Some paintings come together quickly. Others take their time. And then there are the ones you just can't seem to leave alone.
STILL HERE was one of those paintings.
It began as a moody little barn emerging from a sepia landscape, much like my Cabins paintings. The first version was a combination of sepia, white, and the faintest yellow, with flowing, dripping layers that blurred the horizon line and allowed the land and sky to become one.
I loved it right away.
But then came the orange.
A burst of orange transformed the sky into something full of light. Sunrise? Sunset? It didn't really matter. The color flowed and dripped into the earth, merging sky and land around that little barn. It was beautiful. I could have stopped right there.
But I had an idea.
On another piece of canvas, I had created a little blue barn. A beautiful blue barn, actually, and I knew I wanted to use it. So I cut it from the other canvas and layered it into this painting, working it into the landscape until it began to feel like it belonged.
And again, I could have stopped.
Instead, I let it sit.
For months, I kept coming back to it, wondering whether I had pushed it far enough. There was something I still wanted from this painting, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was.
The answer, as it turned out, was green.
I began washing layers of light seafoam green into the earth beneath the horizon line. I was looking for balance, for a way to distribute those areas of color and pop throughout the composition without losing the flow that had drawn me to the painting in the first place.
It worked. The painting was beautiful again.
And I could have stopped.
So I did.
STILL HERE sat in my studio through December 2025 and into the new year. January, February, March, April, May. Month after month, I lived with it. I think I even listed it on my website at one point.
But something kept telling me I wasn't finished.
Then, one day in June 2026, I picked up a yellow-orange and went back in.
Everything changed.
The painting opened up in a way I hadn't anticipated. The color brought a new energy to the canvas, transforming the quiet, moody little barn into something brighter and more alive. I looked back at that June version and thought, once again, that I could have stopped.
But I kept going.
One more push. More oranges and yellows. Gorgeous turquoise blues. A little green to pull it all together. I kept working to balance the color, the movement, and the texture until the painting finally reached the place I had been searching for all along.
It had been pushed to its edge.
What began as a moody little barn resting on the horizon had become a bright, textured beauty bursting off the canvas.
And beneath it all were the paintings that came before.
Five versions, layered into one. Each with something I loved. Each bringing me a little closer, even when I couldn't see where I was going.
Sometimes, the hardest part of making art isn't knowing what to add. It's knowing when to stop. And sometimes, it's having the patience to walk away, live with the uncertainty, and trust that the answer will come when it's ready.
STILL HERE reminds me that a painting can be beautiful long before it's finished. That transformation takes time. And that sometimes, you have to keep going just a little longer to discover what a piece is truly capable of becoming.
STILL HERE is available to explore in my collection of original paintings.
STILL HERE: The Five Paintings Beneath the Surface
