Our new family pet had arrived. It needed a name and I had several amazing ideas, but it would be up to my artist wife to make the final decision.
After all, I had brought it home for the family but had gifted it to her specifically.
“What are you going to call it?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied, “but it has to be something appropriate.”
“How about Michelangelo?” I asked.
Continue readingIt was time. My artist wife’s annual Christmas tree decorating tradition was about to be unleashed.
She was sitting in her blue easy chair in the corner working on her latest digital piece on her iPad. Through our 10-foot picture window, the sun was setting behind the house across the street and quickly drawing the light out of our living room. Our virtual fireplace was aglow on our television screen providing us with its light and warming our hearts while the furnace continued to warm our bodies. The 15 cm of snow from the week before still carpeted our front lawn. It was late November. It was winter. It was dreary.
I’d had enough. “It’s go time,” I decided.
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 readingOur seven-year-old daughter loves art.
Our kitchen table, our hallway, our living room coffee table — there is no flat surface in our house that isn’t hidden under a thin layer of drawings she’s doodled. And when we clean them up to try to see the surfaces again, they’ve all been replaced before we can turn around.
For a seven-year-old, both the thought and the execution of the drawings are remarkable.
We’re still not quite sure which parent she gets this passion from. But I will say that I could barely churn out a passable, human-looking stick figure at seven years old. (Maybe that’s a good hint.)
Continue readingWho knows what artists are thinking?
I should have paid slightly more attention.
“I’m going to paint the closet door,” she said, sitting in her favorite blue easy chair in the corner of our living room.
Continue reading“Yeah, they’re cute and fun,” my wife, the artist, told me a few weeks ago, “but they sell.”
When I realized she wasn’t talking about Cabbage Patch Kids, she continued her detailed and passionate explanation.
“People love them,” she added, “and they’re collectible too.”
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