Finding Peace in the Christmas Chaos

Merry Christmas!

Okay, so this morning was not quiet. Christmas Day arrived loud, messy, and at full speed.

There were voices overlapping, Jingle Bell Rock playing in the background, kids constantly calculating the number of presents everyone got (to make sure it was fair). Carefully laid plans collided with messy reality, and that familiar sense of trying to be fully present while also keeping everything from tipping over. It wasn’t serene or postcard-perfect. But, it was real. That’s my family.

I’m writing this in the space after all that. The moment when the house settles, the light changes, and you can take a deep breath for the first time all day. As an artist, I’ve learned to pay attention to moments like this, because they’re often where the meaning shows up — not in the rush, but in what comes after.

In painting, I’m always looking for balance: areas of activity set against quiet, complexity softened by simplicity. Without contrast, nothing really stands out, you know? Maybe that’s true of days like today too. The noise makes the calm feel earned. The chaos makes the stillness noticeable.

This isn’t a religious blog, but art often points me toward something deeper; something spiritual: The calm that comes after the storm. The feeling of being held in a moment that doesn’t ask for effort or answers. The quiet truth that even chaotic days can settle into something tender if we let them. That is often what I end up painting (or try to anyway).

Right now, the light is softer. Shadows are longer. The room feels human again. These are the moments I return to in my work — not the dramatic high points, but the quiet clarity that follows them.

But perhaps…the quiet isn’t the absence of chaos at all. Maybe it’s learning how to breathe inside that chaos — to embrace the noise, the imperfections, and still find ways to express care and love to the people sharing the moment with us.

Wishing you peace this Christmas!

Seeing Meaning: How Medieval Art Spoke Without Words

Medieval art can feel distant at first glance—flat figures, gold backgrounds, strange proportions—but it was never meant to be distant. It was meant to speak clearly, powerfully, and often urgently to the people who encountered it. In a world where most people could not read, images carried the weight of teaching, memory, and belief.

Unlike later Renaissance art, medieval artists were not trying to recreate the world as it appears to the eye. Their goal was not realism but meaning. Size was symbolic rather than anatomical: Christ or a saint appears larger because of spiritual importance, not physical presence. Perspective bends or disappears because heaven does not follow earthly rules. Gold backgrounds dissolve space entirely, suggesting eternity rather than landscape.

Much medieval art was created for churches, monasteries, and pilgrimage sites. Mosaics, frescoes, illuminated manuscripts, stained glass, and carved reliefs worked together to form immersive environments. These were not decorative objects but visual theology. A single image might condense an entire biblical narrative or doctrine into a form that could be grasped in a moment.

Emotion, too, plays a role—especially in later medieval works. Faces become more expressive, suffering more tangible, devotion more intimate. The art invites empathy, contemplation, and prayer.

To understand medieval art, we have to let go of modern expectations. It is not asking to be admired for technical mastery alone. It is asking to be read, pondered, and entered into. When approached on its own terms, medieval art reveals a world where beauty, faith, and daily life were inseparably woven together.

The Matterhorn and the Magic of Transformation

I grew up in the outskirts of Los Angeles, where smog and sunshine mixed in equal measure. The only redeeming element to this location for me was that we lived about an hour from Disneyland. Once a year, my parents would load us kids into the back of our station wagon, and we’d set off on what felt like a pilgrimage. The most sacred part of the trip, at least to us kids, was the competition to see who could spot the Matterhorn first. For the uninitiated, the Matterhorn is Disneyland’s snow-capped mountain — a roller coaster in disguise — rising improbably from the flat California landscape. To catch a glimpse of it was proof: we were close to magic.

What made Disneyland so special was not the rides. Carnivals had rides. At least once a year, the carnival would roll into some dusty vacant lot, set up their rattling rides and neon booths, and for a week it was great fun. We rode the Ferris wheel, ate cotton candy, and felt like kings of our small world. But no one confused that carnival with Disneyland. The carnival gave you thrills; Disneyland gave you worlds.

That was the difference: theming. A carnival offered rides in a parking lot. Disneyland transformed orange groves into universes. Walking into Tomorrowland in the 1960s was like stepping into the future we thought the year 2000 might bring — sleek rockets, gleaming towers, a promise of space travel just around the corner. Frontierland pulled you backward, to the banks of the Mississippi, where paddleboats churned the water and wooden stockades smelled faintly of adventure. And then there was Pirates of the Caribbean, which didn’t just give you animatronic buccaneers. No, it escorted you into the American South at twilight, where fireflies flickered, moss hung heavy from the trees, and mint juleps cooled in tall glasses.

