The surface is brushed—fluid, directional—so the light doesn’t sit still.
It moves. Shifts as you shift.

The planes are sharply bent, blocking against each other in contrast, giving the thin metal an unexpected weight.

It holds its own space.

And then, slowly, it unsettles it.

It isn’t quite sculpture.
Not quite design.
Not quite structure.

The exhibition text traces it back to an unexpected place.

After participating in Alcoa’s Forecast program—an initiative that invited artists to experiment with aluminum—Isamu Noguchi continued working with it.

With collaborators, he developed a way to bend thin sheets of metal so precisely they appear almost solid.

The piece takes its name from Sesshū Tōyō, a fifteenth-century Zen monk and painter known for spare, energetic line.

That connection lands.

Because this doesn’t feel like industrial design.

It feels like drawing in space.

At the High Museum of Art,
Isamu Noguchi: “I am not a designer” gathers nearly two hundred works—furniture, lighting, ceramics, stage sets, playgrounds.

But standing in front of Sesshū, the categories start to fall apart.

Noguchi is best known as a sculptor.

But even that feels incomplete.

His work moves across sculpture, public spaces, and furniture in a way that resists clean definition.

And yet, the art world has always preferred definitions.

In 1949, he said it clearly:

“I am not a designer.”

And then spent the next forty years making design objects that have outlasted almost everything around them.

Because sculpture didn’t always pay.

So he designed.

Furniture. Lighting. Objects meant to be produced, lived with, repeated.

And in the United States—especially mid-century—that kind of work wasn’t taken as seriously.

Design sat lower in the hierarchy.

Too tied to industry.
Too close to the market.
Too close to money and selling.

The legacy of the Industrial Revolution lingered—mass production had already filled the world with poorly made objects, and the art world responded by elevating the opposite: the singular, the handmade, the autonomous work of the artist.

If something had a function, it was already suspect.

So even when Noguchi approached a table or a lamp with the same attention he brought to sculpture, the category itself carried less prestige.

It wasn’t that the work wasn’t art.

It just wasn’t treated that way.

And yet—

standing in front of Sesshū, that distinction feels thin.

This piece came out of industry.
Out of aluminum.
Out of collaboration.

And still, it reads as something more.

That’s the shift.

He didn’t leave art to make design.

He carried his way of seeing into it.

Which makes the irony hard to ignore.

The work that may have been dismissed as too commercial, too functional—

is the work that has endured most visibly.

His tables.
His lamps.

Still in use. Still being made. Still shaping how people live.

They last because they aren’t just functional.

They’re resolved.
Balanced.
Considered in the way sculpture is considered.

“I am not a designer.”

It doesn’t read as modesty.

It reads as resistance.

As if claiming that label would place him somewhere lower in a hierarchy he didn’t accept—but still had to navigate.

Because that work made everything else possible.

It funded the sculpture.
The experimentation.
The larger ideas—many of which were never fully realized, but still shaped how he thought about space.

His only realized playground in the U.S., Playscapes,
is in Piedmont Park in Atlanta.

It’s turning 50 this year.

Not something to look at.

Something to move through.

Climb. Sit. Gather.

Which starts to undo the hierarchy entirely.

Because what lasts longer—

the sculpture on a pedestal
or the work people continue to live with, move through, and return to?

There’s something honest in that tension.

Because most creative lives don’t escape it.

Some work pays the bills.
Some work builds the legacy.

And sometimes—

they’re the same thing, just seen differently depending on who’s looking.

Maybe it wasn’t that the work wasn’t art.

Maybe it just didn’t fit the definition of art people were willing to accept.

Not just toward what everyone comes to see—

but toward what you might otherwise miss.

The quieter details.

The things you only notice if you take your time.

I walked Atlanta this weekend.

A city I lived in for over 25 years.

A city I thought I knew.

But five years away changes your vantage point.

The BeltLine is fully alive now— but more built out, more polished.

And I found myself missing some of what it was.

The early street art.

The smaller, unexpected moments along the way.

The quiet stretches that have disappeared.

We went back to Staplehouse.

To the Optimist.

Places that hold memory in their walls.

They felt familiar and just as delicious - but evolved.

Piedmont Park.

The Botanical Garden.

Light moving through the trees.

People in motion.

Nothing new, exactly.

But I noticed more.

Was it because I was not rushed?

Not weighted by the daily demands of life?

At the High Museum,

I moved through the Noguchi exhibition (more to come on that in an upcoming post!)

