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Having a vision is not merely living in a fantasy world or wishful thinking, it’s a real thing. It implies having a mental picture of something and seeing it there before it actually is. Having a vision is possessing insight unrestrained by factual reality. I’m willing to say all creatives, in some way or another, were born visionaries. Without this bestowed gift we simply could not create. For us, living with such vision is a natural way of life, so instinctive we scarcely even know it’s there. One thing for sure, having a vision cannot be reached without first taking the necessary steps to reach it.

Taking steps is meant to lead us to a higher place, a new level. As long as we keep our eyes focused forward there will be progress, one step at a time. Which in turn leads us to a process, and a process means it’s going to take some time and effort.

In my experience, being a visionary can be a mixed blessing. It can be both exhilarating and demanding at the same time. On the positive, happy side at the start of my painting, I’m all excited. My spirits are raised. Yes! So real is the success of my finished work, I can already picture the coveted red dot on my card. It’s going to be awesome. In reality, that doesn’t always happen. So, on the flip side, the realization sets in that there will always be more steps to mastering my work. To name a few are, studying the good practices of other artists; taking workshops from artists whose work I admire; taking classes to learn new things; visiting my local art museum to view the Masters, etc. 

Honestly, steps might not be the friendliest thing to a visionary. Putting in the overtime. The preliminary grunt work. It can sometimes feel so restricting. At a younger age, I wanted to hasten the process, leap over two or three at a time thinking I’d get to the top faster. If it were possible, I would have bypassed the part about steps altogether and gotten right to the good stuff. But after years of self-examination and growing pains, I now understand the lesson steps were trying to teach me. Whenever I skipped a step in the process, I had to go back and redo, undo, repaint, unlearn, relearn. Sometimes round and round, up and down I went. This madness usually landed me right back to where I started, and I had to take the same step I tried to avoid anyway. 

Quoting the words of a great orator who once stated, “I ran up the steps, skipped over the steps, ignoring them, until I tripped on them, until I fell on them, until they taught me to respect them, respect the process”. Back in the day that was me, young and full of spitfire.

Through the course of my art career spanning 30(+) years, I’ve worn many hats. Graphic designer, product developer, art educator, illustrator, and now after an early retirement, I’m happily doing the very thing I envisioned years ago – full time painter. Each facet has had its particular set of steps to climb in order to learn the position and do it well. And as I ponder these, I see they absolutely prepared me for the next thing.

There is a practice which has helped me gage my progress, especially when it seems little headway is being made. At the end of each month, I log the things I’ve accomplished. Although I keep a journal, this is a separate list. Simple bullet points I jot down regardless if it’s big or little, many or few, art related or not. 

For instance, June’s entry:

• Moved into a new studio.
• Planted a small garden.
• Redecorated my foyer with a modern farmhouse look.
• Canned homemade tomato salsa.
• Sold one of my paintings. 
• Created new color charts.
• Worked on compositional layout for next painting.

A running list helps me keep track of when, where, and what I’ve done. Over time they all seem to blur together, and I would absolutely forget from one month to the next if I didn’t write it down. Each year I do this, honestly when I read it back, I’m totally shocked and amazed. Surprised even, because sometimes I underestimate my own talents and abilities. I guess I’m making progress after all, one step at a time. Thank you for reading.

The year 2020 started off like most years with back-to-back plans for travel to events, shows and other painting adventures. Then COVID 19 hit and we slammed on the brakes of our planned lives. All our friends we planned on painting with, and workshops we planned on teaching were suddenly stripped out of our schedules, our lives. Talk about change! A 360 for sure!

