We’re artists. We make things. We need to make things. Other people need us to make things, and not necessarily the things they think we should make.

We know all this, and yet we still manage to get in our own way. I can say without exception that every artist I’ve ever known has spent some time being their own worst enemy. Myself included.

If it weren’t for a timely mentor and finally understanding that my work didn’t need affirmation from anyone to be valuable, I would still be stuck in inertia. I heard someone accurately but crudely describe it as artistic constipation.

Here are seven ways we get in our own way. How many have tripped you up?

1. Undervaluing Your Art

We all do this at some point, but the truth is, no one can make art like you make art, because there’s no one like you. To list the base pairs of your unique DNA alone would take 50 years typing 60 words a minute for 8 hours a day. For the tech-minded among us, that’s one billion terabytes of information contained in those pairs. Now take all that never-to-be-seen-again-in-the-history-of-the-world compilation of data that guides how you were put together and add to it all of the experiences you’ve ever had. The people you’ve met. The things you’ve learned. The emotions you’ve felt. I hope by now you’re realizing how utterly one-of-a-kind you are.

The rarity of diamonds makes them more valuable. Nothing is rarer than you are. You have value, and by extension your work has value. You’re an artist. You have a gift. The world needs it and can’t get it from anyone else. Don’t underestimate the value of your vision.

2. Overvaluing Your Art

While your overall vision is a rare jewel, letting individual pieces become too precious is a trap. This usually happens when we don’t practice our art regularly. Every little thing we do is precious to us because it’s rare… and it shouldn’t be. 

When you’re being consistent in your art practice, this problem evaporates. The painting you finished, the one you’re working on, the one you’re planning, are all part of a journey instead of a lonely icon of your frustrated hopes. When you have a body of work, it will be easier to let individual parts go so they can accomplish their purpose in the world.

3. Being Critical of your Work

We. Are. So. Hard. On. Ourselves.

Those of us with an academic background may have been trained to be harshly judgmental of all work, especially our own. Even without being taught, we artists seem to stand above the crowd in our ability to beat ourselves up.

Just. Stop.

My mentor wouldn’t let me use words to describe myself that I wouldn’t use to describe someone else. I was so incredibly rude to myself that this brought me to a full halt. I still have to catch myself sometimes.

It helps to realize that when you’re immersed in a piece you are usually the one human being on the planet least qualified to judge its worth. We get caught up in what we planned it to be and forget to let a piece be what it is.

I remember doing my first five-day painting challenge, doing one painting a day limiting my painting time to 20-30 minutes. (Intimidating, but unbelievably profitable.) The first day I finished my session completely disgusted with my little 5”x 7” oil sketch. I even considered taking it straight to the burn pile.

The next day when I looked at it with slightly fresher eyes I had to apologize. (Yes, I apologized to a painting.) 

I’ve found it helpful to establish this rule: however I feel about a work, positive or negative, I suspend judgement until I have some distance from it.

Instead of being judgmental, try letting yourself play in your chosen medium, look for the joy in your work, and look for connection instead of perfection.

4. Not Being Critical of your Work

There does come a time to make some judgement calls. If we never evaluate our work, we never grow. Once you have some distance, ask yourself, what is strong about this work? What could have been better? Is there more to explore with this subject? What do I need to learn in order to accomplish my vision?

As I’ve gotten older, there are two things that I value most in myself and other people: a teachable spirit, and a learner’s heart. A teachable spirit accepts new ideas and new ways of doing things, while a learner’s heart actively seeks to know more of things beyond its experience.

Have both. Cast a critical eye on what you’ve been taught is true. Is it really? Look at your process. Changing it up, or speeding it up, can bring wonderful freshness. Look for people you can learn from. Whether it’s a person, a workshop, or a YouTube video, broaden your horizons.

5. Listening to Limiting Beliefs

Ah, the voices in our heads! It can be an interesting study to ferret out where they’ve come from. Who told you that you really aren’t very good? That art is just a hobby, not a vocation? That you can’t make a living from art? That you should do the more “important” things before you allow yourself time for your art? 