Form. Space. Attention.

What reveals itself when you give something your time.

And it stayed with me—

this way of seeing.

Not tied to travel.

Not tied to place.

Just the act itself:

Walking.

Looking.

Paying attention.

The scenery changes—

nature, buildings, sidewalks.

But the practice doesn’t.

To stay open.

To notice.

To feel.

These are the moments that stick with me.

The small things that make me stop.

A color, a shape, a corner.

The energy shifts something—quietly.

And find their way into my work.

I was standing in my kitchen when I heard that Bobby had died.

I cried.

I cried again during the broadcast of the memorial service in San Francisco.

And as I write this now, nearly three months later, I’m still crying.

This post has taken me a while to write.

This post isn’t about my art. But it is about me — who I am as a person.

Being a Deadhead, and the music of the Grateful Dead, has shaped a huge part of who I am at my most authentic.

This might surprise people. Most have no idea that I’ve been a Deadhead for nearly forty years, and that I’ve been to well over a hundred shows. Most of those were in the “original” Grateful Dead era, before Jerry died.

I’ve gone to shows with friends from almost every phase of my life. I’ve introduced many people to the band. And some of the best, most memorable moments of my life happened at shows.

But it took me a while to understand why Bobby’s death hit me so hard. Writing this has helped me work through it a bit.

I lived through Brent Mydland dying in the summer of 1990. I was working on Martha’s Vineyard at the time. After a waitressing shift, a group of us were at a bar when the news spread through the room.

This was before the internet. News moved slowly, but somehow we all heard it at once.

We were devastated. The 1989–1990 tours had been incredible. But it wasn’t a complete shock. Brent had been struggling. He died from a speedball overdose.

At the time it felt like a huge loss, but the band kept going.

I graduated from college and got a “real” job that paid very little. My days of jumping on tour at a moment’s notice were over.

But I still went to every show I could.

I missed the feeling of it all — the kindness of the community, the freedom of thousands of people dancing without judgment. The music.

Then Jerry Garcia died in the summer of 1995.

The leader of our band was gone.

We all wondered: was this the end?

I always gravitated toward Jerry’s songs. Bobby — in those famous short shorts — sometimes felt a little too showy to me compared to Jerry’s low-key style.

Looking back, I realize I had taken Bobby for granted while putting Jerry on a pedestal.

I spent hours listening to the cassette tapes I’d collected from my taper friends.

After Jerry’s death, I still followed the music through many of its next chapters — The Other Ones, The Dead, Furthur, RatDog, Fare Thee Well, and later Dead & Company.

The vibe was still there. The band evolved. And, Bobby was the one carrying it forward.

When he brought John Mayer into the fold to form Dead & Company, something shifted for me.

I started to see Bobby differently — his love of the music, his dedication to the craft, and the way his rhythm guitar worked almost like a second lead instrument.

More than anything, his leadership kept the music alive for new generations.

He kept creating spaces where people could feel at home — no matter who they were, or who they were becoming.

Because the Grateful Dead were never just a band.

They created temporary worlds.

For a few hours — or sometimes a whole weekend on tour — the normal rules disappeared. People were kinder. Strangers danced together. No one cared how you looked or who you were supposed to be.

And that’s why I kept coming back.

No pretense. Just love.

Incredible music that always held surprises.

Come as you are. Dance however you want. Feel the music. Live the lyrics.

Every night was different.

You met new friends. Ran into old ones. Heard songs you cherished.

I remember one night at a show in Raleigh with family. Thousands of people dancing together, strangers smiling at each other like old friends, the band stretching a song into something that felt almost timeless, the energy pure love.

Moments like that remind me why this music mattered so much.

It was a bubble — a kind, loving bubble — that reminded you what really mattered.

Last spring we saw the band at the Sphere. Our last shows with Bobby.

The incredible 3D visual world built from decades of Dead iconography elevated the music even further. The second year was somehow even better than the first.

And I got to share the experience with my daughter, whose dad was a huge fan too.

I’m sure the music will evolve again, the way it always has.

But I want to say thank you to Bobby — for the years of music, community, and that strange, beautiful traveling circus we all got to be part of.

Without him, so much of it would never have existed.

Here’s to the music continuing for another 300 years — and to all of us lucky enough to have taken the trip.

Fare you well, fare you well. I love you more than words can tell.

If you’re new here, welcome. I usually write about art, travel, museums, and the practice of curiosity.

