Friday, December 23, 2016

studio sale -- day 2

This is an abstract based on the design on a pottery shard I found in Kyoto -- I used to find them everywhere, the conspicuous blue and white peeking out from gravel and gray pebbles. They were like little winks, I see you, I'm with you.

9x12 in
oil on canvas

$175 (+$10 shipping)


Wednesday, December 21, 2016

studio sale

I am clearing out the studio to make room for 2017!

Images on your screen are easy and abundant, but having original artwork in your home is special. Treat yourself, it's worth it!

"Then, Again"
12x12 in
oil and mixed media on canvas

sale price $200 (originally $300)

(+ $10 shipping)

(If you want to buy with a different currency, let me know! Happy to accomodate)

Thursday, December 8, 2016

seed of the next

"... the seed for your next work lies embedded in the imperfections of your current piece."

-- David Bayles & Ted Orland, Art & Fear

Or, keep going. Or, experiments grow from experiments. Or, yes, more please.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016


I am afraid of making mistakes.

I tell my artist friends, There are no mistakes! And then I'm still afraid of making mistakes.

So then I don't take risks and I stick to what I know, because the other option -- the possibility of mistakes option -- is so uncomfortable.

What a waste of time.
What a waste of paint.
This is not going to go anywhere.
This doesn't mean anything. 
What are you even doing.


An old friend of mine once said, "you'll know it's exciting because it will feel exciting."

Let the excitement be bigger than the fear. 


Sunday, October 30, 2016

contest winners!

and the winners arrrrrrrrrrrrrre...

4. Sreya Shepard

6. Alana

19. Becktoria

Congratulations! You've won an 8x10" portrait for the sale price of $150. Send some images to, and I'll get started soon.

Thank you to everyone who commented, and don't be shy -- the regular price for these portraits on paper ($250) is still a bargain! 


Thursday, October 27, 2016

holiday sale!

Portraits of your kids, parents, pets, or friends make amazing and lasting holiday gifts!

I'm holding a contest for the chance to win an original 8 x 10" painting (in oil, on archival paper) of the subject of your choice, at the promotional price of $150 / £120 (normal price is $250 / £200).

I will select three names at random from the comments, and the winners will be announced Sunday, October 30th!


Wednesday, September 28, 2016

tuning the strings

No I will NOT do that thing where I diddle around on the internet for an hour at night and stop, feeling guilty and empty and fried-eyed... OH CRAP. Already did it.

How do I untangle all the thoughts that are in here? How do I find in me the thought that is authentic, and not just a reaction or a snarky riff on someone else's reaction? The cacophany is deafening.

I spent lovely weeks in Michigan, especially at the lake: perfect weather, pampered by grandparents, no wi-fi. All the usual hang-ups of whiny kids, difficult bedtimes, but ohhhhhh that lake, and that sand. It was all worth it.

Now back in Oxford, trying to get back in to some semblance of a rhythm with work and school and baby. Trying as usual to get my head around our situation, our finances, our general trajectory.

And how shall I find other artists? And how shall I make money making art? And how shall I make art that reveals my heart and my politics and my determined urgent ferocity? How shall I assemble all the pieces so that the whole makes a loose and poetic and insouciant kind of sense?

God help me! I am your instrument: I will tune my strings and not waste their resonance in the void of the internet.


Monday, September 12, 2016

nancy jean

Clearing away some cobwebs, trying to make time at the easel, trying to find the rhythm of work with an 8-month old baby: things don't usually get done on time, in the right order, or according to plan. I approach everything with the same sleep-deprived urgent ferocity: sew Auden's Halloween costume, make list of portraits to paint, get into fights with racist strangers on Facebook, MAKE DINNER. 

Instead, here's a piece I did last winter and never got around to posting:

It's much bigger than my usual portraits, so I mapped out a grid on the canvas to render the composition. My first layer of flesh tones was a bit too green or gray or just kind of sickly-looking...