I was told in college that I was a “draughtsman.” That’s both a compliment and an indictment. It implies that while I’m great at drawing, I’m probably deficient in color, design, etc. Of the two color theory professors available, I got the junk one. I took all that, smushed it together, and decided that I “couldn’t do color.” I don’t want to tell you how long that held me back from painting.

What’s the most common comment I get on my art now? “I love your color!” Or  (from artists) “I really appreciate your understanding of color relationships.”

Evaluate those voices. If they’re not speaking the truth, shut ‘em up. We’re so used to listening to them that it takes work, but it’s worth it.

6. Using the wrong parameters to evaluate success

One of the most helpful questions I ever answered was, “What does success as an artist mean to you?” As a people pleaser, I had never considered what I really wanted. 

Your idea of success, of what fulfills you, most likely doesn’t look like anyone else’s…and it shouldn’t. Don’t use other people’s parameters to measure your own success.

Being a success financially may be part of your picture, or it may not. Keep in mind that financial success does not equate with being good at what you do. It just means you’re good at marketing. If you come from a business background, the idea of dollars=success may be hard to let go of. Do it. Ask yourself, what really makes fine art fine?

An artist friend of mine once suggested that looking at a particular artist’s work might help me with a piece I was working on. Of course (having a teachable spirit and a learner’s heart) I relished the opportunity. But then she underscored her suggestion with, “He sells his paintings for X dollars a piece!” as if that proved the value of his work.

Her suggestion proved to be a good one, but it was because of his use of color to harmonize and lead the eye through his paintings, not because he commanded a high price for his work. How much he sold his paintings for didn’t even belong in the conversation, but my friend, having been in business, hadn’t let go of dollars=success…yet.

How many non-financial parameters of success can you come up with? Which ones are important to you?

7. Not maintaining a regular art practice

All of the pitfalls above can prevent us from making art. You’re an artist. If you don’t make art, you aren’t fulfilling your destiny, and you’re going to feel it.

Maintaining a regular art practice takes work, though. It means showing up when you don’t feel like it. It means setting boundaries with family and friends, some of whom may not understand or agree. It means making mistakes and learning from your failures. It means investing in supplies. It means choosing to make art instead of doing something else. 

Your art matters. It’s your responsibility to bring what no one else can. But you can’t do that unless you make it, and you can’t make it unless you intentionally order your world to make that happen.

The world needs our art! Let’s stop shooting ourselves in the foot.

There are days when it seems like every effort is met with resistance. When plans go awry, when I feel like I'm met with a wall every time I try to do something, I'm extremely tempted to pack it in and give up.

Enter the Power of Pivot.

My day started with anticipation. I was finally getting out with my plein air group, the Plein Air Artists of Central Kentucky! Trying for weeks I had missed art-out after art-out, but today was my day. Our venue was quite a distance from the farm, but I counted the hour's drive a small price to pay for the opportunity of making art outdoors with fellow artists.

BUT...

Barry's car had two flat rear tires. There was no way I could make it to the art-out, paint, and be home in time to take him to pick up the car by 4pm.

Canceled. I was utterly deflated.

BUT...

Barry pointed out that I could still paint en plein air. After all, we had a whole farm-full of lovely landscape. So I pushed past my disappointment, made the necessary mental adjustments, loaded up my kit in the UTV, and headed up the hill to our ridge-top field full of native grasses and wildflowers.

I wandered about for quite a bit. I find it harder to see my subject in a familiar landscape than in a new one, and I think I was still partially tied to my original plans. Fortunately, a clump of wild ageratum spoke to me everytime I passed by.

I couldn't see how the low cluster of purple would fit in a composition at first, but I knew it must somehow, so I set up my tripod and gear. With the insistent breeze I chose a low profile.

BUT...

