight. A bright life, broken. A moment that divided everything into before and after.