We often think of art as something fixed—a composition, a palette, a finished piece on the wall. But the experience of it is anything but static.

Because the light in your space is always changing.

Morning light is soft and directional. It reveals texture.

Midday light flattens and brightens, pulling color forward.

Evening light warms everything, deepening tones and softening contrast.

The same piece can elicit a completely different feeling.

It’s something I’ve started paying closer attention to, not just in the studio, but in the spaces we live in and visit.

A room isn’t one thing. It evolves throughout the day.

What feels calm in the morning might feel energized by afternoon.

What feels subtle in one light begins to glow in another.

And the art within that space becomes part of that rhythm.

The pieces we’re drawn to often aren’t just about color or composition—they’re about a feeling we want to live inside.

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A sense of calm.

A sense of energy.

A sense of being grounded, or inspired, or open.

But what’s interesting is that feelings aren’t fixed either.

They, too, can shift with the light.

A painting that feels quiet and atmospheric in the morning might feel rich and immersive by evening.

A piece with movement might feel bold in bright light, and contemplative as shadows settle in.

Spaces aren’t designed for a single moment—they’re designed to be lived in, across many moments, and changing light patterns.

And the art we choose becomes something we return to again and again, seeing it differently each time.

Not because it’s changed.

But because the light has.

Maybe that’s what we’re really choosing when we bring art into our homes—not just how it looks, but how we want to feel, in every kind of light.

It was a refuge when I was a teenager.

The collection is deep enough that it never feels the same twice—something shifts, something rotates, something you didn’t notice before suddenly does.

This time felt different.

I was there with my fiancé.

He’s not an “art person,” by his own admission.

And that’s fine—I’m artsy enough for both of us. Between making art, collecting it, and spending hours in museums, I’ve got that covered.

Still, I wanted him to experience MoMA.

Not in a see everything way—but in a let me show you what I love way.

When I’m with someone who doesn’t naturally gravitate toward museums, I think about time differently.

An hour, maybe ninety minutes.

Enough to spark something.

Not so long that everything starts to blur together.

We started on the fourth floor—where I always come back to.

To me, it’s the heart of MoMA.

Scale. Gesture. Color. Presence.

We moved slowly.

Standing in front of One: Number 31, 1950 by Jackson Pollock, I told him to step back first.

Then move closer.

To feel the rhythm instead of trying to make sense of it.

In front of No. 37/No. 19 (Slate Blue and Brown on Plum) by Mark Rothko, we stayed longer.

It’s the kind of work that doesn’t reveal itself right away.

Your eyes adjust. Your body settles.

And then something shifts.

That’s the thing I’ve come to believe about art.

It’s not about understanding.

It’s about noticing what happens in you.

Some works still carry that immediate force.

Woman I by Willem de Kooning, all tension and push-pull.

Color that seems to move, then still, in a painting by Joan Mitchell.

These works aren’t asking to be solved.

They’re asking you to stay.

One of my favorite spaces at MoMA is the rotating Artist’s Choice installation.

Currently curated by Arthur Jafa, this space invites artists to pull works from across the collection and place them in conversation in a single room.

Different styles. Different voices.

Not a timeline—a point of view.

That’s what stayed with me this visit.

Not just the individual works, but the idea that how you choose to see—and place—things matters almost as much as the work itself.

The conversation shifted.

He wasn’t asking what things meant anymore.

He was reacting.

What he liked. What he didn’t. What felt like something.

Watching that happen—watching him connect in his own way—felt unexpectedly meaningful.

Like a small window into how he sees.

And somehow, that brings you a little closer.

Case in point: Jean-Michel Basquiat.

If you come to him after Pollock or de Kooning, you may start to notice something familiar.

Gesture, energy, a kind of controlled chaos.

But there’s something else layered in.

Language. Symbols. Urgency.

It lands more like music—you feel it first, then decide what it means, if anything.

For me, I’m drawn to the marks and symbolism.

For him, not so much.

It didn’t connect. It felt unsettling. Almost cryptic.

And that’s perfectly ok.

I used to think loving art meant understanding it.

That might be the art history major in me.

Now I think it’s something else.

It’s about recognizing what you’re drawn to.

What holds your attention.

What stays with you after you’ve left.

It’s about what you keep returning to.

Without needing to know why.

I grew up just outside New York City—close enough to get in, far enough that it took effort. The train cost money. The car, if it was already filled, felt free.