When I set up my chair, though, I realized that there was no way my back was going to tolerate its relaxed seat. I'd be in pain in short order.

Full halt.

BUT...

By now I was getting used to the pendulum swings of this day. Instead of veering off course and heading back down the hill to look for a better seat, I asked myself what else I could do. I ended up setting up really low, kneeling in the short grass and leaning back slightly against the chair. The low point of view was perfect, absolutely perfect. What I couldn't perceive before was obvious to me now. I quickly sketched a thumbnail and notan, and I was off to the races.

The next step was mixing color. I love the back and forth of taking in the color around me and interpreting it on the palette. The browning grasses, the varied greens of trees and field, the goldenrod peeking through - its yellow the perfect foil for the pale violet of the ageratum -all came to life in the hues of my palette.

Surrounded by my subject, I became one more player on a very large stage. I began to notice the other actors. When the wind picked up, a turkey vulture exulted in his tetrahedral glide. When it died down, a host of dragonflies rose from the grasses. The usual flocks of small birds were missing, but I didn't notice at the time. I should have known...

All of a sudden a big gust of wind hit me out of nowhere. My phone and my sketchbook face-planted into the piles of paint on my palette. I grabbed at my umbrella as it threatened to sail away and take all of my gear with it. After the gust had passed, I was left stunned and clinging to my hastily righted tripod. I didn't even want to look at my phone.

Somehow I got everything squared away and my phone wiped off (there's still some green paint on it that I can't get to.) My sketchbook fared a little better.

I set everything back up, adding ballast in the form of a water bottle and a few other heavy items hung in a plastic bag from the middle of my tripod. I was ready to paint.

BUT...

The wind was rising. Now I noticed and understood the absence of the little birds. Once the wind starts to rise on that ridge top, it doesn't quit. Ever. My heart sank as I realized there was no way I was going to be able to continue.

BUT...

What if I packed up everything and relocated to my studio at home? The finished product could not be rightly called a plein air painting, as by definition at least 50% of the painting must be done outside. Not a biggie. A painting is a painting, and I had hopes of it being a good one.

I would definitely run the risk of being recruited for whatever job Barry was working on, or needed to delegate. I texted him with determined fingers on my smeary phone: "I am coming down, but I am NOT done. I'll be in the studio."

Making a note to myself, "don't forget the dragonflies," I packed everything up and drove back down the hill.

I set up once more and began to paint in my quiet, out-of-the weather studio. I found that in addition to my sketch, my pre-mixed paint, and my primed panel with its faint outline of the composition, I had also brought the whole experience of being outdoors back with me. I could still feel the wind, feel the sun on my back, and hear the rustling of the grasses as I painted with my favorite knives.

With that studio session and one more for finishing touches, "Wind and Wild Ageratum" was done. And I didn't forget the dragonflies.

Looking back at my three pivots, I have to ask, "What if I had given up on painting en plein air when my PAACK plans were cancelled?" 

There would have been no painting. If I'd just gone up and taken reference photos, there would have been no extended experience, probably no turkey vulture, definitely no dragon flies.

"What if I had gone back down when my chair didn't work out?"

I might have lost time and the opportunity to observe and mix my colors on site, and I definitely wouldn't have arrived at the low vantage point and unique perspective.

"What if I'd given up when the wind knocked me down (literally and figuratively)?"

I would have lost everything and have left myself with nothing but defeat. Would I have recovered? Of course, art is nothing if not a series of recoveries. But looking at what I have instead, I think the loss would have been great.

"Wind and Wild Ageratum" will always remind me of the Power of Pivot.

I was quite a sight, a heavy camo coat thrown over my robe, large rubber boots on my bare feet, stomping around and around the house in the dark under the frosty stars, keeping a rhythm as I prayed. It was one of my more creative answers to the question of what to do in the middle of the night, exhausted but unable to sleep because my body insisted that I must move.

