Finding Belonging in the Work

Discovering the quiet thread of connection.

After finishing a twelve-week workshop this spring, I found myself settling into a direction for my artwork. Not a rigid plan, but a thread that seems to connect everything I want to make. I don’t know how long it will last. It could be six months. It could be years. My guess is that it will be years.

I’ve been drawing and painting for as long as I can remember. Most of that time I’ve simply made things that interested me. Birds, animals, flowers, landscapes, little moments that caught my attention.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with working that way. In fact, I think curiosity is one of an artist’s greatest strengths.

But I’ve always sensed there was something deeper underneath for me. Some quiet current I hadn’t quite named.

The workshop was designed to help artists discover who they are, what they truly want to create, and how to build a practice around that vision. It had been exactly what I needed.

The word I came away with was belonging.

Not belonging in the sense of fitting in, but belonging in the sense of finding myself in relationship with a place, a creature, a season, or a moment.

I don’t paint dramatic stories. I’m drawn to small acts of connection. A quiet garden path. Beach foam at the edge of the tide. An old window. A curious rabbit. A flower that reminds me of walking with my mother through her garden.

I find myself asking the same question:

Where do I belong?

And often the answer is simply:

Right here.

My work is becoming less about describing subjects and more about creating a feeling. I want my paintings to invite me (and of course the viewer) to slow down, pay attention, and reconnect with the surroundings. I want it to feel like belonging.

As I move forward, I have one simple question to guide every painting:

Does this create a sense of belonging for me?

If the answer is yes, I know I’m headed in the right direction.

At the moment I’m finishing several different bodies of work: my Hollyhock Series, a collection of portraits inspired by my grandmothers and great-grandmothers, a series of Maine landscapes, and plenty of small studies that simply keep the joy of painting alive.

Reading that list back makes me laugh because it sounds like a lot. But I’ve realized these aren’t separate directions. They’re all different paths leading toward the same place. Working this way lets me follow my curiosity while staying connected to the larger theme of belonging.

This little portrait from this week is a good example. It wasn’t part of a planned series. I just wanted to spend a little time painting something that made me happy. Sometimes that’s enough.

I’m settling back into Maine for the summer now, and there are plenty of things competing for my attention. Boating. Hiking. Catching up with family and friends. Summer has a way of filling every corner of the calendar.

So my practice doesn’t happen by accident. I have to make space for it.

Not because painting is another thing on the to-do list.

Because painting is one of the places where I feel most at home.

If you’re curious about the work that led me here, you can browse the flipbook I created during the workshop—just click on the link below:

Flip Book CVP Workshop