So I’d go.

Sometimes it was Canal Street—searching for things you couldn’t find in the mall. But more often, it was the museums.

The Met. MoMA. The Frick. The Guggenheim.

I didn’t go with a plan. I wandered.

A few dollars at the entrance when I could, slipping into rooms and following whatever caught my attention that day. Sometimes something new. Sometimes something I needed to see again.

It felt like escape—but looking back, it was something else too.

It was the first time my attention belonged to me.

We had moved to a suburb of New York a few years earlier. From upstate Connecticut, where everything was within reach of a bike, to one where everything required a car.

Two-acre zoning. Long driveways. Quiet streets.

No walking. No spontaneity.

Few friends. A mid-year move. A life interrupted.

I wasn’t a happy teenager.

The day I got my license, something opened up.

A quiet kind of freedom.

The city became a kind of release valve. One of the only places that felt like I could just be me.

As I entered high school, I had been told—very clearly—that my interest in art wasn’t something to pursue.

It was time to focus on getting into the right college.

To build a college resume the admissions people would like.

To study and get good grades.

To be practical.

So I did what I was supposed to do.

Then I got to college.

And I took my first art history class and loved it. Completely.

But I paired it with a double major in economics. A compromise for my father.

I was being practical.

Later, business school. Then marketing.

And for a long time, I told myself that was enough.

Marketing is creative, I’d say.

And in some ways, it is.

But it wasn’t this.

It’s strange how the things you loved early on don’t disappear.

They go quiet.

They get buried under responsibility, expectations, practicality.

And then, years later, they come back.

Not loudly.

But persistently.

I picked up a paintbrush again a few years ago.

The first time in decades.

And something in me recognized it immediately.

The color. The movement. The feeling of something forming without needing to explain it first.

I didn’t overthink it. I just kept going.

And I haven’t stopped.

Now, when I paint, I think about those early days more than I expected to.

The wandering.

The noticing.

The quiet pull toward something I didn’t yet have words for.

No car keys required this time.

Maybe you’ve felt something like that too.

A pull toward something you used to love.

Something you left behind because it didn’t seem practical.

Or didn’t fit.

I don’t think those things ever really leave us.

I think they wait.

When you live in a place with seasons, you come to expect it—the shift.

Summer arrives bright and insistent, pulling color to the surface.

Winter softens everything. Fades the edges. Quietly reshapes the same landscape into something more still.

The same place, just a completely different mood.

But when we travel, we don’t always think about that. Until we’re there. Mesmerized.

Many of us experience a place once—at a single moment in time, or a particular season—and unconsciously decide that’s what it is. The color, the energy, the feeling. It embeds itself in our mind . And we carry that version with us as if it were permanent.

Until we go back.

And realize it, too, is changing. Mother Nature has her ways of expanding our experiences and how we feel things. And it keeps it interesting.

I’ve been lucky enough to visit Maui twice in the past year. The first time, it felt electric. vibrant and alive—the intensity of the oranges, purples and greens, the clarity of the blue water, the energy of summer light saturating everything.

That became my version of Maui, embedded in my mind..

But when we returned this winter, something surprised me.

The light had shifted. The sun’s position was different.

Softer. Calmer. Less charged.

The same ocean, the same coastline—but a completely different emotional experience of the place.

Quieter tones. More space. A slower rhythm.

There were fewer people, a deeper sense of ease—like the island had exhaled.

It made me think how much the sun—its angle, its intensity, its position—shapes what we see. The color of the water. The way shadows fall. The feeling a place carries.

And how easily we can mistake one moment in time for the whole.

The season, the light. Creates the version of a place right then.

Because every place holds more than one version of itself.

And sometimes, you only discover that by returning.

I’m slightly embarrassed to admit how long it took me to visit the Kirkland Museum of Fine & Decorative Art.

For some reason I had convinced myself it was mostly decorative arts — interesting, but maybe not urgent.

Walking through the galleries, it became clear very quickly that the Kirkland isn’t a typical museum experience.

What makes Kirkland so compelling is the way it brings together three worlds — painting, decorative arts, and design — and lets them live together. Instead of isolating objects, the museum creates small vignettes that place furniture, glass and ceramics, lighting, rugs, and paintings in conversation with each other.

Strolling in the galleries felt less like looking at individual pieces and more like stepping into different design eras over a hundred and fifty plus years. My eyes moved from a chair to a painting to a small decorative object and back again, each one helping explain the visual language of that period.