For the past nine months I’ve been struggling with “refractive Restless Leg Syndrome,”* at worst unable to sleep night or day, at best getting around four hours of interrupted sleep a night.º

I normally don't share health struggles, but I needed to give you the setting in order to share something a lot more important. Something I remembered and banked on the night of my pacing prayers — a lesson I learned… from a very large root vegetable.

No, I haven’t lost my mind (although sleeplessness can make me feel like it.) I really was lessoned by a sweet potato.

As you can imagine, sleepless nights lead to haphazard days. Consistency in anything is right next door to impossible. I may or may not have the ability to do even basic tasks. Sometimes I can paint, and sometimes I just don’t have the brain capacity to focus.

One of my biggest difficulties is seeing one thing after another disappear or die of neglect. Not being able to garden last season was especially hard.

At one point, finding some leftover sweet potatoes from the previous year, I took five minutes to cut them up and shove them in the ground in a raised bed. A few weeks later I remembered them, and I thought that if they’d sprouted, I’d better weed them. I was delighted to find vigorous vines, but they were hopelessly entangled in morning glory and bindweed. There was no way to get rid of the weeds without pulling up the plants. 

So, as with so many things, I had to let it go.

By the time Fall came, I had forgotten that I’d planted sweet potatoes at all. It wasn’t until I went to help clear the beds for winter that I saw something orange peeking out of the dirt. I was puzzled for a moment, and then I knew. I quickly dug around it and pulled up a nice little sweet potato. I felt around in the dirt and knew there were more.

I dearly love digging potatoes. It’s like a treasure hunt. I didn’t expect to find much, but it was fun to wonder what would turn up next.

Potato after potato emerged from the bed. Big, small and everything in between. As I got down to the bottom of the bed I ran into the old boards we’d built the beds over. I felt something too rounded to be one of the boards, but too big to be a sweet potato wedged underneath. I had to really work to get it out.

It was a sweet potato! A HUGE sweet potato. When I weighed my harvest, I had over 30 pounds of potatoes, with that one enormous root topping them all at over seven pounds!

Five minutes of work for an unexpected, 30 pound harvest.

It seemed miraculous.

It was miraculous!

As I thought about it, I realized that the miracle is life. God-given LIFE. Without it, the pieces of potato I pushed into the dirt would have remained just pieces of potato, until they rotted away. As it was, each piece was imbued with life. All I had to do was the little I could do — put them where they could grow.

The little I could do was enough.

My perspective slowly shifted. What if the same principle held true in other situations? What if, though it fell far short of what I wanted to or felt I should do, the little I could do was enough in other areas?

I’ve come to the conclusion that if I am acting along with God’s principle of life, then the little I can do, however small, is enough.

The little I can do will grow.

The little I can do will multiply.

The little I can do will cause other things to grow as well.

Because that’s what Life does. 

Because that’s Who God is.

There you have it. The lesson I learned from a very large sweet potato. Because of it, I’m trying to stop lamenting the things that can’t be right now, and start looking for the evidence of life springing from the things that can.

For instance, I’m not going to berate myself for only finishing two days of a five-day painting challenge. I’m going to wonder at and be thankful for the two little paintings that did come of it. One of the paintings, especially, lifts my spirits every time I look at it. It speaks to me of beginnings, of hope, even though it’s only a sunrise through a fence line on a snowy morning. 

"Fence Line Sunrise" 5 x 7 oil on panel

All of us have challenges from time to time that bring loss, weigh us down, and cause us to doubt our ability to do anything that really counts.

Stop.

Look hard.

Do you see it?

Just a bit of orange peeking out from the dark soil….

*for the curious: "The Treatment of Restless Leg Syndrome, An Updated Algorithm" from the Mayo Clinic

ºUpdate: I'm in the process of being evaluated by the Movement Disorders Clinic at the University of Kentucky, and I have recently seen significant improvement through Maitland-Australian Physiotherapy, a form of manual physical therapy.

"To the rationally minded the mental processes of the intuitive appear to work backwards."

