HIBERNATION

"He must not like women." That gem of a comment floated my way at an art fair a few years back, overheard as two ladies analyzed one of my portraits. Their critique? I was "cutting off the women's arms." What they didn't know was that the artist himself was standing mere feet away, silently eavesdropping. Ah, the perks of relative anonymity – getting the unadulterated, unfiltered truth about your work. When I decided to become a full-time artist, to lay my soul bare on the regular, I didn't fully grasp the amount of thick skin I'd need to cultivate. While my mom absolutely loved my art (as is the case with most mothers and their artistic children), the harsh truth is my art isn't for everyone. And, yikes, some people just plain won't like it. It's a lesson you learn quickly, and for the most part, you adapt just as fast. So, when that rejection email from the Great Minnesota Get-Together's Fine Arts competition landed in my inbox, it stung, sure, but the bite was quickly shrugged off. The numbers, after all, tell a story: I've got about a one-in-four chance of getting into the MN State Fair arts competition. Over the past 30 years, I've been accepted roughly once every four or five times I submit. And I've only snagged a spot two years in a row a couple of times. Having been accepted last year, my odds for this year were already slim. This is all the internal monologue I play to suppress that cauldron of boiling rage deep down in my psyche, of course. Really, it's no big deal. You win some, you lose some. Besides, thick skin, remember? 😉 The same applies to art fairs. I'll admit, I was a little spoiled, getting accepted into the first three fairs I applied to this year – Edina, Stone Arch, and Wayzata. So when the "no" letter came for the Edina Fall into the Arts Fair this September, it caught me by surprise and definitely stung a bit. Being on the "short list" (in case someone drops out) feels a lot like getting a hard no but still hoping for a drunk dial. Best to just move on and assume it's a no-go. All this is to say: yeah, thick skin is non-negotiable if you're going to be a professional artist. While you could argue the same for other professions, I genuinely believe the creative fields hit different. They're perhaps a bit more vulnerable. Sure, the head accountant at a firm might face quarterly reviews or criticism for a mistake. But they'll likely never hear that one of their reports is "derivative or lacks originality." And while a CEO might get an occasional derogatory whisper, they're probably not fielding critiques that their "work lacks emotional impact or soul." One of my favorite art school critiques from my days at the University of Minnesota came from a professor who loudly declared in front of the whole class that I was "showing off." Why? Because I dared to draw something with a bit of technical proficiency, while he was pushing Drawing Two towards a more postmodern – and dare I say, ugly – aesthetic. Point is, I don't think many bankers, coal miners, or middle managers get accused of "showing off" for attempting to be good at their job. And don't even get me started on what professions are "essential." But I digress. - While it never doesn't hurt or sting a little to be rejected from a fair or competition, or to hear harsh criticism, it simply comes with the territory of sharing your soul with the world. Just as not every two people are a romantic match, not every soul is a match when it comes to artwork, for any of an infinite number of reasons. And that's why, when someone does resonate with a painting, finding beauty and connection with it, well, that's an unmeasurable gift. As are the lessons an artist must learn about themselves in dealing with both the wins and the losses. I talk about thick skin, but really, it's more about developing an inner peace, trust, and self-worth, alongside an understanding and wisdom about how souls cross – sometimes connecting, sometimes not. So, while that State Fair rejection letter might've stung, I know there's always next year. Same goes for the Fall into the Arts fair. And who knows, maybe, just maybe, I'll still get that drunk dial... P.S. About those "cut-off arms"... Not that I feel a need to "defend" myself, per se, but for clarification: I paint mostly women because I was raised by my mother and surrounded by five sisters – all incredibly creative and influential. My portraits are painted through a lens of magical realism, distorting the human figure to imbue it with allegorical and metaphorical potential. The head, representing divinity and spiritual potential, is elevated on an elongated neck. The arms (not cut off, but repositioned) and hands are placed lower in the composition, symbolizing our worldly nature, thus drawn closer to the ground. The idea is that we, as humans, possess both divine and worldly aspects. When seen from a distance, or from outside ourselves, our lives – much like the portrait – while sometimes seemingly chaotic and wrought with internal struggles, are in a weird and perfect balance. It's from this "1000-foot view" that we can gain perspective on our lives, seeing where we want to go and how best to get there. But that's just my take... Ultimately, what a painting means is fluid. I can tell you my intentions, the symbolism I built in. But once the painting is done, framed, and hung, it belongs to you, the viewer. It's up to you to decide what it means to you, to find your own connection, or even your own critique. And that's a unique part of the artistic journey. To learn more about the painting I submitted to the MN State Fair Fine Arts Competition, Click HERE