At the time I felt a weird comfort knowing that we were all in the “same boat” and couldn’t feel so terribly bad because FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) wasn’t going to be an issue because we were ALL going to be missing out. So from mid-March through May, the “stay at home” mandate actually created a kind of welcome cocoon in my creative life, when I suddenly had time to make artwork that was experimental and out of my comfort zone. I actually embraced this time and told myself that it won’t last long and that I shouldn’t squander it under any circumstance. So I set to work playing with a new medium: oil sticks. What a fun medium! It was like drawing with big fat crayons that allowed for a lot of interesting mark-making and gestural movement. I managed to be quite productive and was thrilled with all the time available, without deadlines and obligations. It had been years since I had this luxury. 

As I interacted with fellow artists online and over the phone I discovered that many of them were not motivated to paint, were seriously stuck, and sometimes downright depressed. I was feeling really lucky that my mood and energy level was good and hoped that I wouldn’t fall into the same dark place. I also felt fortunate that I could leave my small condo and go to my studio to work and didn’t have to isolate in one place. Even so, I reminded myself not to get too comfortable in this level of ok-ness because at any moment, things could change.

To mitigate my incessant need to keep busy at home while I wasn’t painting, I had the crazy idea to pull out my sewing machine to try my hand at constructing masks. I found a pattern, customized it, and became hooked! Sewing while listening to inspirational teachings became a satisfying tonic–with the side effect of helping others. 

Summer in Milwaukee came and isolation didn’t seem so harsh. Being outside kept our moods lifted with lots of exercise and a few safe outdoor activities. I liberated myself by getting in the car and driving to the Southwest to deliver new paintings to galleries and more importantly, to visit a couple painter friends. What a wonderful re-entry into something “normal.” We even did a little plein air painting which felt like a home-coming of sorts. I was in a good place.

Back in Milwaukee, I resumed my mask-making endeavors and was mailing them out to people all over the county. In late summer with the pandemic still an issue, I started getting the “I don’t feel like painting” vibe that I heard about from others. The cocooning attraction had lost its appeal, and the experimental oil stick paintings weren’t getting into shows. I was questioning myself and my work all over again. I didn’t even like going to the studio. My motivation levels were starting to take a dive. At least I did some plein air painting for Door County’s virtual plein air event and enjoyed being outside. But there was something missing that I couldn’t put my finger on. Could it be that cycle of change I warned myself about?

That’s o.k., I’ll just sew some more masks.

In August, a much anticipated trip was about to happen. A wilderness pack trip with llamas carrying all the gear and painting with friends! YAY! The funny thing about that was I had more fun doing little watercolor sketches than actual oil paintings! I just didn’t feel like getting out my oils and setting up the whole sha-blam! I forced myself to do a few little oil studies, because after all, I DID bring ALL that gear with me to 10,000 feet! Again, I questioned myself about why I didn’t want to paint. I tried hard not to compare myself with my ambitious friends who got up at the crack of dawn to paint before breakfast, but I still felt like a lazy imitation of a painter. Realizing the futility of comparisons, I decided to bask in the glories of the Wind River Range of Wyoming and concentrate on taking photos for future painting reference. It was a bucket-list type of trip and just being there was all I really needed.

When I got back to Milwaukee after my Wyoming trip, I was excited about making some paintings from those photos. But when I went to pick out images to paint from, I was disappointed by how few of those images were good enough to become paintings. Plus, they were all landscapes—not my cup ‘o tea. Should have thought of that one before! 
Mask-making becomes the balm again. 

As we close in on colder weather and shorter days, and with the pandemic still keeping us from dining out and gathering with family at the holidays, how will we stay sane and creatively occupied? Maybe find a different creative outlet like learning a new instrument? (I just bought a vintage bass guitar.) Write poetry, do some crafting, rearrange the furniture, redesign a website, remodel a kitchen, do stand-up comedy on Zoom…who knows?

And what about reinvigorating the desire to paint? If you’re like me and you have to make money painting or teaching, you feel a pressure that’s an awful lot like a job. The “wise self” says to just show up, get yourself to the easel and start. Eventually, we gain the momentum and charge forward by the shear act of putting the brush to canvas. Realizing that, I’ve been trying to be kind to myself and less judgmental about not wanting to paint. It’s really ok because everything changes. Even this will change.

