In my house sits an inexpensive, slightly broken, overburdened old bookshelf, exploding with art-related books.  Many came from thrift shops or local library bookstores.  Some were gifts.  A handful were purchased new.  A good chunk of these books were handed down by my grandmother, as she used them for inspiration for her own paintings.  In addition to books about painting techniques and artist biographies, there are also books about creative writing, art history, and even a sewing book!  This is my go-to bookshelf when I get stuck on a painting, or need a little creative inspiration.

I used to scroll Pinterest with the intention of finding how other artists addressed specific painting challenges.  Eventually, I realized that looking at a painting on a screen offered a much different experience than looking at a printed copy of a painting.  I find it more inspiring to pull a book out and browse, even if the subject matter is different from what I'm currently working on in my own piece.  There's also the added benefit that I am doing the active seeking as I look through these books, rather than being fed a curated algorithm from an outside source.

I find that this preference extends to my reading material as well-- I never took to reading fiction on a screen.   Even when a book is physically uncomfortable to handle (old and brittle, or large and unwieldy),  I prefer to read from the actual pages than on a screen.  The words imprint on my mind much better from a page, and I can visually remember specific phrases and descriptions if I've read them from an actual book.  People who enjoy listening to their reading material may have similar experiences when hearing a book read aloud. 

What does all of this have to do with making art? I think that in the coming years, when AI is replacing so many of our tasks, and masquerading as creative contribution, people will find themselves still needing to meet those sensory needs by receiving physical input.  Most artists likely understand the need for sensory input in their work, whether it comes from the physical handling of materials, the sounds and scents to accompany visual inspiration, or even the music they listen to or discussions they have when working creatively.  As people who have a unique understanding of this connection, we are in a position to guide others who might be wondering how to reconnect with their own sensory abilities.  From my own experiences, I personally see a physical difference in participants when I've come to the end of teaching an art class: conversation is easier, and people are relaxed, joyful, and a little energized for their next activities.  And that's with the adult classes!

As you share your creative output with others, why not take a few minutes to share some of the sensory input that went into creating it? Share the sounds, sights, scents, and physical sensations you experienced while creating.  You'll likely make a deeper connection with your viewers.  You might even inspire them to reconnect with their own senses, and bring a little extra inspiration to the tech-saturated world we're now living in as well.

Most of my artworks start off with photos.  A breathtaking sunset, a busy morning at the bird feeders, or a burst of color in the garden are all things that inspire me to take a few quick pictures with my phone "for later."  Sometimes those pictures don't get painted until years later!  Occasionally, they'll end up being used on the same day they were taken.  I've learned that most of the paintings I make from these photos end up being categorized as "seeds" or "sparks."  Sometimes, a set of photos will inspire me to create pairs or a series of pieces.  Often, a single photo will encourage me to try a new medium or technique, which then turns into a productive period of painting.

If you've ever planted seeds more than a few times, you understand that many of those seeds will fail to grow.  Sometimes an idea gets planted for a painting, started, and, despite my best efforts, it never bears fruit.  Similarly, I've had plenty of sparks that ignited ideas for paintings, but ended up fizzling before I even got started.

"Water Hawthorn" Acrylic on Canvas 2026

A painting that starts as a "seed" and is given plenty of time to grow and develop usually becomes a labor of love for me-- these paintings take a little more time, and I have higher expectations for them.  Often, the initial inspiration for the painting was so beautiful in its own right, it takes me a bit of courage to take on the subject in a painting.  When these paintings are done, I consider these seeds to have been successfully sown by several criteria: growth as an artist, connecting with an audience, or feeling inspired to continue painting the subject in the future.  

And then there are the sparks, and boy are they fun!

"Beachy Blackbirds" Pastel on paper 2026

A spark can come from several places: a few quick stunning photos from a recent memorable moment, new materials, or a desire to try an unexplored subject.  These pieces tend to be painted quickly (sometimes I joke that they paint themselves!) and can be hit or miss with results-- when I get a hit, I'll usually return to  that subject or style until the spark wears out. (In the piece above, I painted blackbirds on a bit of a whim, inspired by the light in the wet sand at the beach and a new little set of Sennelier half-stick pastels).

Whether a seed or a spark begins a painting, I often have mixed feelings when I sell that painting and pack it up to ship it to its new home.  The first feeling is elation.  Someone loved a piece enough to buy it! The second feeling, however, can be different with each sale. 

