Tag: Thanksgiving

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Why my art gallery isnā€™t doing Black Friday

Toy Reindeer with double rainbow, oil on archival canvasboard, 6X8, $435 framed, includes shipping in continental US.

When I lived in Rochester, I used to have a Black Friday sale the weekend after Thanksgiving. It was a chance to sell unframed work at discounted prices and see and thank my collectors. However, I now live in a town of 3,644 permanent residents. It just wouldnā€™t work.

Anyway, Black Friday was just an excuse for a party. I canā€™t compete with Walmart or Target on doorbusters, and nobody is going to get in a 6 AM fight in my gallery. I donā€™t have pallets of flat-screen TVs wrapped in shrink-film, and my idea of a limited-time offer is when the last streak of sunset slips behind Beech Hill.

Toy Monkey and Candy, oil on archival canvasboard, $435 framed.

With a large family I have Christmas shopping of my own to do, so I too scan Black Friday sales. As always, Iā€™m struck by how ephemeral the stuff on deep discount is. Many are bargain gifts that recipients will have completely forgotten by February, which is why Iā€™m impressed when people like my friend Sharron put their effort into warm hats for the needy instead of focusing on shopping.

I understand that we have to shop. And thereā€™s excitement in the chase. But here in my studio, the only line youā€™ll stand in is the one that leads you closer to your easel. The only rush is the thrill of color. Everything sells out because itā€™s limited-edition (except Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters, which is a learn-at-your-own-speed online class). That includes my workshops and Zoom classes because I keep them small.

It’s especially true of paintings. Original art is the antithesis of shopping frenzy; itā€™s about stillness. When you buy from a real artist, youā€™re not just purchasing wall dĆ©cor. Youā€™re taking home a moment that actually happened, a slice of time the artist stood in, the air he or she breathed, and his or her personal translation into paint. Itā€™s the way morning fog lifts off Beech Hill, or how the spruce shadows stretch long and blue across winter snow. Iā€™ve never seen those things in a doorbuster bin.

Grand Canyon at sunset, oil on canvasboard, 9X12, $696 includes shipping and handling in continental United States.

Of course, I run a business, and businesses need customers. So yes, I have to market my workshops, classes and paintings. Iā€™m truly grateful when my work finds a place in your home or that of someone you love.

On Friday, while others wake up at dawn to chase bargains, Iā€™ll be going outside because itā€™s my favorite time of day. Iā€™ll take the dogs for a tromp across the fields and Iā€™ll watch the sun rise (unless itā€™s raining or snowing, in which case Iā€™ll watch the gloaming lift).

If you find yourself exhausted by the noise of the season, step inside my online art shop, and just immerse yourself in paintings. I promise, there will be no shoving.

Prom Shoes 2, oil on archival canvasboard, 6X8, $435.

On that note, thank you to all my kind readers, friends, students and collectors. Enjoy this holiday, wherever youā€™re spending it.

Registration is now open for workshops in 2026! Reserve your spot:

Can’t commit to a full workshop? Work online at your own pace:

Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters

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Today I’m thankful for the helpers.

Pine Tree State, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $435 framed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

My friend Laura Miner loves to quote Mr. Rogers at me every time there’s a disaster. “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.'”

I can’t say I watch much news, scary or otherwise, but I’m keenly aware of the helpers. They always seem to be with me. Most recently, my friend and student Karen Ames learned that my brushes were lost when my painting pack went AWOL in Arizona. She promptly mailed me a beautiful selection of Rosemary hog bristle brushes. “I wasn’t using them and I know you needed them,” she said. I was very touched.

Early Spring on Beech Hill, oil on archival canvasboard, Carol L. Douglas, 12X16, $1449 framed includes shipping in continental US.

Have you ever done a good deed and never received a thank you? When I was 14, my brother was in a crash that killed him, his two classmates, and a passenger in the other vehicle. Our house was pandemonium, so I slipped out and walked to the neighbors. Dear old Mr. and Mrs. Adler took one look at my ashen face and gave me a large glass of brandy. I had no experience with spiritous liquor; I choked and sputtered, but it did make me feel better. Of course, I never thanked them; 14-year-olds are ingrates at the best of times, and that was the worst of times. They’re both gone now, but I’ve never forgotten that simple act of kindness.

Never assume that your small deeds don’t have an impact, or that the recipients aren’t grateful. It may take a snotty teenager decades to realize her indebtedness, but she’ll eventually get there.