So, why masks? Sewing masks or doing anything with your hands is a way of being present to a task with purpose. A task that involves craftsmanship, beauty and function. A task that keeps your hands busy and the mind open at the same time—a fluid state, not unlike a walking meditation. It helps us to embrace the present moment, which is exactly where we need to be.

Maybe tomorrow’s the day I paint that landscape.

Growing up, I remember walking a trail to my grandparents house that was “up the hill” from my house. I would let gravity take me down into the shallow ditch that was on the start of my journey and then scamper up the other side, trying to stay on the beat down pathway. I was enthralled with the sights, sounds, and possibilities of finding treasures around me. I would make it up the grand hill and go into the warm house that smelled of peas cooking on the stove, and see the fresh tomatoes on the newspaper on the floor. My grandmother would give me an old tablecloth and plastic dishes, and I would go through the outdoor “long room” that smelled musty and had a sink with gritty lava soup where the farmers washed up before what they called “dinner” (lunch.) This led to the back porch where I would imagine I had my own little house. 

Now that I am grown, I’m an artist. Nothing influences my painting more than this land, my childhood memories of the farm, and the people in my life. In every painting- whatever the subject- I think of them. 

One example of this is my recent turnip painting. These were planted by my uncle in a patch near my house. I would drive by the rows of green stalks and notice the bright magenta color peeking through the dirt. I decided I would paint a gathering of these, and my husband went out with me to the garden. I walked around slowly and stood looking at the dirt and the vegetation, taking in a memory of the year before, where my whole family gathered to dig potatoes by hand in that same soil, and seeing how these turnips pushed up out of the dirt in a different way. I thought of my uncle out there on his tractor or old black Ford pick up with the tailgate down and hoe in hand as he cared for the plants. My husband looked up and said, “I thought you were going to paint some turnips.” I said, “I am.” What I meant was, I had already begun. It is always more than the shape and color. It is the life behind the subject that I want to capture.

Another example is in one of my still life paintings. When I was 5 years old, I had a homemade playhouse, made by my dad. It was constructed with plywood and old boards, complete with a “window” and shelves to hold my dishes. I would gather “herbs” (grass) and flour (sometimes actual flour, sometimes sand), and a pitcher of sorts with slightly muddy water in it and stir up delicious mud pies. 

 So when I was gathering materials for this still life demo at my fall retreat workshop, I started with a lovely copper pot but realized I needed something to go with it. I walked outside around the peaceful campground that fall morning to hunt for “just the right thing” to go with my creation. Memories from my childhood came back as I looked around nature. I remembered searching in the undisturbed cool air, with endless possibilities in front of me as I believed anything was possible. In the spirit of childhood belief, I picked up some large acorns, beautiful turning leaves, and set up a still life that I named, Acorn Soup.

The subject is not the only thing influenced by my childhood. In every painting, whether a commissioned portrait, or plein air, I try to capture the essence of the person or place- the potential of the subject- to show the viewer that in every scenario there is a story and a purpose that has been going on, and is continuing to unfold.

I haven’t always been an artist. At least not technically. I initially started out as a physical therapist, where I was able to use my attention to detail, sensitive eyes and love for people to evaluate and instruct them in how to get stronger. Now I do the same things as I teach art workshops.

I am a full time artist now, and I still live near that hill I climbed as a young girl to go see my grandmother. Now I climb the shallow hill behind my house to my grown up playhouse that my dad helped build (also known as my art studio) and paint what I call “Memories to Hold On To.”

Have you been to a doctor lately and heard the comment, “At your age…”?  I have.  It left me with a rather indignant feeling.  I didn’t really feel old. 

When my husband and I decided to move from Georgia to Texas for retirement years, I couldn’t help but hear the same words in my head, “At your age?…do you really think you can pack up this familiar studio and produce paintings in a new environment?  At your age?…can you find new clients for paintings or new students of painting?   At your age?… is it worth the effort to become valued as an artist in a new place?”