Seeing some of my favorite design areas represented — Arts & Crafts, Art Deco, mid-century modern, Bauhaus, even postmodern — was delightful in this context. Pieces by designers like Charles and Ray Eames and Frank Lloyd Wright weren’t presented as icons on their own, but as part of a broader visual story.

As someone relatively new to Colorado, I was also struck by how much the museum reveals about the region’s artistic history. The Colorado fine art collection traces generations of artists, many of whom studied under Vance Kirkland himself.

And then there’s Kirkland.

Before visiting, I knew almost nothing about him. I learned his painting career spanned over sixty and evolved through various styles. Seeing his studio preserved in the museum — was captivating. Toward the end of his life he created enormous paintings and suspended himself from the ceiling in straps so he could reach the center of the canvas and finish the precise dots he applied using wooden dowels of various sizes.

Standing in that studio, you could almost picture him there — suspended in those straps, working his way across the canvas.

By the time I left the Kirkland Museum, I realized what makes it special isn’t just the art, collectibles or furniture pieces.

It’s the context.

Seeing paintings, furniture, ceramics, and objects from the same period in time changes the way you look at each of them. Individually, pieces are iconic. But the sum of the parts is greater than the whole, so to speak. Because together they transport you to that moment in time.

The museum is about individual pieces and more about imaging the creative world and time that produced them.

And once you start seeing those connections, it’s hard to stop.

Do you have a museum that changed the way you see art or design?

I’d love to hear about it.

I went live on Substack for the first time.

And like most things that feel intimidating beforehand, it was far less scary once it started.

from The Artful Desk invited artists to join a live conversation about their favorite studio supplies and setups.

This was back in late January. I had just finished writing down my goals for the year, and one of them was simple:

Do more things.

Put myself out there.

Last year I found myself increasingly tired of the performative nature of social media.

The kind that feels hollow. Necessary, maybe—but hollow.

And then there’s the cringey algorithmic machine behind it all: the incentives toward division, outrage, and attention at any cost.

But I digress.

That frustration was part of why I started Studio Notes here on Substack in the first place.

I’ve been reading here for several years and have always loved the writing and conversations.

I wanted a space that felt different from the “metaverse.”

A place to be more authentic.

To connect with people who genuinely care about art, curiosity, and paying attention to the world.

A place where I could share my thoughts, my art practice, and build community.

And honestly? I love talking about art.

The benefits of art.

Looking at it.

Making it.

Sitting quietly with it.

And curiosity.

Talking shop

And supplies? What artist doesn’t love talking about their supplies.

Learning about new materials.

Sharing discoveries.

Geeking out about tools that make the process better.

And studio setups.

I got my own studio last September, and it was a game changer for my practice. I’m constantly experimenting with small tweaks that make the space work better.

So, when invited artists to join her live, I raised my hand.

And here we are.

It turned out to be so much fun to talk shop with another artist- thank you Tanya!

Also: much scarier in my head than it was in reality.

Although I’ll be honest…

I still cringe a little when I see myself on video.

Video is just not my jam to watch — or be featured in.

Maybe that changes with practice.

Or maybe it doesn’t.

Either way, I’m doing the thing.

Tanya also wrote a thoughtful recap of our conversation, including a Q&A about my studio setup and favorite supplies.

You can read the full conversation, on her Substack, The Artful Desk. The link below will take you there - and the Live recording is paid subscribers, if you’d like to check it out!

The Artful Desk

The Artful Desk LIVE with featured artist Dawn McGreevey

Dawn McGreevey…

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2 months ago · 3 likes · Tanya Kucey

If you’re an artist, I’m curious:

What’s your current favorite art supply?

Studio Notes is where I share reflections on art, travel, curiosity, and the creative process.

If that resonates with you, I’d love for you to subscribe and follow along. It’s free.

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Tuesday at 1pm PST, I’m going live from my studio with Tanya Kucey of the Artful Desk.

We’ll talk about the art supplies I return to again and again — and the curiosity behind the work.

The residue of travel.

A feeling I can’t shake.

An atmosphere captured.

For me, the studio is where those things come to life, jumping from my sketchbook onto the canvas. That openness is what eventually becomes the work you live with — the layers, the color, the feeling that settles into a cherished space.

I’d love to see you there.