It wasn’t about fooling the eye so much as enchanting the imagination. The park asked you to suspend disbelief, and you gladly obliged. What amazed me most, even as a child, was knowing — really knowing — that beneath all that wonder lay a flat stretch of Southern California where oranges once grew. And yet, once you walked through those gates, you were somewhere else entirely. The magic was not in tricking you but in persuading you to feel transported.

IT WASN’T ABOUT FOOLING THE EYE SO MUCH AS ENCHANTING THE IMAGINATION.

That feeling lodged deep in me. Those yearly pilgrimages to Disneyland taught me that the real power of creativity in general and (for me) art in specific is transformation — not just changing how a place looks, but how it feels. The strongest art doesn’t merely decorate; it alters the atmosphere of a room, the mood of the viewer, the story you believe you’re inside. That’s why, for me, a painting doesn’t just hang on a wall — it can theme a space, just as surely as Disney themed a park.

Those childhood pilgrimages left me with more than fond memories. They gave me a compass as an artist. What I love most about painting is exactly what I loved most about Disneyland: the power to take someone by the hand and, if only for a while, transport them into another world.

Commissions vs Completed Pieces…Which is Right for You?

Every painting has a story. Sometimes that story begins in the studio, as I layer colors and shapes until an unexpected image takes on a life of its own. Other times, the story begins with you—with a memory, a place, or a dream you want to capture on canvas.

When you choose a completed piece, you’re stepping into a story that’s already alive. The painting has been waiting quietly for the right person. Many visitors have told me, “I walked past dozens of paintings, but this one stopped me in my tracks.” That instant recognition is powerful. It’s as though the painting has found its home, and you’ve found something you didn’t even know you were missing.

Commissions are a different kind of magic. They begin with your story. Perhaps it’s the glow of autumn in the Blue Ridge Mountains, the fountain in Savannah where you proposed, or the winding trail where you feel most alive. Together we translate that moment into something lasting. You become part of the process—watching the first sketches, choosing the colors that speak to you, seeing the painting take form layer by layer. When it’s complete, you don’t just own a piece of art—you own a piece of your own story, transformed into something you can live with every day.

“COMMISSIONS ARE A DIFFERENT KIND OF MAGIC.”

So which is right for you? The truth is, there’s no wrong choice. Some paintings are discovered; others are created in partnership. What matters most is the connection you feel when you stand before it. Because the right painting—whether found or commissioned—will always feel like it was meant for you.

If you’re curious to see what’s waiting, I invite you to visit my studio in Asheville (344 Depot Street, #104) or browse the available paintings online (www.stclaireart.com). And if you feel a story of your own tugging at your heart, let’s start a conversation about creating a commission together.

What can I learn from Makoto Fujimura in 2025?

The last several posts have related to my thoughts on artists of the past. As I draw this series to a close, I thought that it would be fun to finish up with my favorite contemporary artist, Makoto Fujimura.  Mako Fujimura is a Japanese American artist known for his luminous abstract paintings that combine contemporary vision with ancient techniques and more than any other living artist, has influenced my own work. Born in Boston and raised partly in Japan, he studied at Tokyo University of the Arts, becoming one of the first non-Japanese nationals to train in nihonga—a traditional art form that uses hand-ground minerals, precious metals, and natural pigments on paper and silk. Beyond painting, he’s also a writer, speaker, and founder of the International Arts Movement, which encourages artists to see beauty as an act of cultural care.

Learning about Fujimura’s journey feels both comforting and challenging to me as an artist. What first draws me in is the way he treats tradition. Instead of seeing nihonga as something rigid or outdated, he uses it as a living language. His paintings shimmer with layers of crushed malachite, gold, and silver, creating something deeply rooted yet unmistakably new. This really struck a chord with me many years ago when I first saw his work and, learning from his example, the take away for me was that I don’t have to break from the past to be original. I can let my own history, influences, and cultural background nourish what I create.

Another lesson I find moving is how Fujimura sees art as a response to the world’s wounds. After the events of 9/11, he didn’t turn away from pain; he gathered other artists to explore how beauty can speak into tragedy. That challenges me to think about my own work: could it be more than self-expression? Could it be a gentle invitation to hope, or even a quiet act of healing?

I’m also struck by Fujimura’s embrace of slowness. His process—patiently building up translucent layers over months or years—is almost a meditation. In a world that pushes me to rush and produce, his art feels like a reminder that depth, meaning, and beauty often grow slowly.