Sometimes, if a painting was painted and sold quickly, I might feel a little less attached to it-- or feel a little strange about saying goodbye to it if I didn't really spend much time with it once it was finished.  I might wonder if it has any flaws I missed, or if I should have painted companion pieces for it.  I think of these pieces as "hot potatoes," and have a special affection for them just because they get snatched up so quickly.

On the other hand, if I've had a painting for a long time before it sells, it can feel a little bittersweet to say goodbye to it-- mostly, though, I'm happy that it found a home, and that it will be displayed.  I'll think of what stage of life I was in when it was painted, and marvel at how different things are now that it's time to unpack it and send it off to a new home.  I genuinely enjoy unpacking these pieces and having a good look at them.  It feels a little like having a time machine when I take that cover off, and take in the colors and pastel or brush strokes on a piece.  Recognizing my old techniques or styles feels like seeing an old friend, and helps me remember what it was like to sit and make those paintings.  I then give these pieces a fresh covering of Glassine paper, and package them securely to ship.

 "Oriole 2" Pastel on paper 2025 (sold)

Selling handmade artwork feels much more personal than selling something mass-produced or consumable.  Each piece is unique, and fits a unique person buying it.  I recently sold a painting I had done many years ago, from a time when I was much more willing to experiment with color and style.  I couldn't make that painting again today if I tried!  Purchasing a handmade piece from an artist means the buyer is getting something not just unique and collectible, but also something that often has a personal connection to that artist's life.

Seeds, sparks, and saying goodbye: all are part of creating artwork and sending it out into the world to share with others, and each has its own part in an artwork's unique journey.

Last week, I spent a morning teaching a large group of children to make a watercolor painting of sailboats on the ocean.  There were almost 100 people in the room!  Having politely rejected the option of a microphone (which I briefly regretted), I had to use my " teacher voice" from my public school days (along with consistent visual reminders and hand signals when I needed the group's attention).  The kids were surprisingly cooperative, and focused diligently on the steps of the painting.  By the end of the lesson, I was genuinely enjoying seeing how each of those paintings turned out: unique, expressive, and full of color!  As I watched the kids painting furiously and exclaiming in delight, I kept thinking of one word: wonder.

I don't think there will ever be a substitute for the feeling we humans experience while creating something unique with our hands.  Although I've gotten comfortable teaching adults to paint (and prefer it sometimes, if it's at the end of a long day), the joy children bring to their creative experiences is so much fun to see! It's also infectious.  After teaching children, I find myself remembering what it felt like to paint without pressure when I was first learning and experimenting with different techniques, styles, and subjects.  I often go home refreshed and ready to try something new, too!

Holding on to that sense of wonder can get difficult when I'm trying to get through time-consuming or tedious projects.  That first burst of a new painting is exhilarating to me, but sometimes that exhilaration dissipates before I get to the end of the piece.  I have a few go-to remedies when I feel weighed down by my own projects:

1) Experiment with a different medium or technique-- I have a collection of materials available for creative "playtime," and sometimes I'll find a new way to paint or get ideas for improving older paintings by trying them out-- this might include collage, mixing different mediums together, trying a new surface (like some of those random burlap canvas boards my sister had left over from a party), or using a medium I've tried previously but not really given much time to in the past.

2) Take new photos for inspiration--like we need more photos on our phones, right?  If just one of those photos becomes immediate inspiration for a quick painting, though,  I consider it worth the storage space those many photos take up on my phone.

3) Clean it up and start over-- sometimes my unfinished artworks pile up, and it can get overwhelming.  A good organizing and cleaning up of my space can help me prioritize a particular painting or two and help me reconnect with the original inspiration for those pieces.

4) Put the painting materials out of sight for a while and do something totally different with my hands-- my daughter enjoys miniatures and polymer clay, and these are fun for me too!  Lately I've turned toward working with dried plants and florals, and making small, unique creations with those materials. Working to make 3-dimensional items instead of 2-dimensional paintings and drawings activates new pathways for me, which refreshes my mind for painting again.  Sewing creatively also fills this need, which is how my kids and I once ended up being randomly invited to join a guild at a local Renaissance Faire (story for another blog post!)

Feeling the wonder of creating something with our hands can be especially inspiring because the potential for it is always there, waiting.  There are so many moments each day where I see something and think "That would make a beautiful painting!" Even a uniquely constructed doll or a well-sewn garment can give me this feeling (this is why I've loved browsing thrift shops since childhood, when my grandma and great-grandma would take us to spend afternoons "junking").