In almost two years, it has been, and still is, a struggle of networking, painting, seeking, learning, and pushing myself to settle into a new place. But the new relationships, the personal growth, the experiences and revelations are always worth the effort.  

As an “over 60” artist, I look back on my art journey and realize I did not begin growing in painting until my children went away to college.  Painting filled the “empty nest.”  That was about twenty years ago.  When I retired several years ago from a 26 year career of teaching Art and Language Arts in Georgia public schools, I finally had time to focus on painting regularly in my backyard studio.  Life was rocking along. I was involved with a local gallery, painting, selling, teaching, and having several solo shows.  And then, our oldest son in Waco, Texas announced that he was not returning to Georgia and that we needed to “get out here before you get too old!”  (There’s that “at your age” feeling).  My husband said he always wanted to be a cowboy, so we began making plans for a long distance move. 

“At my age,” I am here to tell you there is time for developing art skills after a transition like a move!  I looked at retirement as moving from my first career to a second one, that of being a full-time artist, so I needed to report to work every day.  Exercises like accepting challenges to paint outside for 30 days, attending workshops, finding communities of artist friends, blogging about the work, watching Lunch & Learn videos from OPA, keeping a sketchbook, and painting some more, will all sharpen skills and expand knowledge. And, the networking of posting on social media, attending art events, talking with people about your work, and listening to them, is also important for getting settled in your new location. 

Painting ‘en plein air’ has been a wonderful way to experience my new environment with all of my senses.  We lived on a friend’s ranch for a year while we built our new home. Going outside daily to paint on 85 acres was a wonderful artist’s retreat for me.  I became acquainted with Texas wildflowers I had never seen, so bright with color!  The big Texas sky and the variety of clouds are a constant source of entertainment and challenge for this oil painter.  And I had never had cows for neighbors before! 

This past spring, Covid restrictions emptied the local Baylor University campus.  A new painter friend and I began going weekly to paint in the tranquil, quiet, socially distanced locations around campus.  From that, a Buildings of Baylor series reached a new following. Prints and notecards were suggested and were successful.  The knowledge I gained from this is to find what is important to the people where you are.  Paint what is important to you, but if you want to be valued in your new location, paint what is important to your new audience, also.

Recently, a friend was talking with me about plein air painting.  She asked, “What are some things you have learned from it that you can apply to life?”  I couldn’t answer immediately.  But as I’ve pondered, these thoughts come to mind:

1. Things aren’t always perfect.  The conditions we find ourselves painting in are often a surprise.  We forget needed supplies and make do.  Bugs are biting, sun is blazing, wind is blowing and yet, we adapt with creativity. 
2. We don’t always have to produce a finished product.  Looking at the canvases as studies, rather than completed paintings freed me to just paint, learn, and enjoy the experience.  
3. Painting is therapy.  When I am outside, listening to birds, using all five senses, I escape other stresses going on. It puts me in a meditative mode of gratitude. 
4. Delayed gratification is good.  One of my workshop instructors, Laurel Daniel, emphasized holding all highlights to the end.  It’s tempting to rush ahead to the good part and put the light in too soon, only to lose it in the mix of color.   When we hold those highlights of white with a touch of lemon yellow until the end, they pop at just the right spot!  Delayed gratification is something I want to remember to teach younger generations. 
5. Art is not instant.  It takes years of learning, practice, mistakes, motivation and determination, at any age. 

“At my age” I enjoy painting life around me, interpreting the beauty I see, choosing what I want to paint, and sharing my thoughts with others through visual images and written words in a blog.  Often my painting sessions turn into deep conversations with myself, often they turn into worship of The Creator, often they are therapy for the heavy turmoil of today’s world, often they are accompanied by my prayers.  

Painting is my passion and brings purpose…even “at my age” and hopefully, in the ages to come!