FRANCIS WICKES

I was propped on my stool in my studio coiling yarn over a Styrofoam ball. It was a brief moment stolen from a thousand other demands. If you had walked in and asked, "Why are you doing that?" I could have only answered, "I have no idea."

At that moment, I had no "Why," no purpose, no expected beneficial results for what I was doing. 

What I had was a persistent thought.

It all started with a visit from friends from the Bronx. Janet and Joel and their little dog Rusty hadn't been out of the city since lock-down, and they'd honored us by making our Kentucky farm their first destination. In addition to their wonderful company, fellowship in adventures, jokes and confabs, they came with treats from the city and several special gifts.

One of them was a ceramic bowl by Judith Eloise Hooper. I loved it right away. I enjoyed the variety of techniques she wedded together in a unified whole. I delighted in the fact that I could see the imprint of the artist's fingers captured forever in the clay.

The bowl came to mind often. I'd remember Janet and Joel's visit, and end up jumping from a wonderful memory to an image of the bowl... and the bowl always had three balls of blue-green yarn in it.

Every time I imagined the bowl, I'd see it holding three balls of blue-green yarn. Every time. I had no idea where they came from, but they certainly weren't going away!

Finally I succumbed. On the way back from an appointment, I stopped by a store to buy some yarn. Yarn is such wonderfully tactile stuff! I fell in love with a rather spendy merino blend that felt just right. Then in a fit of practicality, I picked up some styrofoam balls rather than buying two more skeins of yarn. 

They sat in their bag on my studio table for several days. When I had bought the yarn a voice in my head had scolded, "Extravagance!" and whenever I thought of making the yarn balls the same voice said, "What for? Waste of time!"

In the wee hours one morning, unable to sleep and too tired to think clearly enough to work, I fixed the end of the yarn onto a ball with a pin and started to wrap the beautiful, soft stuff around the crunchy white ball. It only took a few minutes. I snipped the yarn and tucked in the end. I placed the single ball into the bowl. It was good. Not done yet, but good. I went back to bed satisfied.

Now that I knew how little time it took, I found brief moments for the next two balls. It was amazing how utterly satisfying three balls of yarn in a bowl could be!

Little by little, I'm coming to see a bit of the "why" of my bowl and yarn balls. Part of it was just the satisfaction of following my intuition, of bringing to life the vision in my head. I am learning to be better at that, and do it more often.

I'm learning to ignore the snarky little voice in my head. I'm learning to let life be a process. I'm learning to let go of a final goal in the interest of the goodness of now, and what it might become in the future.

I'm learning to let one good thing

lead to another

in a flow

of goodness.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights..."

James 1:17

One of my most valuable sources of references for my wildlife art is the trail camera. A motion-triggered camera strapped to a tree in areas frequented by wildlife, the trail camera captures not only a variety of wildlife, but also their interactions, gestures and habits.

But trail cams aren't cheap, and neither are the batteries needed to run them. I needed a way to fund an upgrade and the upkeep of my trail cameras in order to keep those references coming so that I can keep painting. But how?

Then I thought about a common complaint that I hear from people: they would like to own wildlife art, but find it too expensive.

I think I've found a way to solve both problems!

I'm planning a series of 20 oil sketches on paper with trail cam photos as their inspiration. They'll be mounted and matted, and sent in a protective sleeve. Because of working on paper, and a wonderful deal I got on the mats, each painting will only cost $100, plus shipping (and sales tax where applicable.)

Reservations will be open to members of my Studio Insiders' mailing list a day ahead of the general public. I don't expect these to last long, so if you don't already belong to the list, you might want to consider subscribing soon. I'd hate for you to miss out!

Last Sunday was our 35th wedding anniversary. We usually go out to dinner for our anniversary, but this year that's not an option. We're both on the Whole30 resetting our habits and health, and there aren't restaurant options to fit. Barry gave me a great card instead, with the promise of a pole chainsaw. (Yes, I'm thrilled with a pole chainsaw as an anniversary gift, and yes, I'll be the one using it.) After worship that morning, Barry went to his office upstairs and I went outside to work bees.

