Just home from a week-long plein air competition, I’m already missing the craziness.

The application was completed, acceptance received, and my calendar blocked off. The fat packet of rules and information had been read, and figuring out housing was behind me.

Then came the real preparation: packing supplies, stringing and framing paintings that hadn’t yet been painted, and making sure I had the right tools, backpacks, umbrellas, and canvases for every possible condition. I researched the geography, potential painting locations, and the distances between them. I analyzed where the sun might be at different times of day—all from home.

Car loaded, road maps in hand, and a ticking clock counting down to canvas-stamping time.

Five days of painting. Fifteen possible canvases waiting to be filled.

With my badge around my neck, I was free. The sun was shining, midday was rapidly approaching with its notoriously harsh light, and there was no time to waste finding my first painting site. So much anticipation had built up, and all those brushes and paints were waiting to come out of hiding.

Back in the car and on the road, the search for an interesting location was on.

After driving to what looked online like a picturesque lake, my hopes dissipated when I saw the lighting. It was completely the wrong time of day to capture the surrounding scenery. Back in the car, I retraced my route, remembering a possible barn scene I had noticed along the way.

Bingo.

An adorable red barn with a smaller shed whose roof was caving in sat on a shady property beneath large trees that created wonderful, dappled light. There was just one problem: private property. But there was also a "For Sale" sign, and the place looked deserted.

I took the risk.

Halfway through the painting, I started to feel good. Then, suddenly, a truck pulled up right next to me and the driver stared me down.

Yikes.

That risk suddenly didn’t feel so good.

I quickly apologized and asked permission in the same garbled sentence. After another long stare, the driver said, “No problem.”

A huge wave of relief washed over me. I stopped shaking and got back to painting.

One painting down, and I was starting to relax.

After a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at an overlook—again, not great lighting—I went back to driving around. Ready to give up because everything that excited me lacked parking, I headed toward my Airbnb to unpack.

Then, just around the block from my destination, I stumbled upon a beautiful stone house. As luck would have it, it was a historic site highlighted as a prize location, bathed in spectacular late-afternoon light. Even better, several other painters wearing the same name tags were already there and offered a warm welcome.

Day one ended. I unloaded my overflowing car, grabbed some dinner, and crashed.

The next four days became a whirlwind of driving and discovery: colorful buildings, sweeping vistas, rivers, historic sites, and covered bridges. With every new blank canvas and every fresh squeeze of paint onto an empty palette came the possibility of bottling my feelings about a place in a way I could share with the world.

Painting offers a calm, zen-like focus on the here and now in a way that nothing else does for me.

The paintings began piling up. The frames started coming out. And the possibility that this might not end in total disaster slowly began to grow.

Each day followed a familiar rhythm: sunrise, exploring, lunch, sunset, and dreaming about where to paint tomorrow.

Thursday night arrived, and it was time to submit labels with titles, sizes, and prices. Not nearly as much fun as painting, but creativity was required. By the end of the next morning, all the framing had to be completed, the paintings packaged for transport, and everything delivered to the exhibition site. 

A layout I had practiced on the floor the night before was hung on panels as the lighting was adjusted. For a moment, I stepped back and admired what was far from a trivial accomplishment: ten paintings completed in five days, with my eight best works hanging on the wall.

A few hours later came the show.

An evening of dressing up, wine, awards, and the opportunity to meet potential patrons and fellow artists. The next day brought a full-blown street fair packed with art enthusiasts. There were lots of wonderful conversations and even a few sales.

Then it was time to take it all down, wrap it all up, and repack the car.

A drive home followed, and then it all caught up with me: the exhaustion, the warm fuzzy feeling, and the realization that I was already missing the hunt for tomorrow morning’s painting location.

I’ve been painting for about 15 years. It’s how I keep finding joy, even when things are far from perfect. Entering the painting zone is an escape—but it’s also much more. My awareness sharpens, my mind is challenged, and I’m drawn into what feels like an endless pursuit: capturing the magic in everyday moments.