Finally, what resonates most is how naturally Fujimura’s faith flows into his art. He doesn’t separate what he believes from what he makes; his paintings feel like offerings—humble gestures of gratitude and wonder. It makes me reflect on what grounds my own creativity and invites me to approach my work as something sacred, rather than just something to finish and show.

Through Fujimura’s life, I’m learning to slow down, honor tradition, create as an act of love, and let something deeper guide my art. His example makes me hopeful—not only for what I might make, but for the kind of artist, and person, I might become.

What can I learn from Pablo Picasso in 2025?

Growing up, I think it’s safe to say I never cared for the work of Pablo Picasso. It was art that made me roll my eyes and laugh. But as I got older and took art history classes in college, I learned more about this guy and I began to appreciate him more and more. Thinking about Pablo Picasso, I’m reminded of the power of reinvention—the courage to break all the rules and start fresh, again and again. Picasso’s career was a constant journey of exploration, from his Blue Period to Cubism and beyond. For an artist in 2025, that restless creativity is incredibly inspiring.

Picasso didn’t fear change. He embraced it. He challenged conventions and redefined what art could be. That teaches me that it’s okay—even necessary—to let go of old ideas about what “good” art looks like, and to follow where curiosity leads.

“EVERY CHILD IS AN ARTIST. THE PROBLEM IS HOW TO REMAIN AN ARTIST ONCE WE GROW UP.”

He also reminds me that playfulness and seriousness can coexist. Picasso’s work is sometimes joyful, sometimes intense, but it’s always honest. He invites me to be brave with my own work—to experiment, to fail, and to find joy in the process.

Picasso was incredibly prolific—creating tens of thousands of works over his lifetime. But what strikes me most is his ability to reinvent himself without losing the core of who he was. That balance between evolution and authenticity feels essential, especially in a world that pushes for constant self-branding.

He also worked across mediums—painting, sculpture, ceramics, printmaking—reminding me that creativity isn’t confined to one form. Exploring different ways to express ideas can unlock new perspectives.

Picasso’s legacy teaches me that art is a lifelong adventure, full of surprises and reinvention. In 2025, as I face my own creative challenges, his example encourages me to stay curious, be bold, and never stop playing with possibilities. I still remember rolling my eyes and laughing at his work when I was a kid. I’m glad I grew up.

What can I learn from Raphael in 2025?

Mostly, when I think of Raphael, I picture balance, harmony, and grace—those serene faces and perfectly composed scenes that seem to glow with a quiet confidence. But what really speaks to me about Raphael’s life and work is his dedication to clarity and connection, which, as an artist in 2025, I find deeply moving.

Raphael was known for his ability to bring people together—whether through his art, his friendships, or his collaborations. He worked alongside Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, not as a rival, but as someone who sought to learn and create in dialogue with others. That spirit of openness speaks volumes regarding how vital community is, even in a field that often feels solitary.

“ART IS NOT JUST A THING TO BE MADE; IT’S A WAY TO BRING PEOPLE CLOSER.”

His paintings are often described as embodying ideal beauty, but they are also deeply human—full of warmth, gentle emotion, and understanding. In a world that can sometimes feel fragmented and rushed, Raphael’s calm, thoughtful approach invites me to slow down and listen—to myself, and to others.

Raphael was a master of composition and clarity. He didn’t overwhelm his viewers but guided them gently through the story he was telling. That story reminds me that art doesn’t need to be complicated to be powerful. Sometimes simplicity, balance, and elegance carry the strongest message.

He also adapted and evolved throughout his career, absorbing influences from others while refining his own voice. That flexibility feels encouraging. The big take away is that growth is a process, and that it’s okay to learn from those around us without losing sight of what makes our own work unique.

Raphael’s life encourages us to see art as a bridge—not just between colors and shapes, but between hearts and minds. In 2025, it’s a great thing to remember that creating is as much about connection as it is about expression.

What can I learn from Georgia O’Keefe in 2025?

In 2025, Georgia O’Keeffe feels startlingly present—not just as an artist, but as an attitude. Her life and work, once framed neatly in art history textbooks, now read like a manifesto for our restless, distracted age. O’Keeffe’s refusal to be rushed, her insistence on looking deeply—at a flower, a bone, a desert hill—offers a kind of visual mindfulness that our scrolling thumbs could learn from.

When she painted an iris so close-up it became an abstract universe, she wasn’t being decorative; she was teaching us to see. That lesson is more radical now than ever. O’Keeffe reminds us that attention itself is an act of rebellion. In a century that prizes immediacy, her discipline—rising before dawn in the New Mexican silence, chasing the curve of a cloud with her brush—feels like a quiet form of resistance.

