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Someone, maybe it was fiber artist Merrill Comeau, who mentored me about creating narrative art, told me that I should study the Fauvists because my work reminded her of them. At the time, not that long ago, I knew little about the Fauvists. I discovered that the term was used as an insult in the early 20th century by critic Louis Vauxcelles in reference to a group of artists including Henri Matisse, Andre Derain, Vlaminck and others who participated in the exhibit called Salon d'Automne in 1905 in Paris.

Why did Vauxcelles use the term Fauvist or Les Fauves in reference to this group? He likely saw those artists' work as being totally undisciplined, like "the wild beasts," which is what "fauves" means in French. But those artists embraced the designation and ran with it.

I'd always considered Matisse to be a historical mentor to me. I gloried in the vibrant colors, which represented nothing like the naturalistic ones that previous generations of artists so diligently tried to create. Those artists mimicked what they saw in nature or in the rich people seated before them, waiting for their portraits to be painted. I also enjoy ignoring realistic perspective. I like the idea of being able to see the top of a table and what's on it without hanging from the ceiling. I like bold expressive colors, visible sometimes staccato brush strokes; I like some white space from the canvas to be visible. Now I know I'm a post-Fauvist.

So I was drawn to an article that the artist Caroline Mustard published in her weekly column called "The Joy of Drawing," found on Substack. She posted the famous painting of Matisse's called "Femme au Chapeau" or Woman with Hat. She commented on the scandal that Matisse and other Les Fauves caused with their wild untamed paintings.

Wild though that painting was, certain wealthy collectors (Leon and Gertrude Stein) decided it was a good investment. They recognized a good deal, to buy a painting that was a harbinger of art to come.

Mustard points to the importance of paintings Matisse and Derain painted while in the South of France in Collioure. The palette was so unusual and unrealistic, it prompted others to explore that fantastic use of color. The Fauvists' intention was to depict sensations and emotions, rather than external reality. But, rather than being undisciplined and wild, Matisse himself was very disciplined. None of those unusual colors was used willy-nilly. Referring to Matisse's discussion much later in the 1940s, Mustard explains, he "selected a palette... that he worked from deliberately, often omitting one of the primary colors, yet creating the impression that the omitted color is there by the way he sets other colors off against each other."

This discussion that Mustard included in her weekly column has driven me to think more about how I select my colors, about what I'm expressing with my palette. How disciplined is it? Do my colors play off one another, as Hans Hofmann taught? Do I even care if it's a disciplined approach?

People always comment on the brilliant color combinations in my work. When I'm in my studio space, which has my paintings displayed on all the walls, I often gaze around with interest and even fascination. Unlike many artists' reports, I probably enjoy my own art more than a lot of viewers who prefer something traditional that reminds them of the familiar or a place they'd like to visit.

I'm curious to what extent Matisse and his Fauvist colleagues felt the same way. Or were they apprehensive that maybe their work would not be acceptable to the typical gallery-goer? Having never relied upon nor coveted validation, I can only turn to my own perceptions to drive my work.

Thank you, Caroline Mustard, for prompting me to muse on this topic.

Some of my teachers were adamant: know your theme before you begin. Name it. Identify your subject. Set your intention. I never do that. Not in my writing, not in my painting.

What I do instead is follow my instincts — about color, composition, line. I work in long sessions punctuated by long pauses, just gazing at the painting in progress. I photograph it at various stages on my phone to see what it looks like from a distance, sometimes in black and white to read the values. I keep changing it until it makes sense. The title, when it comes, arrives after — sometimes long after.

— The Male Gaze —

One of my favorites is a large painting called The Male Gaze. The term was coined by Laura Mulvey in her 1975 essay "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema," where she described how Hollywood portrays women as passive objects of male desire. The phrase has since traveled widely through art circles — and for good reason. Historically, artists painted women's nude bodies for centuries while female artists were barred from life drawing classes that used nude models.

My painting features a number of partially nude female figures and a serious male artist at his easel. And then there is a lurking figure — a man looking in through the window. Whose male gaze was I referring to? I'll leave that open.

— I'm Getting Outa Here —

Another painting began as something entirely different — floating human figures, fragments of them, which is a recurring composition of mine. I worked on it intuitively, changing it until it resolved. The title came to me quite a while after it was "finished."

I'm Getting Outa Here was a reflection of how I and nearly everyone I know has been feeling about the state of our country. As children we were taught that America was a model democracy — a melting pot that absorbed people from all over the world who were ostracized or in trouble, a nation that protected against discrimination based on religion, race, gender, and sexual preference. As we matured and got educated, we learned the more complicated truth: the slaughter of Native Americans, the persistence of racism long after the Civil War, a history of colonialism that continues today.

With an administration fomenting policies that are anathema to me and to everyone I know, I named that painting I'm Getting Outa Here — as many Americans have literally done. But I don't want to leave. So I find myself contemplating what it means to stay, to be the kind of citizen I want to be, to hold this country to what the Statue of Liberty led us to believe we were. Even though I'm no youngster. Even though I'm not a social activist or a risk-taker. The title holds all of that.