It’s not always easy or cheap to be kind. For example, you’re late to work for the third time and the car in front of you is potting along at 20 MPH below the speed limit. (My daughter, who inherited her lead foot from me, says that Maine’s state motto is “35 MPH was good enough for Grandpa, and it’s good enough for me.”) How tempting it is to blow the horn, yell, and tailgate. You finally manage to pass and you realize that the old lady driver has a death-grip on the wheel; she’s the same age your mom would be if she were still alive. You’re suddenly very relieved that you didn’t act like a jerk.

At Rest in Camden Harbor, 12X16, oil on birch, $1159 unframed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

Artists are famously broke. They’re also, paradoxically, among the most generous of people. I left my quinacridone magenta home when I was at the Sedona Plein Air Festival. There was none to be purchased anywhere in town. Casey Cheuvront immediately gave me a big dollop of the closest thing she had, dioxazine purple. Later, Ed Buonvecchio loaned me a tube of magenta. I’ve never run short of something, broken something, or forgotten something that an artist hasn’t immediately stepped forward with an offer to help.

Old Wyoming Homestead, 9×12, oil on archival canvasboard, $696 unframed includes shipping and handling in continental US.

People sometimes talk about ‘paying it forward’ but most helpers aren’t thinking of kindness as a debit/credit sheet. They’re not treating the universe as a giant karmic apparatus that repays their kindnesses with benefits. They’re just being kind. That’s because kindness is not a zero-sum game, but rather something that can fill us to overflowing and never run out.

Today I’m thankful for the helpers. Here’s a discount code for all you helpers, which will give you 10% off any painting on this website: THANKYOUPAINTING10

Registration is now open for workshops in 2026! Reserve your spot:

Can’t commit to a full workshop? Work online at your own pace:

Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters

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I’m thankful for you, dear readers

Primary Shapes, 6X8, oil on archival canvasboard, $435 includes shipping and handling in the continental US.

First among the many things for which I’m thankful are you, the people who read my blog and are part of my community. This blog started almost two decades ago as a very clunky essay on WordPress, with almost no readers and rather stilted writing. That was back when my website was called Painter of Blight as a cruel mockery of Thomas Kinkade. We should not speak ill of the dead, and, anyway, I outgrew sophomoric humor. I think.

From there I migrated to Blogger, then to the Bangor Daily News, then back to Blogger and finally home to my own website. I’ve never totally understood the mechanics of moving a blog, which is why only the last move really worked, and why you’ll occasionally come across an old post where the pictures have disappeared.

American Eagle in Drydock, 12X16, $1159 unframed includes shipping in continental US. Do I have a crush on this boat? You bet I do!

Some years I barely wrote at all; others I wrote five days a week. Today this blog goes out to thousands of readers three times a week. It has a very high open rate by industry standards, and that’s down to you. Thank you.

It’s also reposted on social media, where, paradoxically, most people make their comments. (Hint: if you post them here, they last forever. However, you usually must wait for me to approve them. Any website that raises its head above the parapet is prone to denial of service attacks. Then there are the goofballs who think they can plug unrelated websites in the comments. That’s why our security is so high.)

A blog is a partnership between writer and reader. It wouldn’t happen without the input, questions, and ideas that you readers send me. Amazingly, I’ve never been stumped for an idea; right before the well runs dry, one of you always contacts me about something and-bam-there’s another post.

American Eagle rounding Owls Head, 6×8, oil on archival canvasboard, $348 unframed.

I used to write these ideas down in a tiny 35Ā¢ notebook I referred to as my iPod touch. Amazingly, a tiny notebook can still be had for 35Ā¢, but now I store our bright ideas in my computer.

I have a few obsessions besides painting. They are general history, art history, and the gender pay gap in the arts. You’ve traveled down many rabbit holes with me, from this potted history of the art model to the story of Vincent Van Gogh’s sister-in-law.

Today I talked to someone who asked me if I really planned on working until 80. “Yes,” I told him, “If my health holds out.” Some days I’m tired, some days I’m discouraged, but overall I have a tremendous amount of fun doing this gig. Thank you so much.

If you get my newsletters, you know that I’m offering a discount for all workshops for 2024. In appreciation for all my readers, I’m extending that to anyone who reads my blog anywhere. Just use the codeĀ EARLYBIRDĀ at checkout to save $25 on your registration fee (except Sedona; but it’s still a great deal). This offer is good until the end of the year.

