The Matterhorn and the Magic of Transformation

I grew up in the outskirts of Los Angeles, where smog and sunshine mixed in equal measure. The only redeeming element to this location for me was that we lived about an hour from Disneyland. Once a year, my parents would load us kids into the back of our station wagon, and we’d set off on what felt like a pilgrimage. The most sacred part of the trip, at least to us kids, was the competition to see who could spot the Matterhorn first. For the uninitiated, the Matterhorn is Disneyland’s snow-capped mountain — a roller coaster in disguise — rising improbably from the flat California landscape. To catch a glimpse of it was proof: we were close to magic.

What made Disneyland so special was not the rides. Carnivals had rides. At least once a year, the carnival would roll into some dusty vacant lot, set up their rattling rides and neon booths, and for a week it was great fun. We rode the Ferris wheel, ate cotton candy, and felt like kings of our small world. But no one confused that carnival with Disneyland. The carnival gave you thrills; Disneyland gave you worlds.

That was the difference: theming. A carnival offered rides in a parking lot. Disneyland transformed orange groves into universes. Walking into Tomorrowland in the 1960s was like stepping into the future we thought the year 2000 might bring — sleek rockets, gleaming towers, a promise of space travel just around the corner. Frontierland pulled you backward, to the banks of the Mississippi, where paddleboats churned the water and wooden stockades smelled faintly of adventure. And then there was Pirates of the Caribbean, which didn’t just give you animatronic buccaneers. No, it escorted you into the American South at twilight, where fireflies flickered, moss hung heavy from the trees, and mint juleps cooled in tall glasses.

It wasn’t about fooling the eye so much as enchanting the imagination. The park asked you to suspend disbelief, and you gladly obliged. What amazed me most, even as a child, was knowing — really knowing — that beneath all that wonder lay a flat stretch of Southern California where oranges once grew. And yet, once you walked through those gates, you were somewhere else entirely. The magic was not in tricking you but in persuading you to feel transported.

It wasn’t about fooling the eye so much as enchanting the imagination.

That feeling lodged deep in me. Those yearly pilgrimages to Disneyland taught me that the real power of creativity in general and (for me) art in specific is transformation — not just changing how a place looks, but how it feels. The strongest art doesn’t merely decorate; it alters the atmosphere of a room, the mood of the viewer, the story you believe you’re inside. That’s why, for me, a painting doesn’t just hang on a wall — it can theme a space, just as surely as Disney themed a park.

Those childhood pilgrimages left me with more than fond memories. They gave me a compass as an artist. What I love most about painting is exactly what I loved most about Disneyland: the power to take someone by the hand and, if only for a while, transport them into another world.

Commissions vs. Completed Pieces: What’s Right for You?

Every painting has a story. Sometimes that story begins in the studio, as I layer colors and shapes until an unexpected image takes on a life of its own. Other times, the story begins with you—with a memory, a place, or a dream you want to capture on canvas.

When you choose a completed piece, you’re stepping into a story that’s already alive. The painting has been waiting quietly for the right person. Many visitors have told me, “I walked past dozens of paintings, but this one stopped me in my tracks.” That instant recognition is powerful. It’s as though the painting has found its home, and you’ve found something you didn’t even know you were missing.

Commissions are a different kind of magic. They begin with your story. Perhaps it’s the glow of autumn in the Blue Ridge Mountains, the fountain in Savannah where you proposed, or the winding trail where you feel most alive. Together we translate that moment into something lasting. You become part of the process—watching the first sketches, choosing the colors that speak to you, seeing the painting take form layer by layer. When it’s complete, you don’t just own a piece of art—you own a piece of your own story, transformed into something you can live with every day.

“Commissions are a different kind of magic.”

So which is right for you? The truth is, there’s no wrong choice. Some paintings are discovered; others are created in partnership. What matters most is the connection you feel when you stand before it. Because the right painting—whether found or commissioned—will always feel like it was meant for you.

If you’re curious to see what’s waiting, I invite you to visit my studio in Asheville (344 Depot Street, #104) or browse the available paintings online (www.stclaireart.com). And if you feel a story of your own tugging at your heart, let’s start a conversation about creating a commission together.

What can I learn from Makoto Fujimura in 2025?