For anyone experiencing a creeping lack of wonder, I would encourage you to get your hands busy.  There is something unique about that hand-mind connection and the way it benefits our brains!  And check in regularly with that sense of wonder--it's a building block for your creativity, and something that's always there waiting for you to experience at any stage of life.

Ever see one of these posts?

"I'm looking for an artist who can (insert scenario here)"-- scenarios might include the following:

faux finish a wall or paint a mural on it

repair a painting

paint a portrait

design a logo

donate artwork

teach kids

teach adults

paint my dog

paint my mom's dog

paint a picture of my house

stencil lettering for me

join our art night with a display

frame my artwork

tell me what colors to paint a room

(You can probably come up with a bunch more-- whether you've just seen a posting, or been personally approached with requests yourself).

Do you ever answer any of these requests?  I have a couple times.  I quickly realized that in the future, there would only be a few rare circumstances where I would be willing to say yes.  For the rest, I would have to politely assure the requesters that they could probably find a much more suitable person for the rest of the jobs.

Ever accept a request you ended up regretting? I know I've signed onto a couple of events that felt like good opportunities at the time, but turned out to cost time and money I didn't have (although I did gain valuable experience).  I don't really donate artwork anymore either, although there are a couple of occasions where I might offer to do so-- causes of my own choosing, though, and not in response to random requests.

There have been a few queries that turned into life-changing, positive experiences.  Most of those involved teaching.  I don't know why I agreed to get up and teach in front of over 100 kids at the library a decade or so ago, but I swallowed any misgivings and tried it.  It was a blast.  I still teach in front of big crowds for the libraries, and although it's a lot of activity packed into a short session, I continue to enjoy the experience.  

I feel the same way about teaching seniors in memory care too-- I've always been able to handle rambunctious kids, but a room full of my elders was a little intimidating at first.  Once I tried it, I grew to enjoy it as well and looked forward to seeing them each month.  I often brought my kids with me too, because they don't get a lot of time with the older generations the way I did growing up with all my grandparents around.  I had to let that position go because of my own schedule, but would definitely like to do that again sometime when my schedule permits it.

When I first began substitute teaching in public schools, I was offered jobs in both special education and pre-k by principals who knew I was getting a credential and would be ready to take a full time job soon.  I told both principals I needed to be honest and say no.  I could have technically taken those jobs and gotten through them, but I knew my heart wouldn't be in those positions as much as it would in a regular elementary position.  The idea of letting those principals (and more importantly, the kids) down with a poor performance on my part gave me the courage to be honest about where my strengths do and don't lie, and to decline.

This subject comes up now in the form of artistic requests, and I like to explain to people that although I have some creative skills, there are other people much more skilled at what they're looking for who would probably serve them better.  Teach a class?  If I have room in the schedule, it's often a yes.  Paint a commission? If it's based on recent style and subject matter of my paintings, that's also often a yes.  If it's not my style or subject matter, then I have to decline as politely as possible.  Repair a painting or frame a piece? I might be comfortable doing these things for my own pieces, but would definitely not want the responsibility of doing these tasks for someone else-- there are people out there with much better skills in these areas who would do a better job than I would!

It's a great honor when someone thinks of you and your artistic skills for a project (unless you can tell they're just trying to save some money by asking a personal favor, which happens too).  If the request was made from a place of admiration and respect, a good way to return those sentiments is to be honest about whether you have the time, skill, and ability to commit to finishing the project.

In the case of using your artistic time and talents, it's ok to only take on the projects you are truly confident or excited about.  Being a professional means standing by your work, and if the experience is positive for both you and the person requesting the work, it will show in the finished product!

Speaking of teaching opportunities, do you teach paint-sips or easy step-by-step painting lessons?  Want to try a fun painting lesson at home with friends?  Stop by my Painting Tutorials section on Etsy (click here #mce_temp_url#) to download low-cost, easy to teach painting lessons for beginner and intermediate learners!  All of my tutorials have been taught live in the classroom, and come with printable step-by-step guides that can be used as many times as you like once you buy the digital download.

Pricing artwork can get tricky at times.  You've probably heard this familiar phrase: "It's only worth what someone is willing to pay for it!"  I usually get comments encouraging me to raise the prices on my paintings, so it catches me off guard when someone asks why one is priced so high.  

I remember a particularly tense negotiation at a festival that ended with me turning down a sale.  A woman had cash in hand and wanted one of my layered wet-and-dry pastel paintings.  It was a piece I had already lowered the price on for the festival-- I tend to mark things down at such events, since I don't have to pack and ship anything.  I get a lot of delightful comments on this specific piece, but it hasn't sold.  It could have sold that day.  I chose not to let it go.

