If these Cars Could Talk...

His name was Hank. Loyal, he went everywhere with me, listened when I needed to vent or sing at the top of my lungs. He knew all of my secrets and saw me do things I am too embarrassed to reveal here. Hank was my Jeep. 

Country Squire, Original photo and acrylic paint on canvas, 18 x 24 in. 

Country Squire, Original photo and acrylic paint on canvas, 18 x 24 in. 

Named after a beloved pet, Hank was family but when I could no longer care for him he was donated. I was so emotional I couldn't be present when the tow truck came to take him away. During 13 years together we traveled across country twice, endured snow, brutal desert heat, a semi-brutal relationship and later many joyful road trips with my husband.

Orange Van, Original photo and acrylic paint on panel, 20 x 24 in.

Orange Van, Original photo and acrylic paint on panel, 20 x 24 in.

There is no denying, especially for Americans, cars play a huge role in our lives. Everyone remembers the car they grew up with, the car they learned to drive in, a friend's car you all piled into on a Friday night. Well, buckle up, kick back and enjoy the ride.

Potrero Market, Original photo and acrylic paint on panel, 24 x 16 in.

Potrero Market, Original photo and acrylic paint on panel, 24 x 16 in.


A Creative Path with No Regrets

I started off as an art major, but somewhere between a college keg party and a southern California beach I veered off my creative path. I clearly remember my art teacher freshman year, a quirky man who rambled about his days as an undergrad at Yale. One day he complimented my painting during class and brought the print making instructor from across the hall to see my work. She insisted I sign up for her class spring semester and I enthusiastically agreed. For reasons I can’t recall, international business or perhaps a life in foreign diplomacy became my goal. I decided to study Mandarin to tap into China’s opening economy. Wading through Chinese classes, model U.N. and a few poli sci courses, I arrived at my final semester short a few units to graduate. So, reluctantly, I signed up for a watercolor painting class.

Surprisingly it was great to be back in the studio. I felt at home but my joy was laced with remorse for abandoning my creative soul. The same instructor who had encouraged me freshman year taught the class and I was relieved he didn’t recognize me.  I looked forward to the class every week, showed up early and stayed late. On the final critique day the teacher pulled me aside just as he had four years earlier. In a hushed voice he said, “Don’t you wish you had stuck with it?” My heart sank. I was flattered yet crushed by regret. It was a comment I never forgot.

It took a couple of decades, many jobs, lessons and challenges to find the creative bliss I now enjoy. It is hard to believe my passion was there – right in front of me – all along. True to form, I bravely took life’s scenic route, the treacherous road rarely traveled, stopping not only to smell the roses, but pulling over for every crazy roadside attraction along the way. I wouldn’t change a thing.

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