We can also learn from her independence. O’Keeffe managed to orbit around, but never be consumed by, the gravitational pull of Alfred Stieglitz. In 2025, when conversations about women’s autonomy and authorship are finally more nuanced, her story reads less like a feminist footnote and more like a blueprint. She made her life her studio—pared down, purposeful, surrounded by the wild geometry of the desert.

Most of all, O’Keeffe teaches us courage: the courage to edit our lives until only the essential remains, and the courage to love beauty without apology. Looking at her work today, one can’t help but think she foresaw our cultural fatigue and offered a cure. “Take time,” her paintings whisper, “and look closer.” In 2025, that’s not nostalgia—it’s prophecy.

What can I learn from Caravaggio in 2025?

When I think about Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (Caravaggio for short), I’m always struck by how he uses light and shadow. Those sharp contrasts pull me in every time, as if his scenes are frozen between night and day, or between stillness and chaos. But what really stays with me isn’t just how he painted—it’s how unapologetically honest he was, how boldly he approached both his art and his life. That kind of raw courage feels especially meaningful to me as an artist trying to make sense of the world in 2025.

Caravaggio wasn’t interested in prettiness or idealization. He painted saints with bruises and dirt on their feet, ordinary people caught in divine moments. That bold realism—his willingness to show the world as gritty and flawed—challenges me. In a time when social media often pushes perfection, Caravaggio’s work reminds me to embrace imperfection, messiness, and truth.

“I DO NOT THINK THERE IS ANYTHING MORE POWERFUL THAN TRUTH SEEN THROUGH THE HUMAN EXPERIENCE.”

His life was turbulent—marked by passion, violence, and exile. Yet, despite personal chaos, his paintings convey a sense of immediacy and emotional intensity. That tension between darkness and light feels like a metaphor for creativity itself: it’s not always comfortable, but it’s real.

Caravaggio also broke with tradition, refusing to paint in the classical, idealized styles favored by his patrons. Instead, he brought the divine down to earth, using ordinary people as his models. I think his work challenges us to question the accepted norms and to find my own voice, even if it means breaking rules. Sometimes, that’s okay.

And then there’s his mastery of chiaroscuro—the way light slices through darkness. It reminds me that contrast isn’t just visual; it’s emotional, psychological. Sometimes art has to confront darkness before it finds light. That’s a lesson I carry when I’m facing creative blocks or doubts.

Caravaggio’s art feels alive because it’s honest, unflinching, and human. In 2025, when the pressure to “perform” can feel overwhelming, his example encourages me to create work that’s true to the messy, beautiful complexity of life.

What can I learn from Thomas Gainsborough in 2025?

When I think of Thomas Gainsborough, I think of elegance—those sweeping portraits with silk gowns and powdered wigs. Very fancy. But when I look a little deeper, I see an artist who spent his career walking the line between what the world expected and what his heart truly wanted. And as an artist in 2025, that tension feels surprisingly familiar.

Turns out, Gainsborough made his name painting society portraits—wealthy patrons in formal poses, dressed to impress. He was brilliant at it. But he didn’t love it. What he DID love—what he painted when no one was watching—was landscape. Trees, fields, quiet skies, humble country life. That, he once wrote, was where he found his "delight."

“I'm sick of portraits, and wish very much to take my viol-da-gam and walk off to some sweet village where I can paint landscapes.”

That line always makes me smile. It reminds me that many of us, even successful artists, carry a private longing to do the work that truly feeds us. Sometimes, we compromise to survive. And that’s okay. But Gainsborough shows me the importance of keeping space—somewhere—for what we genuinely love.

Even in his portraits, you can feel his sensitivity. There’s softness in the way he handled fabric, a gentle atmosphere in the backgrounds, a tenderness in how he saw his subjects. He wasn’t just capturing appearances—he was honoring presence. That’s something I try to hold on to in my own work: finding quiet ways to bring emotion and care into what I create.

He also worked with speed and intuition. Unlike some of his contemporaries, Gainsborough often painted with a kind of looseness—thin layers, visible brushwork, textures that feel almost modern. He reminds me that not everything has to be perfect or polished to feel alive.

In a world that still values polish, speed, and marketable identity, Gainsborough’s life whispers a different truth: make room for what brings you joy. Find a way to paint your landscapes, even if it’s in between commissions. Art is not just a performance—it’s a place to return to yourself. That’s what I love about it.