Father-Daughter Paint Night

The oil painting above is 4x5 feet and was painted in 3 hours. Normally a painting this size would take me months.

It starts with a quick home cooked meal. Crab cakes and a simple salad. I open a bottle of wine and listen to the gurgle of the first fast pour. Dad cracks the pop of a cold PBR and takes a satisfying sip. There’s excitement in the air because tonight the two of us are going to create a painting. It a giant white canvas--I mean this thing is big. It rests directly on the floor and leans against the wall. No easel could support it. I turn The Stones up a little louder on the stereo while dad adjusts the lighting. The room is now very bright and it’s late and dark outside. We’ve done this a few times before. Sometimes we start with a photograph, the painting above we call Elk Creek. It’s on property our family owns in the mountains of North Carolina. The photo was taken in early fall just as the leaves were really starting to change. Or sometimes we’ll create something totally abstract--just because it’s fun to sling paint and see what happens.

There aren’t any real rules. Dad will sketch out the horizon line. I’ll squirt some green and blue paint onto my palette. Pick out a paintbrush and GO! It’s fast and furious. We paint like crazy people. The music is loud, really loud. No close neighbors out in Hillsborough to complain. I’ll create leaves on a tree that hasn’t been painted yet while dad fills in the deep rust color of the ground. After about an hour it’s starting to take form. It takes that long just to get paint over most of the large canvas. We’ll step back ten feet to get a good view of our progress. Make some suggestions, grab another beer, change the CD and hit it hard again. About two hours into it I’m covered in paint. All I can smell is the nutty linseed oil and the sharp note of oil paints. It’s really starting to take shape and I’m having a hell of a lot of fun. Dad starts critiquing my paint application and I tell him to shut-up and work on his shading. Somehow in the midst of it all, a random blob of yellow ended up in the creek. Neither of us know where it came from, probably a glob of yellow paint intended to be a leaf but fell onto the blue of the water. We decide that we love it and leave it to be. Sometimes art creates itself and you just get to be a part of it all. After 3 hours neither of us can believe how incredible our painting looks. Maybe it’s the booze, maybe we’re both high from all the paint fumes. But each time I’m incredibly shocked at what we’ve created. I would never have been able to paint this on my own, and the same for my dad. We each bring something to the canvas that is special. My mom can usually tell who painted what, but she’s known us for our entire creative lives. Others can’t tell all at. Somehow our brushstrokes and color choices are able to work together, as different as fingerprints but all on the same hand. We’ll price our paintings out loud. “This one is definitely worth $3K easy!” “No, there’s no way I’m letting it go for less than 5.” But we’ll end up donating it to a charity auction. The one below is being sold at A Tasteful Affair this year, a benefit for the Ronald McDonald House if you’d like to have a look in person.



One day dad and I hope to have a gallery showing of all our joint paintings. We’ll wear black and sip martinis and pretend that we knew exactly what we were doing every stoke of the way.

The Art of Boredom.

When I was a kid complaining of boredom during those long lonely summer days before drivers licenses and boyfriends, my mother would say “Honey, intelligent people are never bored.” Even then—bitter from the lack of sympathy--I knew she was right.

To this day, that simple truth resonates with me during my long lonely days of solitude. Now that I work from home as a full time artist I don’t have a boss to hand me work. I don’t have focus groups to keep me on track, no co-workers to fill the social void and the most foreign, I don’t even have a reason to get dressed for the day. I--like one in six people my age--don’t work for anyone. This recession has hit everyone hard. Thankfully I have a way of supporting myself. Art has given me a means to an end. I’m probably one of the luckiest people out there. I call all the shots and I can call them while in my pj’s after I roll out of bed around noon.

