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 Raphael in 2025?

Mostly, when I think of Raphael, I picture balance, harmony, and grace—those serene faces and perfectly composed scenes that seem to glow with a quiet confidence. But what really speaks to me about Raphael’s life and work is his dedication to clarity and connection, which, as an artist in 2025, I find deeply moving.

Raphael was known for his ability to bring people together—whether through his art, his friendships, or his collaborations. He worked alongside Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, not as a rival, but as someone who sought to learn and create in dialogue with others. That spirit of openness speaks volumes regarding how vital community is, even in a field that often feels solitary.

“Art is not just a thing to be made; it’s a way to bring people closer.”

His paintings are often described as embodying ideal beauty, but they are also deeply human—full of warmth, gentle emotion, and understanding. In a world that can sometimes feel fragmented and rushed, Raphael’s calm, thoughtful approach invites me to slow down and listen—to myself, and to others.

Raphael was a master of composition and clarity. He didn’t overwhelm his viewers but guided them gently through the story he was telling. That story reminds me that art doesn’t need to be complicated to be powerful. Sometimes simplicity, balance, and elegance carry the strongest message.

He also adapted and evolved throughout his career, absorbing influences from others while refining his own voice. That flexibility feels encouraging. The big take away is that growth is a process, and that it’s okay to learn from those around us without losing sight of what makes our own work unique.

Raphael’s life encourages us to see art as a bridge—not just between colors and shapes, but between hearts and minds. In 2025, I try to remember that creating is as much about connection as it is about expression.

What can I learn from Caravaggio in 2025?

When I think about Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (Caravaggio for short), I’m always struck by how he uses light and shadow. Those sharp contrasts pull me in every time, as if his scenes are frozen between night and day, or between stillness and chaos. But what really stays with me isn’t just how he painted—it’s how unapologetically honest he was, how boldly he approached both his art and his life. That kind of raw courage feels especially meaningful to me as an artist trying to make sense of the world in 2025.

Caravaggio wasn’t interested in prettiness or idealization. He painted saints with bruises and dirt on their feet, ordinary people caught in divine moments. That bold realism—his willingness to show the world as gritty and flawed—challenges me. In a time when social media often pushes perfection, Caravaggio’s work reminds me to embrace imperfection, messiness, and truth.

“I do not think there is anything more powerful than truth seen through the human experience.”

His life was turbulent—marked by passion, violence, and exile. Yet, despite personal chaos, his paintings convey a sense of immediacy and emotional intensity. That tension between darkness and light feels like a metaphor for creativity itself: it’s not always comfortable, but it’s real.

Caravaggio also broke with tradition, refusing to paint in the classical, idealized styles favored by his patrons. Instead, he brought the divine down to earth, using ordinary people as his models. I think his work challenges us to question the accepted norms and to find my own voice, even if it means breaking rules. Sometimes, that’s okay.

And then there’s his mastery of chiaroscuro—the way light slices through darkness. It reminds me that contrast isn’t just visual; it’s emotional, psychological. Sometimes art has to confront darkness before it finds light. That’s a lesson I carry when I’m facing creative blocks or doubts.

Caravaggio’s art feels alive because it’s honest, unflinching, and human. In 2025, when the pressure to “perform” can feel overwhelming, his example encourages me to create work that’s true to the messy, beautiful complexity of life.

What can I learn from Leonardo da Vinci in 2025?

As I try to navigate life as an artist in 2025, I sometimes find myself (usually in the midst of boredom) trying to incorporate different creative interests—sketching, writing, studying, problem-solving. Sometimes, it feels crazy because there’s no way anyone would have the emotional, spiritual (or physical) stamina to pursue all those areas of creativity. But…then I think of Leonardo da Vinci. This guy painted The Last Supper and the Mona Lisa, yes—but he was also an engineer, a botanist, an anatomist, an inventor, a dreamer. And somehow, all of it was part of his art.

Da Vinci reminds me that curiosity is not a distraction—it’s fuel. He didn’t believe in separating disciplines. He sketched flying machines alongside studies of lilies. He dissected cadavers not out of morbidity but to understand how the body moved, so he could paint it more truthfully. I mean, that’s dedication. He kept notebooks full of questions, diagrams, and observations. That kind of restless, generous mind feels incredibly modern to me.

“Learning never exhausts the mind. It ignites it.”

We live in a time that often pressures us to specialize, to brand ourselves. But Leonardo teaches me that it’s okay—even essential—to stay wide open. That following your curiosity wherever it leads can actually deepen your work, not dilute it.