As she was talking, I could tell that this woman was more interested in the act of bargaining itself than the painting.  She even left the booth for a period of time and returned later with the cash out and visible.  As a shopper who occasionally doesn't mind a little friendly negotiation, I know the fun of getting a deal for a low price.  It doesn't feel right to me to do this aggressively for something unique and handmade though.  It didn't feel right to be the recipient of it.  I just gave her a final "no," and let her walk away.

I think it came down to which of us valued that painting more.  In the end, I did.

How did I determine the value of that particular painting?  Often, artists will use a combination of time spent, cost of materials, and the education and experience that led up to the creation of a particular piece.  These are valid and concrete ways to determine the value of a painting, and are probably the easiest for buyers to understand.

I'd like to include an additional component: the personal cost of making those unique pieces.  This is something people buying artwork might not be aware of, but I feel it should be shared.

I'll use the teaching side of my artist experience as an example.  The amount on a check I get for a lesson might seem large for the amount of time I physically spend in front of a class.  If I broke down the costs leading up to the lesson, it would actually seem like a smaller amount for the time spent to get to the point of teaching the actual lesson.

The obvious costs are materials (which I bill for) and sourcing, organizing, and storing those materials, along with packing them and arranging them in a user-friendly way for the class.  There's actual setup and cleanup, the amount of time which varies with each lesson.  There's preparing the lesson itself, which takes me several hours since I make a demo piece, pace the lesson for beginners, and prepare promotional samples of the artwork.  There's travel time to and from the lesson.  All of these costs can be broken down into categories which factor into that final total.

The personal cost, though, is something different.  Teaching can be fun, but stressful.  Although my kids are older now, there was a time when I would have had to arrange childcare.  As a mom, coming home in the evening dead tired with sore feet often meant bringing dinner home with me as well, which can get expensive.  (I grew up with a single mom who always worked.  I know many mothers go through this daily and am thankful I don't have to).  I'm always grateful for the opportunity to teach when it works out, but I do have to factor all these costs in, which means charging more than sounds comfortable on the surface.

Now apply those same potential personal costs to painting: some artists pay for studios.  Maintaining websites, social media, and print-on-demand sites to promote artworks cost time and money.  Time spent painting is time spent away from other possibly income-producing activities, which turns into a material cost.  If a painting took hours of concentration, time away from a job and family, and kept an artist mentally preoccupied with completing the work, shouldn't those "silent" costs be factored in as well?

Like teaching, I'm grateful for the opportunity to sell a painting.  The money supports my family, and there is the added joy of knowing someone else valued my teaching experience or artwork enough to pay me for it.  If a particular painting costs more than the rest of my pieces, it's because I'm not just calculating the obvious costs: the hours it took to paint it, the cost of materials, and the size of the painting itself.  I'm including some of those less obvious, but deeply personal costs to produce that particular painting, and am overjoyed as an artist when someone values the painting enough to acknowledge those costs and purchase it to hang on their own walls.

When we create artwork featuring our pets, how does it feel to look at those works once they're gone?

This last weekend has been one of the longest in my memory.  In addition to a jumble of the kids' activities that required some juggling, it was time to say goodbye to our last and oldest cat.  He lived 19 years.  He made frequent appearances in my artwork at times, and was also a chief reason I got very little artwork done at other times.  I'd known him (and his siblings) since he was only a few weeks old.  

I think at some point I've painted or drawn all of the cats I've cared for as an adult.  I often put those pieces up for sale-- cats are a subject that sells well for me. Sometimes, however, I decide that a particular piece is "the portrait" I want to keep of that particular cat.  Although I've already saved a few portraits of our last and oldest kitty, a few days ago I decided to take the one above off my listings as well and keep it.  Named "Kitty Kiss," it features a drawing of my cat (we'll call him "The Runt", because he actually was the runt of the litter) and his brother.  They would often start the afternoon off cuddled together on a chair, settling in for a long nap.  As the afternoon progressed, they would awaken every now and then to clean each other before settling back down to sleep. Once we got to the time of day where the  cleaning sessions grew more frequent, they eventually took on a new tone and turned into a swat fest. Cuddly nap time would be over for the day, only to be continued the following afternoon.  Runt lost his brother to age and illness a couple years ago, so the afternoon naps were a bit lonely for him after that unless he found a sympathetic lap (which we always offered if possible).