But the next layer resolved nicely:

"Nancy Jean"
Oil on canvas

I was so taken with the tiny brightness of pink in her lip, and how it echoed in her cheek and above her eye. I wanted everything to hinge on that. It's funny how the most important part of a painting takes the lightest touch. 

Maybe I'll apply the same wisdom to my to-do list.


Friday, May 20, 2016


I'm excited to announce the opening of my art show this weekend, in the Churchill Hospital's South Street Gallery!

It is a huge long corridor, so I am throwing every canvas I have into it to fill it up... both portraits and abstracts, large and small. I haven't had a show for years, so I am tripping over my nerves and my self-doubt. But! Proceeding nevertheless, because this is how you learn.

Last month my dad & step-mom were here for a visit, and I tasked them with building frames for all my wonky imperial-sized canvases (custom frames would have been ridiculously expensive) (even standard frames are ridiculously expensive). 

They cranked out more than 10 in a few short days, but I still had a few more to finish after they left.

But the efoort was worth it: they turned out so simple and pretty.

There will be brand new pieces, and some from the vaults:

If you're in Oxford or know someone who is, come see it and spread the word!


Wednesday, April 20, 2016

catching up

Why does this go so impossibly fast?

In the midst of those early weeks, in painful early mornings, I was somehow afraid of this tiny baby, and only looked forward to longer stretches of sleep, plump thighs, open eyes, smiles and burbling coos. Getting into some kind of rhythm. But now of course I am already heart-achingly nostalgic for that wide and raw and delirious landscape that I can never visit again. Sweet newborn, what a convoluted blessing!


Friday, February 26, 2016


I've never run a marathon. I am not a runner. So it's amusing to me that that's the go-to comparison for the physical and mental demands of labor: It's like running a marathon.

I suppose the metaphor is intended for people who have no way of conceptualizing the stamina and perseverance required to give birth, but who could, at least poetically, relate to running a marathon. Without actually being able to compare, I'd say it may be like running a marathon, except you have no idea how long it will take, there is no predictable route, and you haven't trained for it. 

Everyone was telling me, as my due date approached, that the third time around would go so much faster and be so much easier. I'd nod and humor them, but I just knew it wasn't going to be true for me... My body doesn't do fast labor.

(OK, technically speaking, at 22 hours, this labor was the shortest of the three, but that just sounds like I'm bragging, doesn't it?)

I had a couple of false starts two nights in a row, which got my hopes (and my nerves) up, but didn't go anywhere. When contractions started again the following afternoon, I was a little skeptical, but more than anything I was eager to go. And even though I knew I was facing another whole day of utterly unpredictable marathoning, I was still surprised that it took me ages to reach 'active' labor. 

It took AGES to reach active labor. I timed contractions obsessively, trying to will myself into some kind of productive rhythm, but they were all over the map. Unfortunately, they were formidable enough to keep me from sleeping, so from 1pm on Sunday until 7am on Monday, I paced and puffed and counted and cried. The time went bogglingly slow. The true challenge wasn't the physical pain, it was in psyching myself up for the real race, which I realized I wasn't anywhere close to starting each time I called the midwife for a pep talk and she assured me she'd come when I was in 'active' labor. I went through two midwives' 8-hour shifts this way. 

After pulling an all-nighter without having made any significant progress, I felt disheartened and desperate. The next midwife came on shift at 8am, and bless her, she called me at 7:45 to check in. Still nothing to report... The kids were up, the sun was up, and I was still on the couch moaning in pain and disbelief every 7 to 30 minutes. Not long after that, though, I lost the mucous plug, and instead of feeling completely dejected that it meant I'd gone through ALL THOSE HOURS to dilate one measly centimeter, I was thrilled and relieved that something new was happening. 

I caught a second wind composed entirely of anger, and determined to ramp up the labor by pacing the living room (our living room is not big enough to pace in). I forced myself to walk through the contractions, swatting away the kids' attempts to help me sit on the yoga ball, swatting away Jason's attempt to hold me and help me breathe. JUST FUCKING GO, went my mind, GO GO GO. 

