Other Art

“Well, I painted this one after church, when the light was just right coming through the kitchen window. These hydrangeas remind me of the ones my mother used to grow—big, soft, and stubbornly beautiful no matter the weather. I tried to keep it simple, just the way things used to feel when the world moved a little slower.”

I wanted to catch that delicious moment when a youngster is all curiosity and drowsy courage at once. His ears are still a size too big, his paws heavier than he knows—so he settles his chin there and watches the world with marble-bright eyes. I built the fur in short, quick strokes of ochre and sienna, then softened the edges with a dry brush so you can almost feel the down. A thin rigger gave me the whiskers and that mischievous sparkle around the nose; a light glaze over the eyes kept them wet and alert. The cool stone under him is a good counter to all that warm gold—a little bed he’s claimed for now, until the next game calls. I kept the background quiet so your eye stays with the cub, but there’s enough breeze in the color to suggest the day drifting by. Paint a young animal and you can’t help but hope along with it; he’s resting, not quitting—ready for one more pounce.

This pint-sized queen ran the house with a head tilt and two bright buttons for eyes. I loved how her wiry coat caught the light—zigs and zags of tan and charcoal—so I let the brush skip and whisper to keep that lively ruffle. She’s perched on the edge of the quilt like she’s about to make a very important announcement (usually about snacks), ears pricked and heart wide open. I softened the room and kept that pop of blue behind her so your eye lands where mine always did—right on that stubborn, tender face. Paint a dog you love and the tail keeps wagging in the canvas long after the room goes quiet.

Simple things make the best company on a quiet afternoon. I set out the old stoneware pitcher with its blue bands—sturdy as a farm kitchen—and let the apples tumble into their own places, bruises and all. The little glass was my excuse to play with light; I loved watching the table color slip through it and leave a soft oval shadow, like a breath on the surface.

I kept the cherries corralled in that ribbed green bowl so a spark of red could gather itself and sing. The background is warm and worn, the way a tabletop remembers years of meals, and the shapes are round and friendly, meant to rest the eye. If you feel thirsty looking at it, or think about pie, then we’re seeing the same picture.

I set up my easel right by the train museum park in Waite Park, where the engines nap between stories and the tracks still hum with old miles. This orange workhorse rolled past like it had somewhere kind and ordinary to be—pulling a patchwork of boxcars, some with friendly chalk ghosts waving from the sides. I kept the light pole cutting the scene in two because that’s how waiting at the crossing always feels: a small hold on the day while the big world goes by. The trees were gossiping in the breeze, the clouds piling up like fresh laundry, and the warm pavement kept the locomotive’s shadow as a souvenir. If you listen, you can hear the bell and count the cars—one, two, three—just like we all did when we were kids at this very park.