My first expression of this style was inspired by Ms. O’Keeffe’s Red Tree, Yellow Sky, which I’d seen years ago on a visit to Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts.

I’d been wandering somewhat aimlessly around the galleries and when this caught my eye, it had me rooted to the spot for several minutes, staring.  I can’t even say what it is, just that this painting speaks to me so much I almost feel like I painted it myself.

I came back to this image a few years later when painting my beloved Wilson Peak, a mountain that speaks to me so much it almost feels like a direct extension of my soul.  I wanted an image of it that was mine, painted from a photograph I’d taken, reflecting my style and my artistic sensibilities.  And my love of bright, contrasting colors.  The final result: Yellow Sky, Red Mountain.

I painted this in the summer of 2006 in my kitchen in Providence, Rhode Island, in the middle of a relentless heat wave, an electrical storm raging outside, O.A.R.’s “Crazy Game of Poker” playing in my ears: Just one answer, gotta throw it all down and kiss it goodbye.  I was in the midst of a personal revolution, about to throw away a stable life–a job, a lease–pack everything in my car and head west to Los Angeles.  I poured all of myself–my fears, my hopes, my dreams–into this painting.

Right now it is hanging over my writing desk in my West Hollywood apartment, half a block below Sunset.  I’m staring at it as I type this.

That same summer, I had an idea for another painting, inspired by an Ansel Adams photograph in a calendar I was using.  The photograph is of Big Bird Peak in Dead Man Canyon, in California’s Kings Canyon National Park, taken circa 1932.  And I just thought it was stunning.

And of course I wanted to paint it.  In green and purple.  I even sat one warm evening on the porch of my house and sketched out an outline.

I even painted the sky, green and textured and cloudless.  And then I moved to Los Angeles, and for some reason I can’t quite remember, I left it languishing at my parents’ house in Connecticut, perhaps worried that it wouldn’t fit in my overstuffed car.

When I went back to Connecticut in March, three months ago, I found myself in the playroom over the garage, digging for relics from my past, and in the far corner, I found this canvas, outlined, green sky painted, begging to be finished.

And so I dusted it off, packed it in the bottom of my suitcase (after swapping out for a bigger one, but there are plenty of suitcases also languishing in my parents’ playroom), and brought it back to Los Angeles.  And last night, I finally finished it.

That’s not the finished product.  I just love pictures like this, watching a painting emerge from a blank canvas as if it was always there and you’re just uncovering it, erasing the white film that was obscuring the image.  And then when you’re done removing that film, you’re left with something like this:

The painting is now for sale on Etsy, and while it will be hard to part with, I expect to be painting more pieces in a similar style.  I feel like I’ve finally found my voice, my own unique breed of art, and it’s something I want to continue to explore and express.

But Passover is also about the coming of spring–rebirth and renewal. Spring has always been my favorite season, those early hints of sunshine and warmth after a long, cold, lonely winter. Growing up in the Northeast, I would take full advantage, spending the first really warm days sprawled out on the grass. In fact, it was the Main Green at Brown University that made me decide to go to college there.

I was on a tour on a gorgeous June day back in 1996 and the Green was full of students, like in the video above, and all I wanted was to leave the group and join the kids on the grass.  Soon enough, I was one of those students, and I was far from the only one soaking up the sun in the springtime.  The second there was a hint of spring in the air, the Green would be crowded with kids, in shorts, holding study sessions or throwing a frisbee.

The problem, of course, was that the nice weather never lasted long enough.  Inevitably, the clouds would come and cover the sun, the breeze would kick up, and we’d find ourselves in the midst of those proverbial April showers that usually lasted for weeks.  And then it would be summer.  (Or there was the one spring I spent in Duluth, Minnesota, where it was 30 degrees on June 1, where the wind was so brutal even the seagulls were taking cover).  Which is why I had to move to Los Angeles, where it’s spring pretty much year-round.  75 and sunny.

There are subtle seasonal variations (you’ll notice them if you’re paying close attention), but most of the time, the weather’s just too nice for you to care.  For everyone who told me I’d miss winter, my response is: when it’s 80 degrees in January, you don’t think, “Wow, I really wish it were snowing,” you think, “Wow, it’s really pretty outside.”  And then you laugh at everyone complaining on Facebook about another snowstorm.

Granted, at this exact moment, it’s overcast and probably a cool 65 degrees (that’s the other thing about LA–the weather never really goes above 85 or below 65), but earlier this week it was absolutely stunning, and I could just feel spring in the air.  Spring, and the onset of summer.

And I don’t know, I’m feeling kind of good these days.  Hopeful, for the first time in months.  Despite the weather, it was still a long, bleak winter, what with the recession and my personal job situation (or lack thereof).  The winter of our collective discontent.  But when the sun comes out, it brings possibility with it.  The sense that maybe, just maybe, things are going to get better.

And I’ve been in a happy, cheerful, colorful mood.  Starting with the Easter Eggs.  I had a late start, but I bought the Michael’s in Inglewood out of wooden eggs, and totally went to town:

And then I replanted repainted my tulip garden with tea lights in thirteen shades, all colors of the rainbow: red, coral, orange, gold, yellow, teal, turquoise, blue, periwinkle, purple, lilac, pink and rose.

