I would never let anyone tell me what I’m allowed to paint.

Imagine an art gallery that will only take select paintings from you. They select certain more mainstream images, while you are more of an abstract painter. At the same time, they require a contract that doesn’t allow you to show your work in other local galleries.

What kind of wishy washy artist do you have to be to allow someone else to dictate your public voice? This is not about art, it is about making money for that gallery. It is not about your art at all, it is about their brand.

They are thinking about maximizing their profits. Part of that is how much they have to pay you. Their main goal is not promoting you.

Put the shoe on the other foot, and find a venue that will work for you.

More and more musicians have found that this has meant working for themselves. They become their own producer record label.

People have found success in many different ways, and people define success differently.

I told my son yesterday that I would rather never sell a painting again than lose my creative autonomy.

Art is not stagnant. You don’t have to keep doing what you did ten years ago, even if people liked it. You are allowed to grow, and change. You are allowed to discover new things about yourself and new things that you love. You are allowed to take your art to uncomfortable places. You are allowed to take risks.

You are allowed to be interesting.

When we type words, we can give emphasis by using italics, or a larger typeface, an exclamation point, or maybe using a different font or color.

When we want to give importance to an image, we can place it in a mat or frame. This border around the image sets it apart from the rest of the world and draws attention to the piece. A larger frame gives it more status, and says pay attention.

This is important.

No brushstroke, regardless of the color or shape, will ever be a pumpkin or a tree. It will always be a smear of paint on some surface. As an artist, you need to decide what makes that application of paint represent what you want to convey.

It is not always necessary to fool the eye (trompe l’oeil) into believing that this paint is an actual balcony or telephone. For some people, the test of a good painting is whether it can pass as a photograph. I heartily reject that criteria. I have a camera that can make something look exactly like a photograph in a fraction of a second. To make something look like a painting, painted by a human being, is something that artificial intelligence is now trying to emulate.

You and I (assuming you, my dear reader, are human), have the ability to produce human art simply by dipping our brush into the paint and applying it to our surface of choice. It really requires no talent, human. It only takes action. It takes doing. You can make a mark. A handprint. A line.

And you will have left a record of your presence.

Some paint smearers are applauded for the precision of the shapes, colors and values in the paint they leave behind. You can learn from what they did, as you can learn from anything. What matters is what soaks so deep into you that it comes out again in the way you smear paint or make mud pies or draw on your cave walls with sticks from the fire.

Because someone else did something beautiful doesn’t mean your voice is less. There is so much more to be said. So much more to be thought about, and so much more to be expressed.

Trust your voice to know what to say, and trust your hand to know how to say it. I believe we were formed to do this. To look up at the night sky, or out across the water and see something far bigger than us. Pondering how small we are, we come to realize, no.

We are part of this.

Construction on my house was underway while I was under construction in the womb, and we were both unveiled in 1960.

I’ve lived longer in this house than I have lived anywhere else, and I have lived in this house longer than anyone else ever has.

My house and I are the same age, and we’ve been together for half of our lives.

I’ve lived other places for shorter times. Places that have had a huge impact on me. They were my homes because they were my parents’ homes.

This one is my children’s home because it is my home.

I’ve been doing this here and there throughout the house. One friend said my house was like a rabbit warren. When another friend said these textures reminded her of hieroglyphics, I could see how its corridors and chambers were a little bit like an ancient Egyptian tomb. But in a good way.

Payton and I had another enjoyable mentoring session tonight. It’s amazing to me how art and storytelling can enable two people from different generations connect and enjoy one another’s company. We both have a passion for communicating through the genre of comics.

We’ve been meeting officially through
In Progress for one month now, and we have decided to continue our friendship beyond the duration of the paid schedule.

It took me many decades beyond age 14 to understand a fraction of what Payton already articulates, and so I want to be there to see what he does and hear what he thinks about when his prefrontal cortex actually develops. I want to share with him the things it took me so long to start to crack open on my own.

I don’t think we meet people by accident.

I believe that certain ones merge into our lives when the time is right.

This is why it doesn’t matter if your art, or your story doesn’t connect with everyone, or if someone doesn’t get it, or even criticizes you. Those people might make you question your art, and that might help you make it better. One day, maybe when you least expect it, someone will get it. Someone will connect, and you can make a difference.

Mixed media on paper.

My (Finnish) great grandfather had a garden where he grew pumpkins. When he harvested his pumpkins, he lined them up or arranged them into a pile and photographed them. I did not know this until November of 2020 when I finally opened the stack of photo albums I had inherited, which were once his. At that very time, the pumpkins and gourds I had grown that season were arranged on my table and on our porch. It was only a couple of days after Halloween.

For nearly thirty years, I’ve been making up stories about Mr. Pumpkinhead. For several years, I have been publishing them to their own blog. Click here to visit misterpumpkinhead.blogspot.com