The Painting That Waited

Happy New Year!

After a five-month hiatus, I’m thrilled to share what I’ve been working on since my last post in August 2025.

Below is a painting of Davenport, Iowa’s riverfront, originally photographed in 2013. When I first took the photo, I immediately felt drawn to it and knew I wanted to paint it—but at the time, I wasn’t ready to take on a piece of that complexity. So I set it aside, knowing I’d return to it when the moment was right.

That moment finally came.

This painting ultimately took 2,100 hours to complete. I could have easily continued working on it longer, but there came a point when it simply felt finished. The canvas measures 12 x 36, and every inch of it holds time, patience, and growth.

I began the piece using lighter colors, staying close to the original photo. As the painting developed, though, it started to feel flat—like it wasn’t quite finding its voice. I made the decision to push the color in the sky, but something was still missing. It wasn’t until I added the clouds that everything began to click. Suddenly, there was movement, energy, and atmosphere.

The clouds themselves were inspired by a walk I took along the river that day—white, wispy forms scattered across the sky, quietly commanding attention. Once they were in place, the painting finally felt alive.

All in all, I’m happy with the outcome. This piece challenged me, tested my patience, and reminded me that sometimes the most important part of creating is knowing when to step back, wait, and trust your growth as an artist.

Finished “Davenport Riverfront Casino”

Inspirational photo captured with my Canon EOS Rebel

Pictured above is my process of the varies stages this painting went through

 

The Frog That Paints My Silence

 

A Pause in the Journey

What does one do when moving forward feels impossible?

For me, it came down to a choice: surrender to the weight of it all—or disappear. That might sound harsh, but in those moments, giving up felt easier than continuing to live in pain. Depression has a way of convincing you that no version of life is worth enduring.

I tried counseling. Slowly, I began to open myself to healing. I started to see that the weight I carried wasn’t just “in my head,” but rooted in years of unspoken trauma—much of it from a time before I even had a say in my own life. Still, I had to learn how to carry that past as an adult, and that meant facing not just what was done to me, but how I’d learned to survive it. The baggage was real—and it was heavy.

This blog began in 2009 as a quiet space to document my journey as a self-taught artist. It was never meant to be about trauma or struggle. It was meant to be about paint, color, light, and growth. I used this space to stay focused on the brighter side of creativity, while quietly managing the storms behind the scenes.

But the truth is, I didn’t start painting from a place of joy—I came to it from desperation. Art gave me an outlet, a way to process pain when words weren’t enough. Over time, I painted through the silence, using this blog as a record of creative progress, while leaving the deeper parts unsaid.

Now, I can’t keep those parts separate anymore. Life has brought me back to the source of it all—the ache that led me here in the first place. Family struggles, emotional exhaustion, and the slow unraveling of things I thought I’d buried have caught up with me. Continuing this journal without acknowledging that would feel false.

There isn’t an audience here. There never really has been. This blog has always been a space for me—to process, reflect, and document my path through art and life. And so, before I step away, I wanted to write this down as a way of honoring the truth: this pause is not failure. It’s survival.

I’m not sure if or when I’ll return. But for now, I need silence. I need space. I need time to tend to the life behind the canvas.

Maybe one day, I’ll come back with new work, shaped by what I’ve walked through. Or maybe this will simply mark the closing of a chapter.

Either way, I’ve said what I needed to say—for now. I painted my way toward something better, though not toward the perfection or excellence I once thought I had to reach. Healing doesn’t always look like triumph. Sometimes, it’s simply making it through.

The darkness is still there, waiting quietly in the shadows. And right now, that’s where I find myself—in the in-between, sitting with it, not fighting it.

That is where I am.

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Summer Storm

After the Tornado

A tornado doesn’t just tear through land—it rips through everything: homes, memories, foundations, and the quiet spaces inside us we thought were safe.

When a storm like that hits, it doesn’t ask permission. It destroys what it wants, without warning. The chaos it leaves behind feels unbearable—but strangely, it’s also where rebuilding begins. In the aftermath, there’s room to clear, to replant, to start again… even if it’s not the life we had before.

This painting brought me a brief joy in its completion—like sunlight breaking through rotating clouds. But as I sat with it, the weight returned. My own storm—the one inside me—is still spinning. And I’m still in the middle of it, trying to hold on.

Creating helped me breathe, helped me feel something steady. But the truth is, I’m not on the other side yet. The winds haven’t calmed.

Not yet.

A Storm Worth Painting

Summer storm season is in full swing, and I felt inspired to capture the energy and emotion of a dramatic skyscape. If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you know I love breathing new life into old misfit canvases—those pieces I once considered unfinished or unsatisfying. This one was no exception.

Below, I’ve shared a few progress shots that show how the painting has evolved so far. I’m not quite finished yet—there are still a few more layers and details to add—but it’s already coming alive with movement and mood. Stay tuned for the final reveal!

The Ebb and Flow of a Painting

As I build each layer of this painting, I snap photos along the way—documenting both progress and setbacks. Sometimes a layer works beautifully; other times, it doesn’t. That’s all part of my process. In those moments of uncertainty, I try to return to the feeling that inspired the piece: a calm evening by the Mississippi River, the warm breeze brushing past, and the breathtaking glow of the setting sun. I remember the light—how it dimmed gradually, leaving the sun surrounded by a soft, golden halo.

When I began this painting, I started with vibrant colors. At first, they felt right. But when I compared it to the original photo, I realized the sky was too bright. That’s when I began adjusting—introducing deeper blues, burnt umber, and just a touch of white to soften it. I added dabs of lavender and peach to bring balance. Honestly, that’s when frustration crept in. I liked where the painting had been before adding the moodier tones, but the perfectionist in me wanted it to better reflect the photo.

This is usually the moment I know I should walk away, let it breathe for a few days. But instead, I kept pushing to finish. I could call it done, but something still feels off—something I can’t quite name.

Below is a diagram showing the different stages of the painting, with the lower right image showing where it currently stands.

Finished Painting 

Layers, Currents, and a Little Dyslexic Magic

This piece is really starting to come together as I continue building up layers in acrylic. One of the biggest challenges I'm facing is figuring out the direction of the water’s current. The reference photo shows the water shifting in multiple directions, making it tricky to translate accurately on canvas.

To help with this, I often rely on a little trick—I look at the painting in a mirror. Being a bit dyslexic, I sometimes struggle to process alignment and directional flow when staring directly at the canvas. But when I view it through my phone screen or in reverse, things suddenly click. It’s strange, but it works for me!

Can’t wait to share the finished piece soon.

Just about finished 

The beginning 

Mississippi Evening Glow: Continues

 Bringing It to Life, Layer by Layer

Each layer I add continues to breathe life into the painting. One of the biggest challenges has been capturing the river grasses — finding that balance between realism and impressionism, and creating depth. It’s a slow process: adding lighter reeds, then darker ones, stepping back, squinting, and layering again.

I don’t pre-mix my colors (though I know it’s often recommended), so I have to rely heavily on memory and feeling — recalling the warm glow of that evening and the beauty of the landscape I was lucky enough to witness. As I paint, I try to hold onto that moment. I’ve been warming up the tones to reflect that golden light, but also cooling down some of the greenery to keep the composition grounded.

I often second-guess myself as I work — it’s just part of my process.

The piece is coming along well, but there are still many hours ahead before it feels complete. Stay tuned to see how it evolves.