It’s March now, which means if you’re in the Northern Hemisphere, you might be looking forward to spring being just around the corner. For the second year in a row now for me, spring means market and art fair season is already creeping up rather quickly.

I’ll have to admit, I’m still new to this schedule, the ebb and flow of quiet time followed by what feels like pretty intense hustle. I don’t have the planning and business side of things very streamlined — I’m sure I will when I’m more seasoned. I usually make my print orders at the last minute, and I’m matting and framing pieces right up until we pack up the Jeep to head to wherever the next event is. Or I’ve decided that this particular piece has to come with me and now the night before we leave I’m making last minute adjustments.

Even though I’m mentally preparing myself for my first pop-up of 2024 this coming weekend, this spring feels a little different than it did last year.

It’s the end of February, which means I’m navigating my way out of the throes of winter and all that darkness and time diving inward has offered my creative practice. January through March have become an annual period of experimentation — mostly because there is nothing else to do. However, with experimentation comes new struggle. I’ve learned the hard way that before I could ever dream of becoming a master, I must first play the fool.

It’s the middle of October and a true change of season underway in my little home studio in Two Harbors. It’s the time of year where the radiators get flipped back on, and we clear out the furnishings in our three-season porch to tuck it all back in the house in preparation for the colder months. From late May to early October of each year I have the great privilege of having my studio in a space whose walls are mainly windows and am surrounded by hanging plants and natural light. That porch is the most wondrous place to create in, the spaciousness giving my soul room to breathe after a long winter spent indoors.

So, as you might imagine, the chill of October brings a change that I’ll admit, I’m not always thrilled about…

For the last four hours, I’ve been sitting at my computer, trying to find things to do to feel like I’m getting ahead on the business side of artist life. New prints? Greeting cards? Should I paint this? Paint that? Does my site need a refresh?

And yet, with my wheels spinning, my mind grappling for something productive to do, I can feel the rhythm in my chest whisper, “stop.”

I recently started reading a book called The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. If you’ve read it yourself, you’re smiling, because you know how powerful it is. For those of you who aren’t familiar, The Artist’s Way is a twelve-week, self-taught process of “discovering and recovering your creative self.” After only just reading the introduction, I knew this was going to be a game-changer.

I originally picked up the book because a friend of mine was doing the process with her partner and couldn’t stop raving about it. Then I saw another artist refer to it on Instagram, and then another person asked me if I had ever read it, so I finally took all of these as signs from the cosmos and gave in to see what all the fuss was about.

I was never prepared to be an artist. I think any of us could say this of any journey or venture in life — that we’re not really prepared for the way the road will wind and climb and fall and us with it. Any chance we take on ourselves, any instance of stretching ourselves or branching out onto a new path brings us face to face with our very selves, with truth. So truly, what I wasn’t prepared for, was how being an artist would force me to face me.

One challenge I’ve wanted to embark upon is painting every day for 100 days in a row. I started my journey on January 2, 2023 and I am already learning so much more than I had anticipated learning this early in the game. Whether you’re a fellow artist, or a fan of my work, I thought some of these little lessons might be applicable to any of us starting something new.

There is however, a time and place where a routine is not helpful… inspiration. I swear, as I’ve continued to pour myself into my artistic practice I’ve only found routines to be a murderer of any creative spark…

I recently had someone ask me when I first started painting… I realize that to a lot of people it looks like a year ago, I just picked up a paintbrush and started selling watercolor paintings.

That’s definitely not the whole story…

…there I stood, on the banks of Sawbill Lake at the end of that summer, staring at a cloud ahead that was fat with rain, red light on the horizon, relishing this moment of beauty and solitude and I was so damn proud of myself. I got through my worst-case-scenario, all the stuff I thought I’d never be able to survive…

I have been creating my entire life, but no one knew I was an artist until I was 31 years old…