If I’m paying attention to his life, I also learn that “unfinished” doesn’t mean “unworthy”. Many of his paintings were left incomplete. He was slow, meticulous, and sometimes paralyzed by his own perfectionism. That hits home. I’ve learned that sometimes the fear of not getting it “right” can block the very thing I’m trying to express. But Leonardo’s notebooks, his questions, his explorations—they’re just as valuable as the paintings he completed. Maybe more.

And…there’s this: Leonardo never stopped observing and I love that. He watched water swirl. He tracked how birds flew. He studied the way lips curved when someone smiled. That kind of attention—to both the world and the self—is a practice I try to carry into my own work.

Leonardo da Vinci wasn’t just a genius. He was a student of everything, forever in awe of the world. And in 2025, in a world of fast takes and shallow scrolls, his life reminds all of us that it’s okay (even essential) to slow down, look closely, ask questions, and let wonder lead the way.

What can I learn from Michelangelo in 2025?

As a full-time working artist in 2025, I sometimes get caught between wanting to create freely and feeling pressure to “master” everything—to be fast, visible, accomplished. Honestly, that tension is what stops a lot of really creative people form going forward with their craft. Then I read about Michelangelo and am shamed (in a really good way though). His name feels almost too large to touch, like he belongs in textbooks and marble halls. But when I look closer, I see an artist who wrestled deeply with his work, with himself, and with what it meant to make something meaningful in a complicated world. I really like that.

Michelangelo wasn’t just gifted—he was obsessed. He worked with intensity, solitude, and relentless drive. He carved, painted, sketched, designed buildings. He labored over details that most people would never see. He pushed himself physically and emotionally to the point of exhaustion. And yet, he kept creating—not for fame, but because he had to.

“If people knew how hard I worked to get my mastery, it wouldn't seem so wonderful at all.”

That quote says everything. In a culture that often glorifies talent and instant success, Michelangelo reminds me that greatness comes from discipline, sacrifice, and focus over time. It’s okay to work slowly. It’s okay to struggle. The work should challenge us.

What also strikes me is how spiritually driven he was. Whether or not you share his beliefs, there’s something powerful in the way he treated art as a calling—a bridge between the earthly and the divine. In a time where so much feels transactional, he reminds me that art can still be sacred.

He also lived with contradiction. He was intensely private but created public masterpieces. He loved the male form but lived in a culture that condemned it. He was a sculptor who painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling because he had to, not because he wanted to. There’s something reassuring about that complexity. It tells me that we don’t have to be perfectly aligned to create powerful work—we just have to keep showing up.

Michelangelo’s life teaches me that art isn’t just about beauty. It’s about devotion, wrestling, patience, and faith—in the process, in the craft, and in the possibility of saying something that lasts.

Staying Creative

When I think about the most creative people I know, I don’t think of famous artists or designers—I think of kids. They’ll turn a stick into a sword, a blanket into a cape, and a cardboard box into a spaceship without hesitation. No second guessing. Just pure imagination. Somewhere along the way, most of us lose that. But I’ve realized it doesn’t have to be gone for good.

For me, staying creative like a kid starts with staying curious. I try to ask more questions—not just about art, but about everything. Why does light hit that wall like that? What would happen if I mixed these two ideas? When I stay curious, I stay open—and that’s when the good stuff starts to show up.

Another thing I’ve learned: play matters. I used to think every creative session had to be productive. Now, I let myself mess around more. I scribble, I doodle, I experiment with no real goal. That’s when things get interesting—when there’s no pressure to be brilliant.

“…play matters.”

And honestly, I’ve had to work on letting go of the fear of looking ridiculous. Kids don’t care if their drawing makes sense—they’re just in it for the joy. I try to tap into that. The less I judge my work while I’m making it, the freer I feel.

I also find that reconnecting with my senses—walking outside, watching how shadows move, noticing tiny details—keeps me grounded and inspired. The world is full of little sparks if I actually take the time to look.

Mostly, I just try to keep that sense of wonder alive. The world’s still magical, if I let it be. And when I do, creativity follows—just like it did when I was a kid.

The Quiet Labor

With calloused hands and steady gaze,
The artist meets the morning haze.
Each dawn arrives, serene and still,
A canvas waits beneath his will.

A single stroke, then pause, then two—
He listens for what's good and true.
The paint may speak, the wood may sigh,
And clay holds dreams not seen by eye.

