“I’ve got a job,” my artist wife said, rushing into the living room of our fourth-floor walk-up apartment shortly after our honeymoon and long before the days of her established art business.
I know, I thought. You’ve been working customer service at the local department store in our suburban mall for over a year.
“A new job,” she continued, after my bewildered look betrayed my thoughts. “It’s gonna be awesome.”
“Oh really?” I asked. “Where?”
“DeSerres,” she said.
Continue reading“You know what we need? A compound mitre saw,” my artist wife told me a couple years after moving into our suburban bungalow.
I paused, wondering if this was some type of trap.
She’s giving me permission to go buy a power tool, I thought. What’s the catch?
This required a delicate conversation to make sure no bubbles would burst. One mis-step might cost me a wife-approved power tool.
Continue readingMy artist wife walked into my basement office and noticed my baseball caps hanging on the wall.
Immediately, a look climbed across her face. It was one of those unmistakable looks that only a husband notices.
I no-sold noticing.
Meanwhile, her eyes continued to slide their way along the width of the entire wall in my office, which was adorned by a new, white baseball cap rack running the entire length of the soft blue paint. Her eyes finally came to rest on me sitting at my desk.
Continue readingWe went to Quebec City for our honeymoon 14 years ago. It was my first and only trip to the capital of La belle province; my wife’s second visit, and her best, I assume.
We chose Quebec City for many reasons. Chief among them was the price was right. A close second was the culture, the 400-year history since the city’s founding, and the artistic expression on full display.
Continue readingI thought I’d never see my artist wife again.
While I was walking out of the Art Institute of Chicago, this particular hallway struck me as fairly plain for an art museum.
Tucked into the quiet lower level, it had calm, white walls flanking a diagonally laid hardwood floor. To its left, an open-air courtyard nestled up against it, visible only through the windows. Straight ahead was a staircase to the main level. And, to the right, was a wall with a work of art on it. Which piece? I don’t remember. I was concerned mostly with what was behind me.
As I glanced back, worry, apprehension, and fear rushed toward me.
Continue readingI’m not going to talk about my artist wife today. I’ve had enough of sleeping on the couch each night my weekly story comes out. I need at least one Saturday night in my own bed.
Instead, since I have previously proven my ability to appreciate historic artists like Van Gogh, I’m going to share with you the unequivocal top 4 artists of all time. My Mount Rushmore of the greats.
When I first launched these weekly stories I always knew I would make an all-star team, if you will, of all-time artists. I’ve been researching and writing and rewriting this list for months.
Continue reading
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