A drift

How a blizzard created a play date

When’s the last time you went on an artist date?

If you’ve been following along by reading my weekly columns and daily notes over the past few months, you know that I signed a one-year lease on a fabulous studio in a historic mill. From within that hallowed space, I am free to create one-of-a-kind paintings, articles, clothes, and photographs. I hope my joy has been palpable, and that you’ve recognized yourself somewhere in the corners and spaces I’ve been creating.

Most mornings, I wake eager to make the twenty-minute drive, park my car, climb eighteen steps to the second floor, and slide the key into the lock of Studio 206, knowing all the while that magic is waiting on the other side of the door.

But here in the Northeast, a blizzard dropped over two feet of snow, making travel impossible and sidelining the best of plows and their operators. Knowing I wouldn’t be making that trip to the studio for a few days, I brought work home.

Except—that’s not true.

The word work doesn’t belong here.

What I brought home were oil paints, brushes, a palette knife, a bowl scraper, and my worn, splattered denim apron. And for this Renaissance soul, none of that qualifies as work. It is, simply, play.

So for the last two mornings, I’ve bellied-up to my vintage farm table, and with lights flickering and drifts piling up, I explored. Opaque versus transparent paints. The alchemy of color theory. Last week’s delivery of color cubes—one thousand variations of palettes—is a quiet invitation to explore more.

As the snow fell and the world outside became mesmerizingly quiet, I mixed, applied, experimented, and enjoyed what emerged. No expectations. No outcomes required. Just curiosity, color, and the pleasure of time well spent.

It turns out I didn’t miss my studio after all.
I simply brought the artist date home.

(If my words landed where you are today, and you’d like to support this work, you can leave a token of appreciation below. No obligation, just gratitude.)