People often ask me the why of what I do, and I’ve finally found the words to explain—painting lets me communicate when words fail. When I need painting inspiration I simply go into the yard and spend a few minutes communing with my colorful, petaled friends. The flowers are my paint.
A swath of royal purple corduroy is finally put to use in a homemade quilt 46 years in the making. My mom would love that her great-granddaughter is enjoying the sewing she started long ago.
Why had I waited so long to get extra care for Dad? Two reasons: foolish pride and a foolish vow.
I’m realizing it wasn’t fame and notoriety that I craved over the years, it was having influence. And as I age, I’m realizing influence comes in many forms. I’m still afraid of being forgotten. But I’m going to begin cutting back on work in small steps.
Is o.k. to be boring? What would it be like to answer at a party when asked by someone, “What do you do?” I’d probably say, “I’m an artist” and only talk about 1% of my day. But it’s my favorite 1%.
Why, oh why, is it so hard for us to give ourselves permission to paint?
The wind is whipping leaves off the trees today, making fall live up to its name. I’m ready to button up the
A promise to myself for 2015 was to improve my art. I need to practice. But like most people, time is my
It's a dream come true. The Husband-in-Chief built the Artist-in-Chief a Color Room. Guests now have plenty of space to choose their paints and