The last several posts have related to my thoughts on artists of the past. As I draw this series to a close, I thought that it would be fun to finish up with my favorite contemporary artist, Makoto Fujimura. Mako Fujimura is a Japanese American artist known for his luminous abstract paintings that combine contemporary vision with ancient techniques and more than any other living artist, has influenced my own work. Born in Boston and raised partly in Japan, he studied at Tokyo University of the Arts, becoming one of the first non-Japanese nationals to train in nihonga—a traditional art form that uses hand-ground minerals, precious metals, and natural pigments on paper and silk. Beyond painting, he’s also a writer, speaker, and founder of the International Arts Movement, which encourages artists to see beauty as an act of cultural care.

Learning about Fujimura’s journey feels both comforting and challenging to me as an artist. What first draws me in is the way he treats tradition. Instead of seeing nihonga as something rigid or outdated, he uses it as a living language. His paintings shimmer with layers of crushed malachite, gold, and silver, creating something deeply rooted yet unmistakably new. This really struck a chord with me many years ago when I first saw his work and, learning from his example, the take away for me was that I don’t have to break from the past to be original. I can let my own history, influences, and cultural background nourish what I create.

Another lesson I find moving is how Fujimura sees art as a response to the world’s wounds. After the events of 9/11, he didn’t turn away from pain; he gathered other artists to explore how beauty can speak into tragedy. That challenges me to think about my own work: could it be more than self-expression? Could it be a gentle invitation to hope, or even a quiet act of healing?

I’m also struck by Fujimura’s embrace of slowness. His process—patiently building up translucent layers over months or years—is almost a meditation. In a world that pushes me to rush and produce, his art feels like a reminder that depth, meaning, and beauty often grow slowly.

Finally, what resonates most is how naturally Fujimura’s faith flows into his art. He doesn’t separate what he believes from what he makes; his paintings feel like offerings—humble gestures of gratitude and wonder. It makes me reflect on what grounds my own creativity and invites me to approach my work as something sacred, rather than just something to finish and show.

Through Fujimura’s life, I’m learning to slow down, honor tradition, create as an act of love, and let something deeper guide my art. His example makes me hopeful—not only for what I might make, but for the kind of artist, and person, I might become.

What can I learn from Pablo Picasso in 2025?

Growing up, I think it’s safe to say I never cared for the work of Pablo Picasso. It was art that made me roll my eyes and laugh. But as I got older and took art history classes in college, I learned more about this guy and I began to appreciate him more and more. Thinking about Pablo Picasso, I’m reminded of the power of reinvention—the courage to break all the rules and start fresh, again and again. Picasso’s career was a constant journey of exploration, from his Blue Period to Cubism and beyond. For an artist in 2025, that restless creativity is incredibly inspiring.

Picasso didn’t fear change. He embraced it. He challenged conventions and redefined what art could be. That teaches me that it’s okay—even necessary—to let go of old ideas about what “good” art looks like, and to follow where curiosity leads.

“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.”

He also reminds me that playfulness and seriousness can coexist. Picasso’s work is sometimes joyful, sometimes intense, but it’s always honest. He invites me to be brave with my own work—to experiment, to fail, and to find joy in the process.

Picasso was incredibly prolific—creating tens of thousands of works over his lifetime. But what strikes me most is his ability to reinvent himself without losing the core of who he was. That balance between evolution and authenticity feels essential, especially in a world that pushes for constant self-branding.

He also worked across mediums—painting, sculpture, ceramics, printmaking—reminding me that creativity isn’t confined to one form. Exploring different ways to express ideas can unlock new perspectives.

Picasso’s legacy teaches me that art is a lifelong adventure, full of surprises and reinvention. In 2025, as I face my own creative challenges, his example encourages me to stay curious, be bold, and never stop playing with possibilities. I still remember rolling my eyes and laughing at his work when I was a kid. I’m glad I grew up.

What can I learn from Renoir in 2025?

As I reflect on my own practice in 2025, I keep coming back to artists whose lives were shaped not just by what they created, but by how they saw the world. Pierre-Auguste Renoir is one of those artists. His work feels joyful and alive—but what I find even more compelling is the way he chose to live and work, especially in the face of challenge.

Renoir believed that art should be beautiful. That may sound simple, even old-fashioned, but in a time like ours—when so much art is expected to be urgent, edgy, or politically charged—it’s refreshing to remember that joy, tenderness, and pleasure are valid, even radical, subjects.

“I just let my brush go; I try to paint my joy, my feeling.”

There’s a warmth in Renoir’s work that feels deeply human. He painted people—friends, family, everyday scenes—not as symbols or statements, but as living, breathing beings. And that reminds me that even now, when so much is mediated through screens, art can still be intimate. Personal. Close.