He does not rush the shaping flame,
For beauty’s not a thing to tame.
And patience walks beside his hand,
A quiet force that helps him stand.

He feels the soul in stone and grain,
In weathered knots and lines of strain.
Within the flaws, he finds the thread,
Of stories time has left unsaid.

The floor is strewn with starts and drafts,
Each one a step along his craft.
He toils not for the world’s acclaim,
But for the fire that has no name.

He works for love, not fleeting praise,
To bring forth light from shadowed days.
To build from nothing something true,
And say, “This is my gift to you.”

Each pigment mixed, each chisel’s trace,
Speaks quiet hope and boundless grace.
A silent hymn, a guiding spark,
For souls who wander in the dark.

He does not seek the hurried cheer,
But plants his art and waits the year.
As seasons turn, so does his hand,
In rhythm only hearts understand.

For art is not a race to win,
But something slow, and deep within.
It calls for time, for care, for truth,
For weathered hands and dreams of youth.

So let him work, and let him be,
A steward of what few can see.
A patient soul, a sacred part,
The quiet labor of the heart.

"What was it like going to art school?"

I was asked recently about my own experience at art school. Actually, I attended a Design school, and though art was a large part of the training, the education at Art Center College of Design was much more extensive than just art. Attending Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, California, really was one of the most unforgettable chapters of my life. Out of all the memories I made during my time there, one experience stands out above the rest—the collaborative design project in my third term.

That project was part of a transdisciplinary course where students from different design backgrounds, like graphic design, industrial design, and interaction design, teamed up. Our goal was to come up with a product that would make urban life better. Working with such a talented and diverse group of people opened my eyes to new ways of thinking and solving problems. Each person brought something unique to the table, and that blend of creativity was electric.

“(this was) really was one of the most unforgettable chapters of my life…”

Our team landed on the idea of creating a modular public seating system that could adapt to different urban spaces. I focused on the visual branding and user interface, while my teammates handled product engineering and environmental design. We hit some roadblocks trying to balance style with function, but we worked through every challenge together, determined to make something both beautiful and practical.

What made the experience even more special was the feedback we got from our instructors and visiting professionals. Their honest critiques pushed us to keep improving and paying attention to every little detail. Art Center had this way of demanding the best from us, and it made us better designers.

The day we presented our final prototype at the end-of-term showcase was one I’ll never forget. Seeing our hard work come to life and hearing positive reactions from our peers and industry pros made it all worth it. It was a real reminder of how design can shape the world around us.

That project at Art Center didn’t just sharpen my design skills—it taught me the value of teamwork, resilience, and staying open to new ideas. It was a perfect example of what Art Center stands for: excellence, innovation, and pushing creative boundaries. Those lessons and memories will stay with me wherever my career takes me.

The Connection Between Art and Grief

Correctly expressing Grief is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to figure out. I’ve tried ignoring it and pretending everything was okay; I’ve inappropriately lashed out when grief-induced frustration pushed me over the edge, and that did nothing to deal with the grief behind the frustration. Losing someone you love or something you really enjoyed leaves a hole that feels impossible to fill, and for a long time, I didn’t know how to deal with it. I struggled to find the right words to express what I was feeling, and the weight of my emotions felt unbearable. But art became my outlet, my escape, and ultimately, my way of healing.

One of the most powerful things art did for me was give me a way to express emotions I couldn’t put into words. When I was overwhelmed with sadness, I would pick up a paintbrush and let the colors tell my story. Some days, the strokes were chaotic and angry; other days, they were soft and sorrowful. Even though I wasn’t always sure what I was painting, the process itself helped me release emotions I had been holding inside. Writing worked the same way—I could pour my feelings onto a page, even if no one else ever read them.

“Art gave me a way to express emotions I couldn’t put into words.”

Art also reminded me that I wasn’t alone. At my lowest points, I would listen to music or read poetry that spoke to my pain, and it was comforting to know that other people had felt this way too. Their words and melodies became a reminder that grief is universal, that others had survived it, and that I could too. It connected me to something bigger than my own sorrow.

More than anything, creating art gave me a sense of peace, even when everything else felt chaotic. When I focused on painting or writing, my mind wasn’t consumed by sadness—it was present, engaged in the act of creating. It didn’t make the grief disappear, but it made it more bearable.

Art didn’t "fix" my grief, but it helped me live with it. It gave me a way to feel, to remember, and to heal. And in those moments of creation, I found light even in the darkest places.