“Bracken Fern,” 12X9, oil on canvasboard, $869 framed.

Save the date

I’m planning an online party on Friday, December 1, at 6 PM. More details soon, but you won’t want to miss it.

Registration is now open for workshops in 2026! Reserve your spot:

Can’t commit to a full workshop? Work online at your own pace:

Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters

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Iā€™m thankful, how about you?

Skylarking II, 18X24, $1855 unframed or $2318 includes shipping and handling in continental US.

For the professional artist, marketing is our most important job. People often say, “But you’re doing what you love!” Sadly, artists must buy groceries and pay mortgages and taxes just like everyone else. And while my friend derives great satisfaction from being a surgeon, nobody expects her to work for free.

One can’t sell in America without engaging with Black Friday. In the past, I’ve made haphazard efforts toward Black Friday Sales, but they aren’t a good fit for me. I loathe shopping and Black Friday most of all. My products (paintings and painting instruction) don’t fit the model of Kohl’s or Macy’s, which have limitless items they can mix and max in the advertisements they’ll barrage you with this month.

“Skylarking,” 24X36, oil on canvas, $3,188 unframed or $3985 framed, includes shipping in continental US.

On Friday, I had a brainstorm that will radically change my blog for the remainder of November. Instead of focusing on Black Friday, why not explore thanksgiving?

For years, I publicly counted my blessings every November. This year, I’ve been a little shaken on my pins. Mired in worry, I completely forgot about that practice. But it’s never too late to start practicing gratitude.

Breaking storm, 48X30, oil on canvas, $5,579 framed includes shipping in continental US.

What’s in it for you?

For much of my adult life, I believed the ‘black dog’ of depression was my lot. My father and grandmother both died of it, and I experienced significant trauma as a child. Psychologists reinforced the idea that my depression needed management, not banishment.

I’m not saying that the simple act of counting my blessings cured my depression-it was a far bigger transition than that. (And if you want to hear it, you’ll have to email me, because I’m not getting into it on a public forum.) But counting my blessings played a tremendously big part of making me the larky person I am today.

Larky Morning at Rockport Harbor, 11X14, on archival drymounted linen, $869 unframed includes shipping in continental US.

But don’t take my word for it:

  • Many studies have shown that expressing gratitude can lead to increased happiness and reduced symptoms of depression. Gratitude helps shift our focus from what we lack to what we have, and that promotes a more positive mindset.
  • Studies have also shown that gratitude improves our physical health. Grateful people have stronger immune systems, lower blood pressure, and a decreased likelihood of developing illnesses.
  • Gratitude strengthens our relationships. We all tend to like people who acknowledge and appreciate our good points, far more than the person who carps at us. Expressing gratitude fosters a sense of closeness and connection.
  • Gratitude leads to increased resilience during challenging times. It allows individuals to reframe difficult situations and find silver linings, promoting a more adaptive response to stress and adversity.
  • Cultivating an attitude of gratitude enhances our emotional well-being. Regularly acknowledging the things we are thankful for can lead to more joy, optimism, and contentment. This, in turn, contributes to our overall sense of well-being and satisfaction.
  • Gratitude prepares your brain to be altruistic. Grateful individuals tend to be more empathetic and generous. As you can imagine, this can create a positive cycle of kindness and giving in one-on-one relationships and collective activities. (This cycle of kindness, by the way, is one of the main things I value in my church.)
  • Gratitude and self-compassion are integrally related to mindfulness. Gratitude involves focusing on our present blessings. This helps reduce the chatter of anxiety, promoting a more balanced state of mind. That quiets the voices that tell us we’re insufficient, unqualified, or just plain bad.

For the rest of November, my Monday and Wednesday posts will focus on thankfulness. Fridays will still be about paintings, to fulfill a promise to my business partner Laura.

Registration is now open for workshops in 2026! Reserve your spot:

Can’t commit to a full workshop? Work online at your own pace:

Seven Protocols for Successful Oil Painters

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Monday Morning Art School: pie crusts and pie plates for Thanksgiving

In the past, I threw in the pie crust recipe as a teaser to get people to learn how to draw ellipses. These days, pie crust is a dying art, so that might be the most important part.

Drawing the pie plate

The red lines are the ellipse and its vertical and horizontal axes. The two sides of the axes are mirror images of each other, side to side and top to bottom.