Renoir’s commitment to painting didn’t fade, even as his health did. In his later years, he suffered from severe rheumatoid arthritis. He couldn’t walk easily. His hands were twisted. And still—he painted. He had brushes strapped to his fingers. Helpers moved the canvas for him. That resilience humbles me. It makes it harder to justify the times I put off painting because I’m tired, distracted, or self-critical.

There’s also something beautiful in the way Renoir never stopped evolving. His style shifted—sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically—but he never lost that core sense of affection for life. Even in pain, he saw color. He saw beauty. He believed in making something that lifted the spirit.

Renoir’s life reminds me that art doesn’t have to shout to be meaningful. It can be gentle. It can be beautiful. It can be kind. And honestly, in 2025, maybe we need more of that, right?

What can I learn from Claude Monet in 2025?

As an artist in 2025, I often feel pulled in a dozen directions—by trends, deadlines, social media, and the constant churn of what’s next. But whenever I revisit the life of Claude Monet, I feel something settle inside me (and considering the fact Monet is world famous, I assume I’m not alone here). His story isn’t just part of art history—it feels like a quiet, steady voice reminding me what really matters as an artist.

One of the things I appreciate most about Monet is that he stayed true to his vision, even when critics dismissed his work and galleries rejected him. “Impressionism” started as a put-down. But he kept painting what he saw: fleeting light, shifting weather, reflections on water. His commitment to his own way of seeing feels especially powerful now, when it’s easy to lose your voice in the noise.

“Creative depth comes from attention, not novelty.”

Monet’s habit of painting in series—his haystacks, cathedrals, water lilies—wasn’t just repetition. It was deep exploration and I LOVE that that whole idea: You don’t always need a new subject, just a new way of seeing what’s in front of you.

He was also deeply connected to nature. Painting outdoors, cultivating his own garden at Giverny—it was all part of his practice. In an increasingly digital world, that physical connection to the land and seasons feels more vital than ever. I try to remember that when I need to reset: step outside, pay attention, slow down.

Monet also knew how to endure. He painted through grief, through financial hardship, and even as his vision deteriorated. Those late Water Lilies, so dreamlike and abstract, came from a place of both loss and peace. It’s a reminder that art can age with us—and carry us through all kinds of seasons.

And maybe most importantly, Monet shaped a world around him that fed his creativity. His home and garden were part of the work. That idea—that we can build environments that nurture our art—feels incredibly relevant to me now.

Monet’s life reminds me that being an artist is about more than producing work. It’s about staying present, staying curious, and staying true—even when no one’s watching.

How and When to use Complimentary Colors

Complementary colors are one of the simplest but most powerful tools an artist can use to make their work pop. These are colors that sit opposite each other on the color wheel — like red and green, blue and orange, or yellow and purple. When placed side by side, complementary colors create a strong contrast that can instantly catch a viewer’s eye.

The best time to use complementary colors is when you want to create energy, excitement, or a clear focal point in your art. For example, if you paint a bright orange sunset behind a deep blue ocean, both colors will look more vibrant because of how they react against each other. The contrast makes each color seem even more intense.

“The best time to use complementary colors is when you want to create energy…”

You can also use complementary colors in smaller doses to draw attention to specific areas of a painting. A mostly green landscape with a few bright red flowers will naturally guide the viewer’s eye to the flowers without needing any extra tricks.

However, it’s important to use complementary colors thoughtfully. Too much of them side by side can be overwhelming or even uncomfortable to look at. One trick is to choose one color as the dominant color and use its complement just for accents. This creates a balanced, dynamic effect without overpowering the piece.

Complementary colors are not just for paintings, either. Designers, photographers, and even fashion stylists use them to create bold, memorable looks.

Once you start paying attention, you’ll see complementary colors everywhere — in nature, in ads, in your favorite artworks. Learning how and when to use them gives your art an extra level of impact that feels both exciting and natural.

AT Experience

A few weeks ago, I hiked a short stretch of the Appalachian Trail—not the whole thing, just a few miles, but enough to feel something shift. I didn’t go with a plan, really. I just packed my water, a small sketchbook, and hit the trail early in the morning, hoping to clear my head. What I didn’t expect was how much that walk would quietly reshape the way I paint.

There’s a rhythm to walking through the woods. Footstep after footstep, heartbeat steady, breath syncing with the rise and fall of the trail. I found myself noticing things I usually pass by—a single red leaf clinging to a branch, the soft decay of mossy logs, the shimmer of morning light through mist. Each detail felt like its own painting.