The next time I called the midwife, she offered to come over and examine me and see how things were going. Yes, I told her, come now. Is time. 

She arrived and I was still pacing, at 9:30am. We moved upstairs where she checked my dilation, and reported that I'd made it to 7cm. This was heartening. Better than heartening: I felt like a total bad-ass. I'd gone from 0 to 60 in an hour and a half. Active labor, you are MINE.

Next I took a bath, both to take the edge off the contractions, and also just to have something to do. Afterwards, things slowed down again slightly, but I was grateful for the respite, and the midwife told me that it was OK to rest a little and take this part easy. 

My water still hadn't broken, so even though I knew I was close, the waiting, coupled with the sheer exhaustion, was almost intolerable. I was practically begging the midwife to just break the water for me -- but their guidelines are that they don't interfere unless absolutely necessary, so I leaned back against Jason and fantasized about quitting entirely. After a few more contractions, the midwife suggested getting up and letting gravity help a little more, so I struggled onto all fours on the bed. The very next contraction broke the water in a heaving gush, and brought with it a terrible and involuntary push which crescendoed in a wild animalistic growl.

There is this moment of reckoning; a crazed focus and a breathless and pointed understanding: there is no way around this volcano. You have to go through it.

On my hands and knees there, I faced this moment and then let it be known I really felt:


The volcano was going to rip me in half if I stayed in that position.

I struggled again to get back to reclining, supported against Jason.

The midwife was encouraging me to push with the contractions, but I was caught up entertaining the notion that I'd do this one without any pushing... That's possible? Surely?

Finally I confessed: I'm afraid to push, I wailed.

Why? asked the midwife.

Which struck me as completely incomprehensible. Because it feels SO WRONG, I answered, since right at that moment it seemed nicer than saying BECAUSE IT FUCKING HURTS ARE YOU CRAZY.

I was so physically spent that I didn't even know how to muster the coordination to push -- to translate the concept of pushing into a muscular action with sufficient momentum to bring forth a baby. I made some attempts, against all better judgment, matter over mind; each time it felt weak and haphazard, but earned hearty praise from the midwives. 

I remained stubborn. I CAAAAANNNN'T, I cried with each brutal wave. Who wants to climb toward that excriciating summit?

And then: the pinching, searing, stinging burn, somehow high-pitched and sharp; the rim of the volcano, the molten earth.

That moment probably only lasted a minute, but had the acuity of a shard of glass, and it eclipsed everything and became The Only Moment, the only thing, the entire experience cleaved to this precipice of pain. 

But this is the deception of labor -- THE moment is actually the penultimate moment, because the next thing I knew, I could feel the head and could feel exactly how much more it was going to take to get it out. That was all I needed, to know I was just that close, and only had to manage one more massive push and then I could be done... this thought alone manifested the strength to bear it out, and, with a surging clenching screaming force, out she came, slippery and crying and whole, and I, wholly spent, holy made, gasping.

The pain and pressure vanished, and in their wake came overwhelming relief and gratitude, palpable as  gravity... everything else fell away and there she was, wriggling and human and A GIRL! Such a marvelous reward, such a terrible honor to be this doorway. 

Loïe, my new daughter, may you be as strong and determined as the labor that brought you. 


Wednesday, January 27, 2016

hello, you

Look who arrived! 

I am delighted to welcome Loïe Amelia Danely to the world. Here she is: 

She is so tiny and perfect, I can hardly stand it.

(Birth story brewing...)


Friday, January 8, 2016


I don't know what it is about working on paper, but the paint is really enjoying itself... It's like the materials have totally different personalities. The paper is receptive, forgiving, immediate. I spend way less time mixing paint on the surface; I just lay in the pigment quickly, so the brushstrokes end up being more visible and more alive, somehow. 

I loved working on this brother-sister pair -- their eyes are so gorgeous and animated! Amazing how the paint, in its spontenaity, can capture the light in them.


Friday, January 1, 2016

happy new year!

Let's charge into 2016 like this little guy -- eyes and mouths wide and smiling!