Before the Lights Come On

The studio is quiet until the music starts. I am grateful for Spotify and decades of music!

Brushes stand in different holders, quietly leaning and waiting to be picked up and loaded with paint. I think they actually love the journey they make crisscrossing a canvas—lightly skipping, scraping, or gently massaging the surface.

The water glass waits with fresh water, listening for my footsteps.

My palette sleeps comfortably with yesterday's dried paint but awakens when the lights go on, often around 6 a.m.

One drawer in my wood chest is open. The top drawer is pulled out about a quarter of the way because I was trying to put all the paints away last night.

It did not happen.

My mixing chart from the last painting lies on top of the chest. Those little squares of color aren't simply mixtures. They echo feelings from somewhere deep inside me.

Nearby stands a tall hand-painted vase from Jackson Hole, brought home during the years we delivered paintings to Rare Gallery, which represented my work for more than ten years. It remains a constant reminder of that season of my painting life.

And watch your step. There are usually paintings somewhere waiting to be shipped or delivered to a gallery.

My Canon EOS 5D—one of my closest studio companions—may be sitting on my desk with its SanDisk card gently pushed into the reader, waiting for photographs to appear on my screen.

There are stacks of canvases and shelves of smaller ones. Newly discovered boxes hold brushes, rollers, shapers and supplies waiting to be sorted.

There are business cards, pamphlets and magazines featuring my work. Large black portfolios hold pieces from days and years gone by. Books with my paintings on their covers share space with a tall bookcase filled with books I consider important—otherwise, they wouldn't still be here.

My new Epson printer recently replaced my thirteen-year-old Epson Workhorse. Thankfully, the new one does all the same things.

The shelves hold things rarely used alongside things I could never discard—like drawings from my grandchildren.

A handmade cross by a Texas artist hangs on the wall.

Nearby is a sign that probably describes my days better than I could:

PRAYING
FAMILY
JOURNAL
WEB DESIGN
PAINTING
MARKETING
MORE PAINTING

My color-mixing chart may be my second-best studio friend.

There is a colored-pencil drawing of my dad.

There are also reminders to have fun.

A wonderfully funny man I painted during a workshop with Melinda Cootsana still makes me smile. Melinda taught me so much about pulling depth into my work. Two small pieces from those days of freedom—painting, masking, experimenting—still hang where I can see them.

And then there is a very old painting from my mother's house.

I painted it in junior high, around 1964. It is a tall, narrow waterfall—about 8 × 30 inches in oil—framed in black-painted yardsticks nailed together.

It still hangs in my studio.

And Audrey watches over everything.

You know Audrey.

Audrey Hepburn.

When Hubby and I married, he bought me a 30 × 30 framed print of her. She has watched over my studio for the past 38 years.

Around my desk are photographs of my grandchildren.

So perhaps my studio isn't simply where I paint.

It holds pieces of nearly every season of my life.

My parents. My grandchildren. Galleries and workshops. Paintings that traveled away and paintings that came home. Music. Cameras. Books. Crosses. Old brushes. New canvases. Yesterday's paint.

And every morning, before I arrive, it is all here waiting.

The brushes lean quietly.

The palette sleeps.

The water waits.

Then the lights come on.

The music begins.

And we start again.