Man, it was hot! Having a complete bee suit on didn't make me any cooler. By the time I finished I had a sting on my ankle and I was seriously overheated. I peeled off my sweaty bee suit, got a cold drink, and sat in front of the fan. Fifteen minutes later I was still scarlet-faced and sweltering. All I could think of was getting cool somehow. Suddenly I knew where I wanted to go. I ran upstairs.

"Come to the creek with me!"

"The creek? Why?"

"Because I'm super hot and it's nice and cool. Come on, it will be fun."

"That's ok, you go ahead."

"Oh, c'mon, Barney, it's our anniversary, come with me."

"Oh, ok. Just a minute."

The sun was blazing down on us as we walked down the pasture fence with our Airedale Lucy, but we felt a drastic drop in temperature as we slipped into the green shadows of the woods bordering the creek. Lucy and I got in the water. I was one happy, red-faced beekeeper!

It didn't take long to convince Barry to get in. We took "anniversary pictures" up to our necks in creek water while Lucy waded about.

We talked about how beautiful it was. I took reference photos and thought about future paintings. We didn't notice that Lucy had slipped off into the woods. The water felt good, we lay back and looked at the leaves overhead filtering the harsh sunlight into gentle dappled shade.

It was cool.

It was peaceful.

It was idyllic...until a splash and a heart-rending cry shattered the quiet.

For a confused split-second I didn't know what was happening, then I saw it. A tiny fawn, floundering in the water with Lucy right behind her. "Leave it!" I shouted, and Lucy obeyed, veering off from the fawn and heading in my direction. But the fawn leapt in front of us and splashed downstream. The temptation was too much for Lucy, and she charged after the poor baby as Barry and I shouted at her in desperation. I don't know how he managed it, but Barry literally flew down the creek over the stones, reaching the fawn just as Lucy's jaws were closing on its neck. He shoved her away. The fawn lay motionless, floating with its face in the water.

Barry scooped the sodden little body up in his arms. It shook the water from its ears as I finally reached them. Barry was hunched over the spotted baby as he held it. I couldn't understand why. "Can't you stand up?" I asked. "No. It's my feet. I tore them up running over the stones. Could you get my shoes?" 

As I came back with his crocs the baby's beautiful mama leapt into the creek below us. Seeing us, she snorted and spun, leaping back into the woods. As soon as she heard her mother's warning snort, baby revived, twisting and kicking her incredibly long legs in an effort to free herself. I snapped a few quick photos, not stopping to get a good one because I didn't want to delay getting the fawn back to the safety of her mother's care. We made sure that Lucy was under control and released the fawn. Baby streaked away from us and ran into the woods, no worse, and maybe a little wiser, for her terrifying experience.

Barry and I stood looking at one another for a long moment, thankful, relieved, and joyful.

As we made our way home, Lucy in disgrace and under close supervision lest she double back, I couldn't help but take another look at my husband of 35 years. He was my hero for flying down that creek over the sharp stones, not only because he saved the fawn, but because I knew that he would do the same for me, or for any of our children or grandchildren, no matter what danger he had to run through or what the cost to himself.

In fact, I know that he would do that for anyone in need.

It's good, very good, on the anniversary of your wedding,  to be reminded why you got married in the first place.

Long before this painting became a universally recognized pop icon and while I was in graduate school in Michigan, I had the privilege of seeing it at a Dutch Masters Exhibit in Toronto. As I stood face to face with Carel Fabritius' "Goldfinch," it captured my heart, and affected me so deeply that I wanted to continue to enjoy its influence. I spent all the money I had left with me to buy a print of the painting at the museum gift shop. It was mounted on particle board and I was pleased that I would be able to hang it right away. 