Most people stare at me with jealous awe when I tell them about my typical day. While more practical people instantly say, “I could never do that! I wouldn’t get anything done.” And they are right. It takes a certain kind of personality to be able to work for yourself. You’ve got to have an inner drive that never shuts up and you have to have a desire to create, produce, market and grow. Some days I don’t feel any of those things. Some days I just want to sip my coffee and think about all the other things I could be doing, rather than doing nothing at all. And then I start to feel sad about my lack of production, which turns into melancholy, and by the time I’ve poured myself my 3rd cup of 2pm coffee the boredom and depression sets it. Here I am. 28, in my pj’s while the rest of the productive world is working making money.

“Honey, intelligent people are never bored.”

The message hits my numb brain then slowly starts to sink in. My brain starts turning, my adrenaline squirts a little creative juice into my bloodstream and I begin. I start with something fun, painting bamboo cloth napkins. I’ll finish, photograph and post them for sale. Two days later they sell and I’ll have made $60. Inspired from having created something beautiful and profitable I’ll move to something more intense, a canvas painting or a new line of dinnerware. It’s addictive, creating that is. Once you’ve started—it’s nearly impossible to shut it off. The next time I look at the clock, it’s 10pm, I’m starving and thirsty for wine. I have an entire days worth of work to show for myself and it feels so good. So rewarding. I’m excited for tomorrow and I feel good about myself. So the next time you feel stagnant or bored. Remember my mother’s words. “Honey, intelligent people are never bored.” Get off your ass and do something. You can even do it in your pajamas.

Sticky Stickers

When I was a kid I had a sticker collection. But I wasn't a normal kid with a normal sticker collection. I would collect stickers anyplace I could then I'd stick them to a nice marble antique desk. Mom wasn't exactly pleased when she discovered my collection, but it was an impressive assortment of glittery hearts, fuzzy bears and my favorite, a few treasured potent scratch and sniff mushroom stickers. Like I said before, I wasn't a normal kid.

I'm less obsessed with stickers now that I'm in my late 20's, but the addiction has morphed towards decals. My personal favorites are from Mixed Species. I love their decals that say "You Park Like Shit." They aren't permanent, so when you do get the courage to actually put one on a motorcycle taking up two spaces or a Porshe in a handicapped spot you won't get sued for ruining their paint as they peel easily and harmlessly off. Their "Oil Whore" is just as much fun, but more permanent so careful not to upset a big burly man driving his monster truck through town.



I'm equally enamored with less offensive decals just in case you were staring to think about my strange childhood...

The decals are perfect for your walls when you can't paint because your renting or in a dorm room. Most vinyl decals peel easily off without damaging your walls or paint.


I've even created my own glass decals for wine glasses. So now people can dress up their glassware for a party without having to invest in new glasses. Think of them as a temporary tattoo for your glassware.

Don't deny your inner sticker collection. Below are a few great options for all your collecting needs.

Tying the Knot--Creatively

My brother, George was recently married. No one ever believes that he's younger than me--but I've got 2.5 years on him. He and his new wife Julie had an awesome blow out wedding. I don't plan on having a traditional wedding myself, but I enjoyed all the lavish celebrations and friends and family around at theirs. Not to mention, it was the best dance party I've ever been too. That's George and I swing dancing. But just take one look at my mom pictured below and even total strangers will have to agree. Weddings are really a time to let your inner self shine through. Now I'm talking about brides, not controlling wedding guests-bitches. If I ever were to decide to throw a big wedding bash, I'd want to do it with the help of fellow artists and crafters. Everything thing would be unique, one of a kind, and have a special touch that reflected my personality (oh yea, and the grooms, sure, whatever). I think many other women feel the same way I do. There are so many awesome possibilities at your fingertips. It only takes a little exploring to find the perfect pieces. Who knows, with such incredible work, I just might end up having a wedding myself. Take a look at what I've fallen in love with on Etsy:

Soapy Suds

I've been a huge fan of homemade soaps ever since I discovered Etsy. Just one read of homemade soap ingredients compared to store bought soaps and you'll start wondering how the mass produced soaps are even legal. For example:
These are the ingredients for Lever 2000 soap Pure Rain:

Sodium tallowate, sodium cocoyl isethionate, sodium cocoate, water, sodium isethionate, stearic acid, coconut fatty acid, fragrance, titanium dioxide, sodium chloride, disodium phosphate, tetrasodium EDTA, trisodium etidronate, BHT, FD&C blue no. 1, D&C red no. 33.

