Let me let you in on a little secret: being an artist isn’t always sipping coconut milk lattes in a sun-drenched studio, casually dabbing paint on a canvas while art pod cast play in the background and the muse whispers, “This is it… this is the masterpiece.”

Oh no. Sometimes, it’s staring down a half-finished piece in pajamas and robe at  11:30 at night, muttering, “What are you, and why won’t you cooperate and turn into something Wow?” And yet, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

See, art is personal. Deeply personal. It starts from the gut. Sometimes literally, with a fluttery excitement in your stomach and bubbles up through your heart and hands and onto the canvas. You start with a vision, a feeling, maybe even a bold intention: “This one’s going to be messy and wild, just like my youngest granddaughter.” But then something happens. The painting takes on a life of its own. It changes its mind. It tugs your brush in a new direction, covers up that confident yellow stroke with a big wash of moody blue, and dares you to follow it into the unknown.

And like the sleep-deprived, emotionally attached rebel that you are, you do.

Now, let’s be clear: I absolutely love this part. It’s called the ugly middle. But it’s the magic of making. It’s unpredictable, often inconvenient, and occasionally infuriating, but it’s also why I create in the first place. But here’s where it gets… complicated.

Because while I’m over here wrestling with my muse and repainting a corner for the third time because it “just didn’t feel right,” there’s another voice in my head. A practical one. She wears statement glasses, drives a Range Rover an Escalade (ok, so you get the idea), and has a gallery wall of original art in her home office and a magnificent 6’x 5’ in her great room. She’s my ideal client. She owns a killer business, drinks green juice on Thursdays, but has sweet tea most days, and has two incredible strong willed children into the arts who have an eye for color and all things beautiful. She knows what she likes, and when she sees it, she buys it—on the spot. (God bless her.)

So here I am—caught in the delicate dance between my inner creative child and my Boss Babe, know what she wants clientele.

Do I create for me? Absolutely.
Do I create for them? Also yes.
Do I sometimes repaint an entire section of a piece because suddenly it looks more like “nauseating chaos in magenta” than “fun sophistication with a pop of pink”? You bet I do.

It’s not about selling out. It’s about tuning in.

Because when I let the painting evolve, when I allow myself to work together with its lead instead of forcing it, I almost always land in a place that feels right. And more often than not, that “right” space is where my client sees it and says, “That! That is what I’ve been looking for.” As if we were dancing the same dance on opposite sides of the room, waiting for our great minds to click.

It’s a wild, intuitive ride, but when a piece finally comes together, when the chaos smooths into balance, the colors pop just so, and suddenly it all clicks – you know it. It becomes not just art, but a conversation. A feeling. A mirror reflecting both the artist’s soul and the collector’s desire.

And if that piece finds its forever home in a stunning dining room or a young girl’s pink-and-gold ballet nook? Even better. Because that means it spoke. It moved. It belonged.

Yes, it can be a tightrope walk, balancing personal expression with commercial appeal but here’s what I’ve learned: I don’t have to choose between creating what I love and creating what sells. I just have to listen to the canvas, to my gut, and to the client who knows what they want the moment they see it.

And honestly? That’s the sweet spot.

Because when someone walks into their home, sees one of my paintings across the room, and feels something – joy, peace, nostalgia, excitement – it makes every repaint, every doubt, every stubborn canvas corner that wouldn’t cooperate… worth it.

This is art that comes from the heart and ends up in the heart of your home. And whether it began as a wild emotional outpouring or a carefully constructed vision of surrealism, it lives on as something that connects us both.

So yes, I’ll keep painting and repainting. I’ll keep tweaking. I’ll keep wrestling with the muse and adjusting the palette and listening to that little nudge that says, “Not quite yet.” Because I know that somewhere out there, a little girl is pirouetting in front of one of my paintings and her mama is sipping a rich cabernet and thinking, Now this is exactly what this room needed.

And that’s everything.