From that day on, every time I moved the "Goldfinch" went with me. When I married my sweetheart and had children, it graced every home we established. When we left as missionaries for Togo, West Africa, the Goldfinch came too. When later we left for Cambodia and took only the most essential items, the Goldfinch made the cut without a moment's thought.

The little chained bird came with us as we flitted through 15 moves. We found that it was important that our children had at least a few things that didn't change in all these transitions, and ended up with three constants: our family, our little Australian terrier Jackaroo, and the "Goldfinch." As soon as the print was hung on the wall, we were home.

Now 38 years old, the print is faded and stained, too much so to be enjoyed as it once was. Had it been a higher quality print and not mounted on particle board, it would have lasted much, much longer. But then it wouldn't have been so easily packed and moved all over the world. 

There is no substitute for original art. If you've ever been to an art museum and seen a piece that you've enjoyed in print, you know what I mean. But when that original is out of your reach, for whatever reason, a print can be a wonderful solution. Prints are available in different sizes and in a range of quality and durability. No room for a huge painting that you love? A smaller print might be just the thing. Can't afford original art right now? A print can allow you to begin your art collection anyway.

We might be tempted to dismiss it as "only a print," but did our "Goldfinch" do less to grace our lives because it wasn't "real?" Of course not. It's quiet influence blessed each of our homes through many years. When an original just won't do, you don't have to settle for no art at all.

Never underestimate the power of a print.

(Prints are now available for select paintings here on my website.)

I used to be rather offended when that question was posed by someone viewing my art. I felt like I was being compared to someone who builds cathedrals out of toothpicks.

Then I thought, “No, they’re just looking for a point of contact, something that they can relate to.”

After a lot of thought, and after asking questions in return, I now believe both are true. People who ask that question usually believe that there is greater inherent value in something that takes a long time to create. If something requires an impressive amount of time, that qualifies the task as unique and difficult. If something is done quickly and with apparent ease, it is worth less.

The point of relatability is often their own experience, or the experience of someone close to them, in making things. In their minds, creating original artwork is no different than following directions or a pattern to produce a craft item. I’d like to propose that the difference between art and craft is a much greater than the difference between apples and oranges.

In the past I have done needle-point projects. I had a pattern to follow which included yarn types and colors, and what stitches to use. My part was to execute the needlework. That required time on my part, the ability to follow the pattern, and the technical skill to do it well. I was justifiably proud of a beautiful result.

But what if I had been the creator of that project? In addition to understanding patterns and having technical skill, I would also have had to come up with an original design that was not only beautiful, but fit the function of the project. I would have had to make a myriad of decisions as I simplified my design to be effective in needle-point, chose the colors, the stitches, and made adjustments to meet the needs of my projected audience. In each step, I would have to draw on every previous experience I had had in art and design.

When I draw and paint, I also plumb the well of past experience. Every painting, every sketch, is the product of the sum total of everything I’ve ever done as an artist, as well as everything I’ve ever experienced as a human being. To each work, however small, I bring all that I am today.

So, 

How long did it take me to do that? 

If you are asking about the little sketch I made yesterday, my answer is, “ Sixty years, two months, and three days.”

What on earth do art and comfort food have in common?!

Possibly quite a lot.

Growing up, my favorite comfort food was Mee-maw's homemade macaroni and cheese. I would watch with anticipation as she boiled the noodles, drained them, then layered them with grated cheese, chunks of butter, salt and pepper, and poured milk over the top. The part I looked forward to the most was the browned, crunchy cheese on top with the occasional twice-cooked, chewy macaroni. Mmmmmm. All sorts of positive associations going on there! Just smelling it can make me feel Mee-maw's love and care again.

What about art? Does it have the power to do the same thing? Can it bring, and continue to bring, comfort through treasured past associations?

My sister once told me in response to my chagrin that a painting wasn't working, "In my opinion your work speaks to people who have lived in your paintings. The low country speaks to low country people. The Florida people see their lives in the Florida paintings. This one is somehow different. I think many of us have "seen" this one. Keep going. You are on to something here."