Eww..do you know what that first, main ingredient sodium tallowate is? It's what's created when you combine sodium hydroxide (lye) with beef tallow. That's right folk. ANIMAL FAT! GROSS. And how about Stearic acid. Any idea what that is? It's a saturated fatty acid that's usually derived from tallow or lard. For those greasy animal fatty soapy suds we all love. The rest of the ingredients are mostly petroleum products, synthetic preservatives and synthetic detergents many of which are proven irritants. Feelin' clean yet?

Now, lets take a look at some homemade soap ingredients:
This is a beautiful bar called "Pink Grapefruit"from Etsy seller Besem Naturals Scents

Ingredients: saponified oils of olive, palm kernal, coconut, rice bran, castor oil, shea butter, cocoa butter, rose clay, pure essential oils and fragrance.
Also, 10% of profits are given to orphan relief.

And rather than smelling like chemicals it smells like sweet, ripe grapefruits. I'm not missing the beef tallow. Would you?

There are so many wonderful choices when it comes to buying handmade soaps. You can buy organic, vegan, completely free of dyes or any scents, and you can buy handcrafted soaps for specific ailments you have that I promise, will do wonders for your skin that beef tallow, stearic acid and trisodium etidronate couldn't even touch. Pictured above are a few of my favorites. Make the switch!

Do You Speak English?

Recently I've heard a lot of travel horror stories. People sitting on the runway for 6 hours, broken seats, terrible customer service. It reminded me of a flight I took; but it wasn't the terrible customer service or any issue with the airline that stuck in my memory. It was the poor, single flight attendant who had a nervous breakdown on the flight. It's a long re-telling, but if you're looking for a laugh this should do it.