When I got home, I couldn’t shake that feeling. Instead of rushing to paint something “impressive,” I started working slower, letting my brush follow the same kind of quiet pace I had on the trail. The work became more about atmosphere and feeling than precision. My colors shifted—more earth tones, more soft transitions. I wanted the viewer to feel what I felt out there: stillness, awe, and a gentle sense of presence.

That short hike reminded me that art doesn’t always come from pushing harder. Sometimes it’s about stepping back, getting quiet, and letting the world come to you. The trail gave me that. And now, every time I paint, I try to carry a little piece of that forest with me. Just a few miles—but they went a long way.

Go Take a Walk!

There’s something magical about taking a walk in the woods early in the morning. When the world is still quiet and the sun is just beginning to filter through the trees, everything feels a little more open—especially my mind. It’s during these moments, with no distractions and no pressure, that I feel the most creatively free.

In the woods, the noise of everyday life fades away. There are no emails to answer, no deadlines to meet—just the sound of birds waking up, leaves whispering in the breeze, and my own footsteps on the trail. It’s a kind of peace I don’t find anywhere else, and it gives my mind the space it needs to breathe. With that space, new ideas seem to come more easily, almost effortlessly. Thoughts connect in unexpected ways, and I often find myself inspired by the simplest things—a pattern of light, the texture of bark, or the way the air smells after it rains.

I’ve noticed that walking in nature helps clear out the mental clutter. The things I’ve been stuck on or overthinking suddenly don’t feel so heavy. My brain resets a little, and with that comes a fresh wave of creativity. Whether I’m writing, sketching, or just trying to solve a problem, the woods always help me see things from a new angle.

I’ve noticed that walking in nature helps clear out the mental clutter.

What’s even more special is the time alone with my thoughts. Out there, it’s just me and the trees, and something about that allows me to dig a little deeper. I get more honest with myself, and that honesty feeds my creative work in a big way. It’s like I can hear my own voice more clearly, without all the noise.

So for me, a walk in the woods isn’t just a walk. It’s a reset, a source of inspiration, and a reminder that creativity doesn’t have to be forced—it just needs room to grow.

In morning light, the forest wakes,
A hush beneath the pine and brakes.
The world falls quiet, thoughts run free,
As whispers drift from tree to tree.

Each leaf, a spark; each breeze, a guide,
To places hiding deep inside.
The path unwinds, the clutter clears,
Ideas bloom where once were fears.

No screens, no noise, just earth and air,
And sudden truth found everywhere.
In solitude, I find my start—
The woods redraw the map of heart.

A walk, but more—a sacred space,
Where stillness makes the mind embrace
Its wildest, truest, untamed grace.

Periods of Art: Mannerism

The Mannerism period of art history emerged in the late Renaissance, around the early 16th century, and lasted until the beginning of the Baroque period in the early 17th century. It developed as a reaction to the harmonious ideals and balanced compositions of High Renaissance masters such as Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, and Michelangelo. Instead of striving for ideal beauty and naturalism, Mannerist artists embraced complexity, artificiality, and exaggeration.

Mannerism is characterized by elongated proportions, distorted poses, and ambiguous spatial environments. Figures often appear in unnatural, contorted positions, with exaggerated elegance and tension. Rather than focusing on calm, rational compositions, Mannerist works are often dramatic and emotionally charged, pushing the boundaries of proportion and perspective.

The movement originated in Italy, particularly in Florence and Rome, and was heavily influenced by the later works of Michelangelo, whose muscular, twisting figures and intense emotion were admired and imitated. Key figures of Mannerism include Jacopo Pontormo, Rosso Fiorentino, Parmigianino, and later, El Greco. Parmigianino’s Madonna with the Long Neck is a prime example of the style, with its unnaturally elongated figures and spatial ambiguity.

Mannerism also reflected the cultural and religious turmoil of the time, including the Reformation and the sack of Rome in 1527. These events contributed to a sense of instability and uncertainty, which was mirrored in the art. Unlike the confident, orderly world of the High Renaissance, Mannerism often conveyed anxiety, tension, and complexity.

Although initially criticized for its departure from classical ideals, Mannerism has come to be appreciated for its innovation, emotional depth, and bold experimentation. It served as a bridge between the perfection of the Renaissance and the dramatic flair of the Baroque, leaving a lasting impact on the trajectory of Western art.