When drawing round objects, we have to look for the ellipses, which are just elongated circles. Ellipses have a horizontal and a vertical axis, and they’re always symmetrical (the same on each side) to these axes.

Same axes, just tipped.

This is always true. Even when a dish is canted on its side, the rule doesn’t change; it’s just that the axes areĀ no longer vertical or horizontal to the viewer.

This was where I learned that I couldn’t balance a pie plate on the dashboard in my husband’s old minivan.

As always, I started byĀ taking basic measurements, this time of the ellipse that forms the inside rim of the pie plate. (My measurements won’t match what you see because of lens distortion.)

An ellipse isn’t pointed like a football and it isn’t a race-track oval, either.

The inside rim of the bowl.

It’s possible to draw an ellipse mathematically, but for sketching purposes, just draw a short flat line at each axis intersection and sketch the curve freehand from there.

The horizontal axis for the bottom of the pie plate.

There are actually four different ellipses in this pie plate. For each one, I estimate where the horizontal axis and end points will be. The vertical axis is the same for all of them.

Three of the four ellipses are in place.

Next, I find the horizontal axis for the rim, and repeat with that. Most vessels are just a stack of ellipses; it’s the same idea over and over. Figure out what the height and width of each ellipse is, and draw a new horizontal axis for that ellipse. Then sketch in that ellipse.

Four ellipses stacked on the same vertical axis.

Because ofĀ perspective, the outer edge of the rim is never on the same exact horizontal axis as the inner edge, but every ellipse is on the same vertical axis. We must observe, experiment, erase and redraw at times. Here all four ellipses are in place. Doesn’t look much like a pie plate yet, but it will.

The suggestion of rays to set the fluted edges.

If I’d wanted, I could have divided the edge of the dish by quartering it with lines. I could have then drawn smaller and smaller units and gotten the fluted edges exactly proportional. But that isn’t important right now. Instead, I lightly sketched a few crossed lines to help me get the fluting about right. It’s starting to look a little more like a pie plate.

Voila! A pie plate!

Now that you’ve tried this with a pie plate, you can practice with a bowl, a vase, a wine glass, or any other glass vessel.

Double Pie Crust

2.5 cups all-purpose white flour, plus extra to roll out the crusts

2 tablespoons sugar

1 Ā¼ teaspoon salt

12 tablespoons lard, slightly above refrigerator temperature, cut into Ā½” cubes.

8 tablespoons butter, slightly above refrigerator temperature, cut into Ā½” cubes.

7 teaspoons ice water

Thoroughly blend the dry ingredients. (I use a food processor, but the process is the same if you’reĀ cutting the fat in by hand.) Cut in the shortening (lard and butter) with either aĀ pastry blenderĀ or by pulsing your food processor with the metal blade. It’s ready when it is the consistency of coarse corn meal. (If it’s smooth, you’ve overblended.) Sprinkle ice water over the top, then mix by hand until you can form a ball of dough. If the dough seems excessively dry, you can add another teaspoon of ice water, but don’t go nuts.

Divide that ball in two and flatten into disks. Wrap each disk in wax paper, toss the wrapped disks into a sealed container and refrigerate until you’re ready to use them.

Don’t worry if the dough appears to be incompletely mixed or the ball isn’t completely smooth; mine comes out best when it looks like bad skin.

Let the dough warm just slightly before you start to roll it out. And while you don’t want to smother the dough with flour when rolling, you need enough on both the top and the bottom of the crust that it doesn’t stick. If you’re doing this right, you should be able to roll the crust right up onto your rolling pin and unroll it into your pie plate with a neat flourish.

(If you’ve never rolled out a pie crust,Ā watch this.)

I use this crust for single- or double-crusted, fruit and savory pies. (If you make an extra double-batch you can make a turkey pot pie on Friday.)

Persistent clouds along the Upper Wash, 11X14, Carol L. Douglas, $1087

When I did Friday’s workshop post, I didn’t have the details on my new Austin workshop. I’m super-psyched about this new offering, which is the brainchild of my student Mark Gale. Austin offers a wealth of possibilities to theĀ plein airĀ painter, ranging from historic architecture, beautiful parks, and the urban energy of this cosmopolitan, quirky capitol city. But, honestly, I’m just as excited about seeing old friends, eating barbeque, and painting bluebonnets.

You can learn more here.