— Woman on Fire —

A newer painting, Woman on Fire, was prompted by the wildfires inundating our planet. The woman is ablaze and looking terrified — with a fake smile on her face. The political connotation is deliberate: the overwhelming scientific consensus is that human activity is a major driver of the extreme weather patterns the globe is suffering — droughts, uncontained heat, orange skies over beaches full of families and children. I've seen those photographs. Imagine the impact on people with asthma, on the elderly, on the vulnerable.

And yet there are those who insist climate change is simply the planet's natural cycle, or God's will. My country pulled out of the climate accords meant to reduce the risk. Meanwhile, Greta Thunberg was fifteen years old when she began her protest — and it is young people who will suffer most from this collective apathy and denial.

I never set out to be a political artist. I'm not interested in making beautiful images of things a camera can do better. But something has been happening in my work. The titles arrive and I realize: this is what I've been painting about all along.

You can see these paintings and many others in the Portfolio section of this website.

My Van Gogh portrait was inspired by a visit to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, where there had been an exhibit of his portraits. Many of them were portraits of the family who lived next door — the Roulins — with whom he had been very friendly when he moved to Arles in 1888. The whole family became well known because of all 26 of his portraits. The portrait of Joseph Roulin, the Postman, is especially famous, since it was rare for artists of Van Gogh's day to paint ordinary people rather than being commissioned by wealthy families, the Church, or royalty.

I had taken many photos at that exhibition, and even though I had never painted portraits before, I decided to paint my own version of Van Gogh. I didn't realize his hair was so red-orange. Since that's one of my favorite colors, I was happy to feature it in my rendition of his likeness.

We don't know exactly when the artist began to be depressed, nor how much he confided in this neighboring family. But the literature suggests that he found solace in his relationships with all five of the Roulins — children and all.

Many people know about the artist having cut off his ear at age 35, after an argument with Gauguin. He had dreamed of making his home in Arles into an artists' collective where great men worked and discussed art peacefully. But it became just the opposite, because of what became his torturous relationship with Gauguin. A local paper documented the horrific incident:

"He wrapped his ear in paper and took it to a prostitute in the village. The girl fainted and the entire brothel was in commotion. They called the police, who found the artist at his home the following morning. Vincent was hospitalised, and Gauguin returned to Paris. The dream was shattered."

Due to the efforts of his sister-in-law, Johanna van Gogh-Bonger — who became the executrix of his estate after his and his brother Theo's deaths — his legacy was preserved and amplified. To help sell his paintings, she organized exhibitions and, most importantly, published many of the letters between the two brothers, which made his paintings far more accessible and powerful.

I wonder if our emails and texts and other social media communications will survive us — and allow us to become famous.

I got interested in the Fayum mummies when I started painting using encaustic years ago. What is encaustic, you wonder? It's an ancient technique of painting with hot beeswax mixed with damar resin. I set up my studio to accommodate the need for adequate ventilation, which wasn't an easy task. Safety is an important factor when using encaustic — I used to give lectures on the method, and one is especially vivid to me.

Friends who lived in a continuing care community — very upscale, in the Boston area — introduced me to the Activities director, who was happy to mount an exhibit of my art and also scheduled a lecture for the residents. It was held after lunch, perfect for one's postprandial nap. As I enthusiastically spoke about encaustic with slides of my art, I noticed that some people were alert and asked me pertinent questions. Others were sound asleep. Maybe I'll get like that soon.

So, what is the Fayum Mummy portrait I painted? Encaustic paintings were found in ancient tombs of wealthy people, who buried their dead along with these wonderful portraits of the deceased. Hot wax was first used way before that on the prows of ships to preserve the wood; eventually artists decorated the ships, leaving their mark for posterity.

The mummy paintings found at Fayum were created in Roman Egypt from the 1st century BC to the 3rd century AD. They were first discovered in excavations around the Fayum area in 1615 and then again in 1888. Imagine those archaeologists finding these lifelike paintings on wood inside those tombs — beautifully preserved as if they had been recently completed. That's what encaustic hot wax painting does. Isn't that incredible?

My portrait of Frida Kahlo is now hanging in our home in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. It was inspired by visiting her home and gallery in Mexico City last winter. I used a mixture of oil and cold wax, plus some real dried red flowers for her headdress.

The story of finding those flowers is sweet. I was out walking in our little village in San Miguel with our little rescue dog Quito, where the landscape staff daily picks up every last dead piece of foliage and flora. Speaking little Spanish back then — I'm practicing daily now — I tried to explain to them why I wanted those dead flowers they were raking into big black garbage bags. They assumed I wanted mulch, not material for a mixed media painting. Finally I said "Soy artista — Frida Kahlo," and pointed to my head to show them where the flowers would go. Their eyes lit up. They got it. I imagined I'd find bags of rakings on my doorstep from that moment on, but I still have to find it myself — which is fine. That debris is wonderful to adhere to paintings.