This week I mailed this little 5"x 7" painting to its forever home. I received this text from the new owner, with whom I had shared my sister's insight:

"...my little painting came. I'm so happy! I'm carrying it around with me throughout the house. Katherine, it is a winner. I've been there, in that place before... We had a summer place in the country from [when] I was 9 until like 42; cried when parents sold it. We'd also go out there in the winter for a snowfest. My dad had made cross-country skiing trails through the woods. There's this open farm field out there we would walk to. I remember identifying birds. Spotting deer was a pastime. Enjoying the quiet. I love the woodland sounds...So whoever told you this would happen to people was right.  And it's even better in person, I mean the actual painting." 

Art can be encouraging, enriching, comforting.

A painting doesn't have to be hanging on your wall to do you good, which is why I'm thankful to be able to exhibit mine here. But when you see that image that moves you at your core, consider owning it, either in the original or in a print. It will be a continual source of joy and comfort. We could all use more of those!

It would be a little mean of me to get you thinking of homemade macaroni and cheese without "giving" you some. Mee-maw's recipe took a fair amount of time to put together. Our son John gave me a recipe so quick to throw together and so delicious that I wish I'd had it when the children were short and so was time. We call it

JOHN'S SUPER AWESOME MAC & CHEESE

Combine:

1 stick melted butter

3 cups shredded cheese

4 cups milk

salt and pepper to taste

Add:

2 cups UNCOOKED macaroni noodles (I kid you not, it works!)

Pour into a greased 9"x 13" pan. Bake at 350 degrees for one hour. ENJOY!

I've been learning a lot about perception lately. How we see things affects how we think and what we do. It's easy to assume that we're perceiving something correctly. After all, it's right there in front of our faces. How hard can it be? 

Then we run up against a difficulty. A person that just won't "get it," no matter how plainly we explain. A painting that seems to have stalled.  A project that just doesn't hold the excitement and promise that it used to. 

An "Awareness Through Movement" class that I'm taking (a Feldenkrais class- difficult to explain, but I'll try to in a future post) has opened up my thinking considerably. In it you're encouraged to stay curious, to realize that there are many options other than what you turn to by habit, and to allow yourself to wonder without needing immediate answers. It's amazing where that can take you. In this instance, I started to wonder, "what if the problem is with me, with how I see things?" 

Mark Twain is famous for saying, 

It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.

That makes me chuckle, but there's a vital truth in there.

I'm realizing that many times when I’m "stuck" and can't progress with a painting or a person, it's what I think I know that is really tripping me up. 

One key is motive. So here are two more tools I've added to my "getting unstuck toolbox."

If my problem is with a painting, my trouble comes because I've lost sight of my motive.

If the problem is with a person, the sticking point is my illusion that I understand theirs.

I’m learning that every painting begins with a “why,” and I need to get back to that. But with people, only that person and God know their heart, and sometimes only God knows.

So with a painting, I go back to the beginning, to why I wanted to paint it to begin with. What did I see, hear, smell, taste, and feel that I had to express in a painting? (A good example of getting back to why can be found in my video “The Story of a Painting - January Sunday Morning, Part 4.”) Once I can remember what I had hoped to communicate at the beginning, I can decide what I need to do to reach that, or perhaps even discover that the painting has taken on a life of its own and is headed in an even better direction. Either way, the block is removed and the way forward much clearer.

With people I am learning that judging the motives of others is at best fruitless and at worst terribly arrogant. My focus for change needs to be on what's driving me. Do I want the best for them?  Am I treating them with love and respect? Am I listening more than I speak?

So what do paintings and people have in common? They both have motive at heart. With both of them, it’s only my own motives that I need to be concerned with. Knowing the “why” of my painting shows me the path it may take and helps me complete the journey. Knowing that I can’t know the motives of my friend takes me out of the seat of “judge” and back into walking the road with her, being enriched by our differences and encouraged by our companionship. 

"Unstuck" is a great place to be!