When I sell a painting or drawing featuring one of my own pets, I feel a little conflicted if it carries the pet's distinct look and personality.  Ultimately, I try to make the decision before I start the piece-- am I painting or drawing with the intention of making it for someone else to enjoy? Or is it purely for my own enjoyment when I look at it?  One way around this is prints--I keep the original, but share the artwork with others so they can enjoy something that reminds them of their own pets too.  If I've already sold the original, prints will work for me as a keepsake too.  Over time I've found that I enjoy the bond of being an animal lover and selling work to fellow animal lovers. They will give those pieces loving eyes as well, which means I don't necessarily have to have the original in my possession after my own pet is gone.

Another way around this is to paint animals we enjoy but aren't as attached to-- in my case, I've pivoted to painting birds.  I love watching our local wildlife, and birds have distinct personalities that are fun to capture in paintings as well.  I don't tear up looking at those paintings, reflecting on the bittersweet memories of caring for and saying goodbye to those animals.  They're just fun to paint.

Like painting people we love, painting our pets can be an emotional (but rewarding) experience.  I enjoy seeing other artists' pets in their works, as it feels like I learn a little bit about that artist when I view those more personal, pet-centered pieces.

Eventually, I hope to be able to paint my former pets with joy again and share those pieces freely.  For now, it's a little too close to saying goodbye to the pets I've loved and lost, so those pieces will probably stay in the sketchbook for a while.   

After about 16 years of blogging, I enjoy going back through old blog posts and seeing where I was in life when I wrote different posts throughout the years.  I first started blogging when I was juggling the responsibilities of caring for my baby and my terminally ill mom.  You probably wouldn't know that from reading my posts though.  At the time, painting and blogging provided me with a bit of an escape from the daily ups and downs of caregiving.  My outlook on life and creating has changed quite a bit since then, as have my paintings.

A common thread I see when I read those old posts is reflection.  Sometimes, I posted a painting and reflected on that painting and its process.  As I got comfortable with posting, the blog entries I wrote evolved into more detailed reflections, whether on the paintings themselves or the experiences that led to them.  Over time, I've learned that the beginning of a blog post almost never materializes when I sit down to write. Instead, it starts as a seed somewhere else in my day.  Depending on how much time I have before I get to sit down and post again, that seed is nurtured in my mind until it grows into a collection of inter-connected thoughts that might make an interesting piece for a blog.

One of the things I try NOT to do now when I post is drop random "thoughts of the day" pieces on my audience.  If someone stumbles onto my blog, a few quick sentences that popped into my head to go with a painting I'm posting aren't going to give that reader much of a reason to dig further.  I've had readers share with me that they enjoy going back to read additional posts on my blog, so I keep that in mind when making new posts. I'll often ask myself: what can a reader learn about the artwork I create from reading this post?

Likewise, if I'm sharing new artwork, I don't see the point in just posting the artwork on my blog with an announcement that I have a new painting available.  Obviously, a blog is a great place to post new work! Even better, it's a great place to post new work and give it context.  If you're just posting new artwork without any additional insight, the blog isn't going to do much for it.

So how do I turn a random thought into a blog post?  Like painting, the process is a little different every time.  So is the outcome.

The thoughts I develop and choose to write about usually come from an experience paired with a reflection on that experience.  Whether it's the process of a painting, a memory to go with the subject of a painting, or a connection I made to painting while doing something totally unrelated (like sitting on the beach or driving through a new area), I'll usually develop the thought further by relating it to creating in general.  I've been teaching others since childhood, so I always like to share what I learn. Did I stumble upon a new technique? Learn a hard lesson through failure?  Realize something about myself or the creative process that might be useful to others?

Here's an example: while walking through a weed-filled area on our property years ago, I found myself sticking to what was left of the path that already existed or stomping out weeds to reconnect old paths as I walked.  I knew that treading those same paths would keep them open for future walks.  If I avoided those well-worn paths too many times in favor of new paths, I would end up having a much harder time getting back to them once the weeds grew in.  I ended up writing a blog post about this being similar to the creative process-- if we don't keep our creative pathways active by using them, it's much harder to find them and use them later.

This is the first blog post of what I hope will be many on my new website.  My previous website shut down with no notice, so I'm having to start over.  At first I was upset, knowing that all of the time and effort I put into that website had disappeared.  The disappointment was quickly replaced with anticipation though: now I get to make a new, fresh start, which means plenty of insights as I move my artwork over to this site and learn from the experience.  There will be a lot of learning coming my way as I go through this process.  If there's one thing I like to do with all those thoughts and insights as I learn, it's to turn them into blog posts!