For as long as I can remember, or at least for the majority of my adult life, I’ve wanted to be a painter, an Artist. As a child, it seemed my passion was geared towards Art, always drawing, coloring, but then somewhere along the way that perfectionistic side, my perfectionistic side, got in the way. That nagging inner voice that would whisper, “you’re not good enough, it’s not good enough. There will always be someone who can do it better than you.”
Looking back, I should have went to Art school, pursued that passion, but I never did. No, I abandoned the notion almost completely, that I could ever, or would ever, be an Artist, and so instead, spent nearly thirty years (and quite unsuccessfully, I might add), trying to figure out what it was I was supposed to be doing instead.
Oh, I had tried once in my twenties; a half-hearted attempt at a watercolor, which, much to my surprise, turned out quite horrific, actually. Once in my thirties; a poor rendition of a pastel: some peaches in a bowl, which I still have in a box somewhere. And once again in my mid forties; another pastel of some red cardinals, which I then completely botched when I tried to add the background. Still, somewhere buried deep within me (and believe me, it was so deep that even I myself barely knew it was there), was this desire to paint, to be a painter. How do I know this? I know this because I distinctly remember visiting an Art museum, where at the age of 44, while standing before a work I loved, that moved me, I wished with all my heart that I could paint like that one day, and yes, I even Instagrammed it.
It wasn’t until the age of 48, after deciding to leave a corporate job I had loathed for one too many years, that I left with only one goal in mind: a mission: a mission to find what I was supposed to do with the rest of my life. I sold all my belongings, and while on move from East coast to West, Fate decided to afford me a beautiful detour, because halfway there, I was invited to attend an Intentional Creativity class. “A what?” I asked, then shrugged, “sure, why not?” Talk about intention, because for the first time in my life, someone put a paint brush in my hand, placed a canvas in front of me, and told me, of all things, to paint my Muse. My first painting ever: “Oh, Muse of My Heart, 2018,” and I’ve never stopped since.
So, maybe I tell the long version of my story because maybe I like to believe that wishes do come true. Maybe there is someone up there who’s always listening, who knows what our gifts are even before we do, and how our heart desires to use them more than anything else and then simply… reveals them to us. Everyone of us has a gift, our gifts to share with the world, and when we find them and put them to use, there is nothing that can give us more joy.
A painting comes to me much like a poem: it wisps in like a quiet and gentle breeze, then presents itself as an idea, “would you like to paint me?” Sometimes I jump on the idea, “yes, yes, I would!” And sometimes, I’ll mull it around for a day or two, “would I? Do I want to paint that?” But if a painting wants to be painted it continues to be persistent, dropping little hints of itself in confirmations, until finally I say, “o-kay,” and begin the process.
This is how most of my paintings start for me, with what I like to call a little bit of magic.
As I meet with them every day at the easel, applying and reapplying brushstrokes, much to my surprise, they eventually emerge upon the canvas; with their own set of emotions and feelings I have often been told is somehow captured in their eyes: what they’re bringing to the world.
Being most of my subject work tends to be animals, part of my proceeds will always go to an organization that works to help that particular animal and will be noted next to each painting I have listed.
Thank you for viewing and supporting the work. I hope in so doing it brings as much joy to you as it does to to me while in the process of creating it.