Tuesday at 1pm PST

A horse coin, sitting there at one of the little shops you wander into after you eat, filled with all sorts of Chinese imports. It was January and they were fully stocked for the Year of the Horse. I paid a few dollars, slipped it in my pocket, and walked back out into the afternoon sun.

Ah yes, we’re moving from the Year of the Snake into the Year of the Horse.

And something clicked in my mind as we drove out of the city and to the beach.

I've followed the lunar calendar for years — ever since I spent three weeks traveling through China in 2012. Something about the way it frames time, as cycles with intention rather than just months ticking by, stayed with me. It's a way of paying attention.

The Snake year was not easy. It wasn’t supposed to be.

Snake energy is internal — shedding, coiling, planning in the dark. A lot of us spent this past year doing quiet, invisible work. Building things no one could see yet. Sitting with questions instead of answers.

If you felt like you were moving slowly, or circling the same ideas, or just... waiting for something to shift — that was the Snake doing exactly what it does.

I wrote about this back in January — about all the open calls I bookmarked and never applied to last year. About finally doing it this year. My Snake year preparation and planning moved into action.

I’m an Earth Monkey.

You probably don’t know anything about Earth Monkeys, but we’re the ones who watch, analyze, and build carefully. We’ve been around long enough to know that patience is a skill — but so is recognizing when patience shades into delay.

The Snake year gave me permission to stay in the work, keep refining, keep preparing. And I did.

But there’s a moment when that shifts. When the preparation is complete and what’s needed is simply to move.

The Horse? The Horse understands that moment.

Horse energy is motion.

Expansion. Charging forward without second-guessing every step.

And what I love about the Snake-to-Horse transition is that it’s not reckless — everything the Snake quietly built is what the Horse now carries into the world. The groundwork holds. You just have to trust it and go.

The coin felt like a sign. Or maybe just a well-timed reminder. The inner work, the studio play, the ideas I’ve been sitting with and slowly shaping — they’re ready.

I’m ready.

So here’s what I’ve been asking myself, and what I’ll leave with you:

What did you build in the quiet?

The Snake year asked something of all of us — whether you follow the lunar calendar or not. It asked for patience, for depth, for preparation. The Horse year is the door swinging open.

You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to be willing to get out there and run.

I’ve got my coin and I carry it in my purse as reminder that this year is the Year of the Horse.

What are you bringing into the gallop?

Curious where you land? Look up your Chinese zodiac sign and see how the Horse year speaks to you. It’s a good rabbit hole.

This wasn’t my first visit to Albert Frey’s iconic Frey II House. It embodies the Desert Modernism style of architecture, built in the mountain above Palm Springs.

But this time, I came with a plan: sit by the pool, sketch and observe the feelings and the details.

People talk about the desert as harsh, but the winter season is something else entirely. The air is soft. The light stretches. Color arrives quietly—small blooms, pale greens, hints of yellow that feel like a promise rather than a statement.

This house meets the desert exactly there.

What I Noticed This Time

I observed a few things I hadn’t seen before.

The pool, for one. It was poured directly over a boulder in the mountain, creating a gradual, stair‑less entry. No interruption. A small detail, new to me. And keep in mind, it was built in 1963-1964.

Smooth rocks, I learned that were sourced from a local riverbed, add a small natural detail to the concrete surrounding the pool.

Inside, the yellow curtains in the bedroom caught my eye. They’re custom‑shaped, tapering the fabric to be shorter where the boulder is larger, hanging perfectly over the boulder and the floor alike. The shade of yellow wasn’t arbitrary either. It was chosen to echo the first desert blooms after winter.

Nothing here is accidental.

Albert Frey, Out of Place (Until He Wasn’t)

Albert Frey grew up in Switzerland, trained in Europe with Le Corbusier, and spent time in New York before the desert ever entered his life. He said he never felt at home in a big city.

Frey arrived in Palm Springs and stayed—for decades. The landscape spoke to him. His career spanned more than sixty years, long enough to see desert modernism rise, fade, and return again during the Palm Springs Mid-Century Modern revival of the 1990s, when his work was rediscovered and newly appreciated.

A House Built Around Light

Frey spent a year studying the light on the mountain at all times of day and seasons—how it moves, reflects, softens, sharpens. At the Frey II House, you feel those studies in the small details, angles and views.

Winter light is majestic here. It slides across stone. It settles on steel. It warms without overwhelming. The house feels calibrated to it, like an instrument tuned to a specific frequency. I’ve not visited in summer, but I’d be willing to bet it works just as well, tuned for the bright summer light of the desert.