I recently witnessed a flight attendant having a nervous breakdown on a flight from Raleigh to Boston. I knew from her black frizzy hair splayed around her head that something was wrong from the start. The plane was small; the kind that makes you feel nauseated even before take-off. It was a full house and everyone was in their best cocoon posture. Elbows tucked politely in respective personal space bubbles. Knees pressed tightly together like good private school children. Everyone seemed content, after all, it was going to be a short flight.
Our flight attendant had dark brown eyes to match her hair. Big and bugged out. There was definitely more cornea showing than could be healthy for any sort of high altitude. She was a tall woman, with a healthy amount of American style living on her Hellenistic frame. I’m not sure of her name, so we’ll just call her Jane. I’m told that back in the day, flight attendants were classy. Outfitted with stylish, flattering uniforms and matching sophisticated little hats. Jane obviously thought that sort of dressing old-fashioned, perhaps it made her feel too confined with-in the labels of femininity. Jane wore the sleek, city color of mourning. A big chunky black sweater, with plastic white buttons. Black knee length shorts with black opaque hose and black Reebok tennis shoes. The whole ensemble, topped off with the bugged out eyes and spray of frustrated hair was quite impressive.
As with most problems in life, it all started with personal baggage.
“Please make sure all your carry-ons are placed completely underneath the seat in-front of you.” The voice was friendly enough filtered through the intercoms professional accent. But passengers are like children and have to be told most things, at least twice. “A reminder, that all carry-ons and personal luggage must be placed completely underneath the seat in-front of you. This includes all straps that may be attached to your luggage.” I took a look down at my small knapsack, feeling confident in its ability to pass the “underneath the seat” test. Jane walked down the aisle. Her eyes had an odd familiarity about them. I felt like I’d seen them before, maybe on the nature channel. Jane stopped. Her eyes seem to actually zoom in on a bag. I could see them extend like the lens of an automatic camera. “Sir, would you please make sure your personal items are completely underneath the seat in front of you.” The Sir gave his leather bag the obligatory nudge with his foot. Pushing it under the seat a few more inches. “Sir, I can still see your bag. I need for it to be completely underneath the seat.” By now a gathering of curious eyes had turned their attention to the scene. Woman in black versus the Sir with leather bag.The man leaned down, using his hands to push the bag even further underneath the seat. The situation became more tense. Jane got down on her hands and black hosed knees, her head nearly in contact with man’s knees. She pushed, shoved and grunted in-between words, “You must (shove) make sure (push) that your bag (grunt) is completely (breath) underneath the seat!” All the pushing and bending made Jane’s hair—grow. As she rose to her feet, and brushed off her hands leaving small bits of dirt on her sweater, Sir looked up at Jane. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I know they must have shown fear. Fear like tribal people hold for their gods. But Jane’s appeasement wasn’t to be met with just that one leather bag.
After the little hands-on demonstration, we fellow passengers quickly reached down, and pushed and shoved our own bags as deep as we could into the under-seat abyss. “Hurry!” I heard my brain say “Hurry, here she comes!” Her acute eyes swept my personal space. I was evaluated, calculated and judged worthy. As she passed, I must admit I felt relieved and strangely violated as well. Other weren’t so lucky. A woman, three rows behind me was made to stand up, and move out of the way as Jane demonstrated the correct way to make a carry-on completely disappear before your eyes. She was like the Mary Poppins of underneath the seat spaces. Cramming everything from duty-free to Louis Vuitton bags out of site. When she moved to the front of the cabin again, I’m pretty sure I heard a collective group sigh.
“For those passengers seated in the emergency row, you must be able to assist in the case of an emergency, those passengers unable to do so must move to a different seat.”
Her voice, even through the filter of the intercom had acquired a peculiar ring to it. Like an out of tune note still ringing in the air. I was seated in row twelve. Praise the computer ticketing gods. Row eight was the emergency row. There were four people, two on each side of the emergency row. They never saw it coming.
Jane put away the intercom microphone and headed straight for them. They had no where to escape, they were already in their seats in upright and locked position with seat belts securely fastened! Jane spoke to the middle aged man sitting by the window first.
“Sir, are you confident in your ability to assist in an emergency, by opening the emergency door and helping others without causing harm to yourself?” The man nodded, anxious to be free of her unblinking gaze. But she didn’t look away. Rather, she leaned in over the woman sitting in the aisle seat. She leaned in so close that the woman was eye level with Jane’s left ear. In a much louder voice, Jane repeated the question. He nodded several times, sort of in a panic stricken kind of way. I’m sure his face was beginning to sting from her gaze. His brain was probably screaming “Oh, look away! For the love of god will you just look away!” The plane was silent. There was an electric tingle of collective anxiety in the air. Jane stood up. The woman in the aisle breathed. Jane was still looking at the man. I think he was beginning to turn gray. “Sir” Jane said in a very loud, but slow voice, “DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?”