I’ve always been highly attuned to noticing. Sometimes I go searching for it, but more often it finds me—a sudden sunset, afternoon light illuminating a plant in my sunroom, or the shimmer of the ocean pulling my gaze toward the horizon. When it happens, it’s visceral and undeniable. Then comes the real challenge: how do I make that feeling last?

Translating that experience onto canvas requires the right mindset. When I’m able to channel it, everything flows. The subject matters—I’m always drawn to something compelling—but it’s the act of putting paint onto canvas that truly excites me.

Loading a brush and making those first marks sends a rush through me. Each decision matters: the direction of a stroke, where to press and where to pull back, where to let color shift and breathe. The materiality of paint, combined with the constant negotiation of getting it right, creates an endless source of challenge and discovery.

Fat, juicy marks paired with subtle, fading strokes. Smooth passages against raw linen. It’s not about choosing one over the other—it’s about finding the right balance. It’s about where the eye begins and where it travels next. About color and texture. About the dance of laying down marks, removing some, and building others back up.

There’s rhythm in it—the short, staccato touches alongside long, steady movements. The loud and the quiet. The jumps, the stretches, the glides. There are rules in painting, and there are best practices. They’re the kindling. But to make a fire, you need a spark. Inspiration is never far away. When I feel stuck, I turn to art books, scroll through images, or visit a museum. There are always new ways of seeing, new possibilities, new ways to fill a canvas—and every new start carries a spark: scary and exhilarating.

I often wonder why others around me don’t seem to get as excited at looking out the window in a plane. The magic of being so high up and seeing from a totally new perspective is nothing short of amazing to me. The sun setting or rising around floating clouds, lights from cars in the dusk creating illuminated trails, crop circles with an amazing variety of greens, mountains peaking up into a different world. It is true that people have different sensitivities. Some people are hyper-sensitive to sounds, or smells, or taste. For me, it has always been visual. Sometimes when I am driving at the right time, a sunset illuminating a few buildings can make me pull over just to stare.

I paint to disappear into another world. A world that attracts me with its brilliance, energy, and design. On the best days I dance with my brush, experiment with color, put down confident marks and simplify the complex. There is nothing more thrilling to me than watching the sun move across the sky and light up what started as an ordinary day. A chance to reflect that in a painting is nothing short of magical. A pop of color in the right spot on a canvas can make me cry, and a thick brush stroke traveling down a road can take me away.

It is impossible to explain how I sometimes feel about what I see, and often equally impossible to try to capture it in a painting but it is my personal challenge to try, and to invite others to come along with me.

Breathing is something I have been thinking a lot about in recent days. Our minds are filled with people battling Coronavirus in hospitals struggling to breathe. We watch over and over again how George Floyd struggled for his last breaths. Stress reduction experts inform us that one of the best ways to calm down is to practice deep breathing. Meditation is hard.  I have never been able to fully keep my mind from wandering to things that create anxiety. That is, until I started painting outdoors.

Something about fresh air and the focus required to create, enables me to shut out the stress and breathe deeper in ways that are hard to describe.  Perhaps it is the colors, sounds, smells, temperature and the light that require my full attention. Or the concentrated high I feel being immersed in nature. Plein air painting has become a productive escape resulting in renewed energy to support those around me, the creation of a lot of art, and my progression as an artist. I can’t seem to paint enough.

I am not up against the same challenges that so many are facing and fighting for right now. My need for deep breathing comes from a place of living in a stressed world, not survival. And while painting may be a trivial pursuit in a time of crisis, it has been an amazing, strengthening outlet. I am able to breathe deeply in and out, canvas after canvas.

I would love to hear about your own pursuits in the this disruptive time. 