The visit to Frida's home included a great deal of biographical detail about her sad life that I hadn't fully known. In 1925, at age eighteen, she was severely injured in a bus accident when an iron handrail pierced her pelvis. The lifelong spinal complications, chronic pain, and infertility marked her entire life. As a six-year-old she had contracted polio, leaving her right leg shorter and noticeably thinner — also chronically painful.

Imagine what her life had been like, and the remarkably beautiful art she created in spite of it. Her father was a great source of support, encouraging her artistic talent and creating ways for her to paint from her bed, where she spent most of her time.

Her marriage to the famous, much older Diego Rivera has been well documented — fraught with pain, yet they shared a love that transcended the angst. After their separation and reconciliation, he apparently treated her more kindly.

Painting her likeness — with that single unbroken line of eyebrows we always recognize — was one of my favorite works in that portrait series. I love the ring of dried red Mexican flowers around her head.

On Sunday July 19th, Fiddleheads, the gallery of Deerfield Valley Art Association (DVAA), had its first member show and reception in its new building. This old art group of 100+ members is fortunate to have been asked to inhabit this new space, with plenty of room to feature 2-3 paintings by each of 60 of its members. The photo here is me with the 3 paintings I exhibited, part of my new series of portraits on an activated, dynamic background.

For years since COVID, I've painted fragments of the human form, often floating in space, using bold colors and unusual compositions — no traditional perspective, sometimes an untraditional one à la Matisse. So this new portrait series is a first for me. I never thought I could paint portraits, but with the help of Marina TvB's classes, I have mastered it enough to enjoy them.

I did one of Frida Kahlo after visiting her house and gallery in Mexico City recently; another of a self-portrait of Van Gogh, which was sold to an old friend; one of a wise woman that was initially to be a self-portrait, but no one thought it looked like me. I especially love the one that portrays the Fayum portrait — from ancient times, an encaustic marvel found in old tombs, looking as good as new because of the preservation by hot wax.

The reception for 60 artists was fantastic, with hordes of viewers looking and buying art from the gift shop. Visit Fiddleheads on Friday–Sunday afternoons at the corner of Routes 5 and 10 in Bernardston, MA.

I took some online lessons with MarinaTvBArt, a lovely artist from Europe. She taught lessons on painting the portrait; her style is to first paint a dynamic, activated, often textured background and to have a portion of that revealed in the portrait. I painted a whole series, which is shown on the Home page and in the New Work part of my Portfolio. This one is called "Mired in Thought." I also did a Van Gogh portrait, prompted by seeing his exhibit last year at the MFA in Boston. I painted one of Frida Kahlo, which is close to my heart as we visited her home and studio recently in Mexico City. And several others. I'm smitten with all of them. Marina also teaches how to paint the face, and I discovered it merely takes a lot of astute observation to paint a face.

I consulted with Claude AI to remind me of the name of that inflatable children's toy that is the height of a young child. You would punch it and since it was weighted on the bottom, it popped right back up. It was called Bop Bag. The painting I thought of naming Bop Bag reminded me of that toy.

Not only did Claude know the name of the toy but also asked me a series of pertinent questions to help me understand my "intent" in painting this. I don't have any intent, I said, it just evolves. Claude also wrote me several pages of ideas from different vantage points to encourage me to consider different titles for this piece. I know that loving AI is not politically correct, but here I am. I haven't even mentioned my "relationship" with Airo AI Builder who has been patiently helping me update and redesign this website. I told my husband to be on his toes :-)

"Edges" focuses on development of the edge of the painting. Often a painting has its focal point in or a little off the middle. In this painting, I wanted to show the middle of the piece melting into a strong statement at the very outer edges of the canvas. It serves to focus one's eyes around the whole painting, which is usually a goal of any painter.

I recently visited a Rodin exhibit where, of course, The Thinker was included. It is always arresting to me to view this sculpture in vivo. The great Rodin, even though he may have had a staff of apprentices at his disposal, will always be admired and emulated. For me as a 2-dimensional artist, creating a piece that is mine completely, but that echoes the sentiment of Rodin, is a challenge. Since I love color and distorted figures, I interpreted Le Penseur in this way. A "thinker" is often depicted as a serious and thoughtful individual, but the brilliant colors of my thinker challenge the serious nature of that moniker.

These three poses of a single model are depicted here as separate entities, entwined around one another. They made me think of how close friends can sometimes appear enmeshed in each others' lives. That's a term I used as a psychotherapist, when family members are in each others' business more than is healthy. I didn't feel that way about these 3 "friends." Maybe the painting identified various aspects of parts of one individual, all expressing herself a little differently. Since each part has the capacity to move around, she will be able to change and become more like the other.

As an animal lover, I appreciate the spectacular colors that some birds might show. It's telling that in the bird category, often it is the male bird that has the flamboyant colors to attract a female. How different for the human species. What if the roles were reversed? This painting depicts a young boy with his (presumably) pet bird. We assume it is a female bird, as it's drab. In contrast, the boy is full of brilliant color, none of which is realistic, but rather expressionistic. As a painter, I colored him as I felt, not as he would look.