With every syllable she said, she sort of nodded her body toward the man. There was no answer. “SIR, DOOO YOUUU SPEEEAK ENNNGLISH!”
“Yes, yes, I speak English.” He stammered, finally out of his trance. The spell broken with the woman beside him pressing her body as far back against the seat as her spine would allow. Her quick shallow breaths’ mimicking everyone’s pounding hearts.
Jane straightened. Her frizzy hair dusting the top of the plane. “Oh, well, you didn’t verbally respond so I just assumed you didn’t understand me.” She then looked down at the woman pressed deep into her seat. “Ma’am, are you confident in your ability to assist in an emergency”---“Yes!” the woman blurted. “Ma’am, please wait until I’ve finished asking you the full question-- by opening the emergency door and helping others without causing harm to yourself?” Jane stood waiting for the woman’s response. The woman nodded, and then remembering the rule, quickly said “Yes, I am able to assist in opening the emergency door.”
Without changing the angle of her shoulders or neck, Jane turned her body around. I swear, she still hasn’t blinked. The next two passengers seated in row eight. Japanese business men, the look of a long flight from Tokyo still in their eyes. Jane didn’t even give them a chance. “DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?
There was an announcement from the cockpit. “Flight attendant, please prepare the cabin for take-off.” Jane immediately ran to the cock-pit. Her hair disappeared as she spoke to the captain. A few moments later, she was back on the intercom. “I’m sorry ladies and gentleman, but we will not be allowed to prepare for departure until everyone understands the rules of this plane. I have spoken to the captain, and explained that we cannot leave the runway until everyone is properly seated and their belongings are properly stored.”
“Can she do that?” I hear a man in disbelief behind me.
“I need for the isle to be cleared. This mean you sir, yes, you in the blue coat. I need you to make sure your feet are not in the aisle.” I saw a foot disappear from the isle four rows in-front of me. I was seated next to a teenage girl. She leaned over and whispered, “Hi, I’m Ellie, do you speak English?” We laughed then quickly stifled our giggles and looked down. Jane was eyeing us.
Once all passengers were mentally handcuffed, tied to their seats with feet nailed to the floor. Jane allowed the captain to take off. We had been in the air about fifteen minutes—long enough for most of us to have temporarily forgotten the bizarre enthusiasm of our flight attendant. Suddenly, Jane unbelted her own seat belt and came sprinting down the aisle. Her eyes wider that I’d seen yet, and her hair flapping above her head. I now understood the Reeboks. Most everyone leaned away from the aisles, as she flew past. Jane reached the end of the cabin and was now pounding with both fists on the bathroom door. I thought we were all going to die.
“Sir!” she screamed in hysterics. “Sir! The Captain has not turned off the seatbelt sign!” I heard a quiet woman’s voice behind me. “I think he just really had to pee.” The door opened and a man, ashen faced appeared from the bathroom. I’m sure he thought he was going to die too. “I’m sorry, but you are not allowed to leave your seat until the captain has turned off the seatbelt sign.” He nodded then ducked his head and slipped quietly into his seat. I’m sure he was trying to focus on his happy place. Someplace safe on land.
Jane returned to her perch at the front of the plane. Buckled in, she could resume her watchful gaze. A few minutes passed. The seatbelt sign was still on. I began to panic. The morning’s grande coffee was beginning to create a lot of pressure in my bladder. I glanced around, fearful Jane would know what I was thinking. I half whispered, half whimpered, “I have to pee.” I heard a strong, deep voice just behind me. “Don’t worry, I got your back.”

Let's Finish that Scarf

I last left off with how to paint a silk scarf. We previously finished applying the paint and the next step is to set the ink. You want to "fix" or "set" it so that when you wash your scarf or it gets rained on, the colors won't bleed and ruin your lovely design. Setting the ink is really easy. You just buy some dye fixative. Follow the instructions which involves pouring a small amount of fixative in a cold water bath. Then swish and soak your scarf in the fixative bath water. Don't freak out when when the water turns dark blue, or red or any other color. It's normal for the inks to bleed out into the water. It won't hurt the rest of your scarf. Let it soak for about 5 mins. Hang to dry and you're done! Well, sort of done. With this scarf I decided to get a little crazy and experiment with some gold metallic paint. I painted it on just like the other inks except the you don't have to use the gutta resist. The metallic paint acts more like regular acrylic and you don't have to worry about it bleeding. To set the metallic paint you just iron it, essentially melting the paint into the fabric itself. Then the only thing left to do is have your scarf professionally dry-cleaned. This will cost about $4-$5. I've tried doing it myself with Dryel, but it doesn't work. The reason you have to dry-clean it is to remove the yucky, sticky gutta resist. Once it's dry-cleaned all that will be left is the pure white of the silk. Soft and luxurious and worth a million bucks.