As I look up from my bicycle at spin class this morning I notice my reflection in the mirror. Situated right between the seam combining two mirrored panels, my face is split in half. As I bob up and down with the music I watch a kaleidoscope of various face and body parts.  Staring at the pieces, I can’t help but think about the assemblage I finished yesterday; days of fitting scraps of old paintings, photographs, dried oil paint, and fabric into a whole.

The way I design a collage is almost the opposite process of how I paint an outdoor scene. Out in nature, a viewfinder can help me map out a pleasing composition. Only when the design is solid, I fill in the darks, the lights, and finally the details.  A mixed media work often starts with a small piece.  A scrap, that I can envision building around. I have no idea what will transpire. I dig through boxes filled with interesting colors, textures, and shapes, all possibilities that over time emerge into a statement. Different ways of creating strengthen each other and morph into new ways of seeing. 

My Instagram account speaks to the creative community, LinkedIn to my business network, and Facebook to family and friends. My art website lets you wander, and my business site takes you down a path.  All of the overlapping pieces of my life sit in separate containers in cyberspace, waiting to come together in an integrated mosaic.  The focal point carefully placed based on workloads, the time of day, needs of family, the temperature, and the light.   I love the layers, the complexity and the fact that my plan can be arranged, and then rearranged.

The sun pours through the windows in the morning making gorgeous shapes that hit the walls, the furniture and the objects around me. A changing motif based on the length of the day and how the clouds shift. Afternoon light turns the familiar into an abstract series thoughtfully crafted to attract and inspire, highlights calling out to me for their attention. An invisible rotation of the earth playing a magic trick that can make the ordinary extraordinary. 

Every snapshot of what I see, and do, and create, has the ability to add up to a compelling story.  None of the elements stand alone, but they interestingly enough, knit together in remarkable ways. Mixing media encourages experimentation.  Fruit can be found in unsuccessful labors, to reemerge as textured, richer works; works of art often revealing an outcome that becomes clear only when you step back.

You know that feeling you get when you are at a formal sit-down party as you are walking towards the table with the seating cards. Perhaps excitement, hope or even fear, thinking about the rest of the evening. Will you be next to someone familiar or total strangers? Will they be lively, reserved, someone you have always wanted to get to know, or someone you know all too well.

The host has likely tried to mix and match people to engender conversation, keep trouble away from each other, and if all goes as planned, spark new connections. Seating arrangements can make or break a party in both planned and unplanned ways.

The juxtaposition of things, whether it be items on a plate, flowers in a garden, or pictures on a wall will create a scene that wows or is mundane. An interesting piece of food, clothing or furniture can either disappear or become the focal point depending on what it is next to. Mixing, matching and moving will create totally different outcomes.  If placed properly, one great thing can enhance everything else around it.

So much of what I think about when I create art is how to maximize the impact of ‘what’ is next to ‘what’. 

When I look through a viewfinder I try to block out a great design. I think a lot about what colors to put on my palette, the textures I choose on a collage, even the best placement of art on my website. Designers understand the importance of layout and color choices, and artists think about the impact of design, color, placement, tone and texture. Changing any one-factor impacts the whole in vastly different ways. One outstanding area in a painting can draw the eye and transform the impact of the entire piece. The surface you choose to paint on can enhance or detract from the feeling you are trying to convey.  A frame can work or not.

Joseph Albers taught how the same color will recede or pop when placed on top of different colors, and how one color can look totally different depending on what color you place it next to.

I put thought into the variables when I create a piece of art. When trying to emphasize the brilliant light hitting the top of a tree, it is sometimes not the color you paint of the leaves, but the placement of a darker color underneath those leaves. The same saturated yellow can shimmer in the sunlight, or fade into a dull landscape.  

Painting with friends who can challenge those decisions, or see the impact of those choices in a way that I can’t because I am too close, has been invaluable to me. Having a great set of questions to ask myself as I progress with a painting helps me to think about the possibilities and juxtapose in new ways with a totally different impact.

Would love to hear how and where juxtaposition plays a part in your decisions.