Sitting still, you notice how the house doesn’t frame the landscape—it complements it, and they almost become one.

Being Curious, Staying Put

For the most part, I stayed near the pool while the docent lectured inside. Here, I observed small details I hadn’t noticed on previous visits. And, connected on a deeper, emotional level with this iconic house.

The Frey II House doesn’t demand movement. It rewards stillness.

And maybe that’s the real lesson it offered me this visit: that curiosity doesn’t always mean searching. Sometimes it means staying long enough for details to find you—and letting what you notice follow you home.

To sit with a place. To let it speak first. And to stay curious enough to notice what’s been there all along.

What might reveal itself if you stayed a little longer at or in a place?

I bookmarked them.

I saved them.

I read the requirements over and over.

And then…

I didn’t apply.

I told myself I was being thoughtful. Strategic. Discerning.

But if I’m honest, it was probably fear—though I’m still not sure which kind.

• Fear of rejection?

• Fear of success?

• Fear of putting something out there before I felt “ready”?

It wasn’t like I was working in isolation

Last year, I was part of a community studio where I practiced for six months before moving into my own studio space.

I showed up daily.

I made work.

I participated in critiques.

I listened. I shared.

The feedback was consistently positive.

In July, during one of those critiques, the gallerist said something simple and direct:

It’s time for you to start applying to open calls.

I remember the moment clearly.

And still—I didn’t do it.

So I waited

I delayed building a proper website.

I didn’t fully photograph or document my work.

I agonized over every call:

• Does this fit?

• Is my work good enough?

• Will it resonate with the jury?

This year feels different

Doing the same thing and expecting different results is the definition of insanity.

So this year, I’m approaching my art differently.

I’m putting myself out there.

And if I don’t get accepted?

That’s okay.

Because this year isn’t only about outcomes.

It’s about the process.

It’s about trusting my gut.

It’s about doing the thing—again and again—and building the muscle that comes with it.

Every application makes me better:

• Better at describing my work

• Better at positioning it for specific calls

• Better at understanding how my art might land

• Better at presenting it professionally and confidently

What “being ready” really looks like

Being “ready” for open calls turned out to be less about bravery and more about preparation.

It means:

• Properly photographing my work (not just quick social media snaps) - and documenting in words the feelings and explorations.

• Building a tracker for open calls and artwork details

• Getting serious about writing things down as I make the work

Six months after an inspirational trip that spawns a series of work, I can remember where I was, but many of the details have fallen away.

And my work is more than about a place. It’s about emotions and feelings.

This year is about capturing the details while they’re still alive.

So I did it— I applied

My first open call. January 15th.

I just heard back from the gallery.

I didn’t get in.

There was “overwhelming response” and “lots of strong submissions.”

I don’t know, maybe every call lets you down easy like this?

But here’s the thing:

I did it.

I applied.

I put my work in front of a gallery that fit with my work.

And I landed on the waitlist.

I’m calling that a win—even if it never goes any further.

The real shift

The real shift isn’t whether I got accepted.

It’s that I’ve started showing up.

And once you start, it gets easier.

Less precious.

Less paralyzing.

This year isn’t about waiting until I feel ready.

It’s about becoming ready by doing.

If you’ve been circling something for a while—an idea, a submission, a step you keep putting off—maybe this is your nudge. Not to do it perfectly. Just to do it once. And maybe, that’s all it takes to get moving.

I spent years in the high-intensity corporate world—technology marketing, annual plans, roadmaps, quarters, KPIs. Everything revolved around the calendar year. January wasn’t just a month; it was a reset you were expected to be ready for. Like horses penned up at the gate at the start of a race.

That rhythm taught me how to plan, execute and exceed targets. It worked.

Yet This January, I Didn’t Have It

By the time January 1 arrived, I was exhausted.

Family time. Hosting. Travel.

Ten days of being sick.

Trying to keep my art business moving while staying present for life.

And still, the pressure lingered:

Vision boards. Clear goals. New collections. Start a Substack.

I didn’t have it in me.

A Winter Solstice Shift

I took an online winter solstice workshop with the fabulous Natalie Biniasz, and something clicked. I sat overlooking a grey morning on Mission Bay in San Diego, thinking about her words and my then-current state of feeling: behind.

I realized I was still operating based on a system designed for corporate planning cycles—not for a human being, and certainly not for a creative life, practice and business.

Winter isn’t meant for expansion.