The Minneapolis sky was a perfect, crisp blue, a shade my Catholic mother would affectionately call "Mary's Blue." Perfectly pillowed clouds danced in the distance, a serene backdrop to a profoundly nostalgic moment. There I stood, in the heart of the Hollywood Theater – not just any theater, but the historic Hollywood, the legendary Hollywood, the fabled Hollywood. The very same Hollywood that, until recently, had languished in dilapidated silence. As a child, I spent countless hours here, utterly transfixed by the stories that flickered across its slowly molding screen. Movies like E.T., Raiders of the Lost Ark, Ghostbusters, and Back to the Future weren't just films; they were vibrant pigments that colored my childhood, imbuing it with flavor and magic. Sure, not every cinematic gem was a masterpiece – I’m looking at you, Breakin’ (though I admit, my friends and I did attempt some cardboard backspins the next day, a brief, fleeting homage). Still, in those days, Hollywood held a magic that feels far rarer now. Decades later, I found myself back in this sacred space, a witness to its glorious rebirth. The theater had endured years of decay, patiently awaiting the love and substantial investment needed to reclaim its former glory. A quick walk through confirmed it: she was back, in all her majesty. No longer primarily a movie house (though they do host screenings occasionally), it’s now a versatile rental venue. And on this particular Sunday, I was participating in one of its new chapters. It was the day of the Market of the Beast, a dark arts market perfectly suited for my most haunting creations. I call them, collectively, "My October Collection" – a gathering of ghouls, mystics, demonesque figures, and magicians. I'd just finished unloading my pieces, and the two-hour countdown to setup had begun. A quick glance at the other thirty artists’ work confirmed it: my art was right at home. While the load-in itself is never glamorous, I genuinely love the process of building out my booth. It’s like breathing life into a miniature gallery. My secret weapon? A meticulous layout planned and photographed in my own studio the night before. Today, however, presented a delightful curve ball: a corner spot! My initial design hadn't accounted for this, but it was a fantastic problem to have. More wall space meant more visibility, and I could open up one corner of my 10x10 foot "sacred space" for better foot traffic. Sacred space, you ask? Absolutely. For me, galleries are temples, holy ground where the human soul reveals itself. My booth was no less. The unexpected corner did demand a quick flip of my design and a bit of rushed rearranging, but with moments to spare, my mission was accomplished. Just enough time to sprint to the local store for snacks before the doors swung open. Returning, I was met with a glorious sight: a sizeable line of dozens of hardcore dark art enthusiasts, practically vibrating with anticipation. There’s something truly invigorating about seeing a line to get into an art event. This is how it should be! Art, in all its forms – whether an intimate gallery opening, a bustling market, or a grand fair – is one of culture's greatest gifts. It’s where countless hours, days, even months of solitary creation finally meet the public, a moment of profound communication and celebration. So, yes, the anticipation, the desire to be first in line – I applaud it wholeheartedly. It brings to mind other lines: the immense queue for the Van Gogh exhibit at the MIA when I was a child, stretching through the museum and down the block; the lines for fashion shows during Fashion Week, immortalized in the BBC documentary The Look; even, if I’m honest, the lines for Cabbage Patch Kids in my youth or the recent frenzy for tech gadgets at Walmart. Okay, maybe not all lines deserve equal reverence. But for the arts? I’m all in! Even as a gallery owner myself, nothing fills me with more joy (and simultaneous stress) than seeing people line up ten minutes before an opening, knowing I still have forty minutes of work left. But no matter how rushed I feel, the doors always open precisely at 6 PM, and I eagerly, gratefully welcome every single person. And so, with mere minutes to spare, after quick chats with fellow artists, we entered and unveiled our individual sacred spaces to the public. This was Minneapolis’s first Market of the Beast, and while the market for dark and haunting art, and oddities, is rapidly growing, a new event in a new city always carries an element of uncertainty. Yet, the organizers had done their job exceptionally well. I’d seen promotions plastered across multiple social media platforms, and coupled with word-of-mouth, the turnout was a massive success. Did I mention the line to get in? From 1 PM to 6 PM, it was a near non-stop flurry of conversations about art, answering questions, and, of course, selling. As someone relatively new to the fair circuit – this was only my fourth event, and my first indoor market – I wasn’t sure what to expect regarding sales. I’d brought my most signature, often larger and more intricate, pieces (reflected in higher prices), alongside smaller works and, a new addition, signed prints in three sizes. Prints, by far, were the biggest sellers by volume, and I couldn't be happier about that. I’m a passionate advocate for the democratization of art, making it accessible to everyone, regardless of background or income. When I buy original art (which I try to do once a year), it’s almost always through a payment plan. And if an original is out of budget or no longer available, a print is a fantastic alternative. So, yes, prints are my new jam! As the market wound down, I took my time breaking down my booth. Other than the organizers, I was the last artist to leave. I wanted to savor every last moment in the venue that had delivered so much magic in my childhood. I also had the chance to chat with the woman who now manages the theater. It turned out our paths had crossed many times before – which, considering where we were standing, made perfect sense. Northeast Minneapolis, if you know it well, has a curious way of weaving divergent paths back together, facilitating the oddest connections, not over months or years, but across decades. And so, to the universe, thank you for a truly magical summer Sunday afternoon in NE Minneapolis! Cheers!