It’s meant for rest, integration, and quiet incubation.

Yet January asks us to behave as if it’s spring.

No wonder it feels wrong at this point in my life.

Living With the Seasons Instead

Living with the seasons aligns how you live and work with natural rhythms—rather than forcing the same pace year-round.

The biggest shift for me came with a simple truth:

Now that I run my own business, it doesn’t have to be like that.

My work doesn’t need an annual plan that starts in January to be valid.

My creativity doesn’t have to (and doesn’t) operate on quarters.

My energy doesn’t reset on command.

What This Means for My Art

This reframing gave me permission to slow down without guilt.

To let ideas stay unformed.

To trust that fallow time feeds future work.

To stop measuring everything by output.

Creativity is cyclical.

So is energy.

So is a meaningful life.

An Invitation (Not a Resolution)

Instead of asking:

What do I need to accomplish this year?

I’m asking:

What season am I in—and what does it need?

For now, the answer is stillness.

Paying attention.

Letting things unfold slowly.

The year will open when it’s ready.

So will I.

I didn’t.

Not because I don’t love painting. I do.

Not because I don’t believe a daily sketchbook practice will help my work. I do.

Not because I’m not a morning person or can’t get up 30 minutes earlier. I am.

But while I talked a good game, I didn’t consistently do it.

A different approach

This year, I’m taking a different approach.

I reconnected with James Clear’s Atomic Habits (such a great book—I highly recommend it) while listening to a Mel Robbins podcast, and something clicked.

He talks about focusing on the small things—the habits—that get you to your goal.

And then asking a simple question:

How do you make it so easy, you almost can’t fail?

So I looked honestly at where I was getting stuck.

Where the friction was

• My painting standing desk is usually a mess at the end of the day

• My brushes were dirty

• I needed to prioritize my health (I started 2025 with a locked-up back), so PT, the gym, and yoga took precedence in the mornings

Then I noticed something else.

I’m better at keeping up with my sketchbook when I’m traveling than when I’m home.

Huh.

Why can I prepare supplies for every trip—but not for my everyday practice?

Because when I travel, the sketchbook is something I look forward to.

I love capturing small moments on the go—recording the memories, feelings, and colors of a place.

Those moments fuel my work.

Building habits that support the practice

So this year, I’m focusing on small habits that remove friction and make showing up easier:

• Check my desk before bed—cleaned off and ready to go

• Clean my brushes right after painting (and definitely before bed)

• Keep the sketchbook open on my desk, not tucked away

• Tune into how I’m feeling during morning pages (which I do right before) and bring that energy into the sketchbook

• Light Palo Santo to clear the space and welcome creativity

• Set a 20-minute timer and stay in motion—no expectations

• Make notes afterward about the colors, marks, and what I’m loving

The real goal

The goal isn’t productivity.

It’s continuity.

Showing up consistently doesn’t come from willpower.

It comes from removing friction—making the practice feel like a natural beginning to the day instead of a burden.

Some days the pages will be quiet.

Some days messy.

Some days surprisingly alive.

All of it counts.

I’m not trying to be impressive.

I’m trying to be present.

Here’s today’s sketchbook practice.

I plan to share more here. I don’t want this to feel performative, so I haven’t figured out the cadence yet—but that will come.

Baby steps.

Dawn

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I’m Dawn. I’m an abstract artist, a lifelong traveler, and someone who believes art deserves more space than a caption.

I spent last year sharing my work online in small, cropped squares—trying to compress ideas, places, emotions, and process into something fast and digestible. And while I’m grateful for the connections that came from that, I’ve been craving something slower. Deeper. More human.

I’ve been thinking about a Substack for a while as I’m an avid reader and love the thoughtfulness and vibe here. So, I finally decided to just do it. As they say, perfect is the enemy of the good.

Being an artist is, for me, about staying open, curious and paying attention.

I’ll be writing about:

• The places that move me—coastlines, quiet towns, cities with soul

• Museums, architecture and design, and art that catches my eye

• What’s happening in my studio: the work I’m making, my sketchbook practice and the play.

My work is abstract, but it’s always rooted in something real: memory, landscape, color, atmosphere. I think of my paintings as bringing to life the moments and emotions of a life fully felt.

This isn’t a sales feed. It’s a studio door left open.

If you’re someone who loves art, travel, and paying attention—to spaces, to feeling, to beauty —you’re very welcome here. Drop me a line, say hi.

Dawn

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