Just looking at the row of them makes me happy.

And now I have a whole line of bottles and vases on the table in front of me just waiting to be graced with different flowers and designs.

I’m going to be a painting fiend for the next couple days, because I’m going to be selling this weekend at Grassroots Acoustica.  It’s a night of music organized once a month by my friend Mark, raising money for a different charity each time.  This month’s donations are going to benefit Showing People Learning & Technology (SPLAT), a non-profit founded by 13-year-old Michael Guggenheim to provide computers and learning software to children in shelters and low-income housing projects.  It’s a great place for me to showcase my work, listen to great music, and support a local organization.

So yes.  Things are looking up.

In the store it looked kind of busted up, but once I got it home and wiped it down, it turns out it was just really dusty.  Yeah, the top comes off, but that’s better for me.  It makes it easier to paint.

Now the question is: what do I paint on it?

My first thought was the standard, my “signature” Grasses & Moon motif:

Or maybe some Aspens & Leaves:

Or a Flower Explosion?

Or maybe I should go with something else altogether?

I guess what I can’t decide is, when it comes to furniture, is it better to paint something that’s more subtle, something that people might actually want in their living rooms–subtler colors, simpler designs (I can do those too)–or something that’s more arty, more me?

So the question is, what would you want to see on this table?

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And if you choose “Something else entirely”, I would love to hear your ideas of what you think that something else should be.

But then, can you really blame me?  This is what Main Street looks like:

Telluride is also home to what could be considered the world’s most photogenic mountain (my apologies to the Matterhorn), the 14,000 ft. Wilson Peak:

I am not the only one who thinks so.  The people at Coors Light agree, and have plastered it all over their 24-packs and billboards, like this one at the corner of Sunset and La Brea in Hollywood:

Of course, I consider this to be my mountain.  I have ever since January of 2002, when in the wake of 9/11 and some personal drama, I found myself on top of the newly-opened Gold Hill, looking out at Wilson Peak, breathing the crisp, cold mountain air, and realizing that regardless what was going on in the world or in my life, I was okay.  My view then was the same as the one in the above picture, and now I have it framed in black and white on my bedroom wall, where I can see it from my bed.

And it was one of my first sources of inspiration when I started painting again, a version inspired by Georgia O’Keeffe‘s “Red Tree, Yellow Sky” (which I’d seen at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston) that seemed to embody my personal style.

During the winter of 2004/2005, my brother was living in Telluride and working at one of the ski shops, and I decided to go visit him.  While I was there, I got laid off.  It wasn’t entirely unexpected–my television station was bought out by its competitors, and the sale just happened to be closing while I was out of town.  So when I found out I was probably out of a job, I was actually at a rock concert on a ski slope.

Could have been worse.  When the actual call came, from the consultant hired to deliver the bad news, I was on a ski lift, and told him as much.  He refused to tell me anything until I was on solid ground, not dangling twenty feet high on a chair.  I think he thought I was going to fall off.

Later, I got a phone call from a local newspaper reporter, asking me what my plans were.  Truth be told, I hadn’t even thought about my next moves, didn’t want to until I got home.  “Would you say you’re in denial?” he asked me.  “I’m not in denial,” I told him, “I’m in Telluride.”

Like denial, but with more snow.

I ended up extending my trip and had the best week of my life, and ever since then I have made a commitment to returning every winter.  I made a promise to the mountains.  My mountains.

And those mountains continue to be a source of inspiration.  After my most recent trip, I created my Mountain Series, which features the outline of Wilson Peak in snow white against a brilliant sky blue background.

My Silver Tracks wine bottle was inspired by the tracks skiers and snowboarders leave as they curve through fresh powder.

When you’re skiing, you spend a lot of time ridng on lifts, listening to music (I don’t ski without my pink iPod Shuffle, Wilson Pink), so you notice things like that.  And things like the aspen trees that line the slopes, with their eyes that stare at you from where branches broke off, that became the inspiration for my Purple Aspens wine bottle.

It’s a motif I’m repeating on my latest piece, a recyled Prego pasta sauce jar.

It flips the color scheme, so the trees are a teal green and the leaves purple, against a silvery green background.  The rim of the jar is a deep purple, the inside rim silver.  It’s not finished yet–still painting the cap–but look for it soon on Etsy, as well as other designs inspired by my mountains.  Telluride is far from done with me.

A little background on me: A native New Englander, I first picked up the paintbrush at a young age. My first forays into painting were decorating T-shirts and tote bags with cartoon characters, and then experiments with watercolors. But eventually I found my niche, decorating wine bottles and glass vases with acrylic paints–functional pieces of art.

My style is big and bright–flowing lines, bold colors. I draw inspiration from nature, its shapes and patterns, but put my own colorful twist on it.  I am constantly on the lookout for new ideas, new color combinations, new ways of seeing the world.

Right now, I live in Los Angeles, between the ocean and the mountains, and moonlight as a television producer and occasional background artist.

You can find me on the web on Etsy and also at Kitty Gallery.  You can also follow me on Twitter.

As for the name, Living Off Hope, it is actually a reference to Providence, Rhode Island and a popular poster by Mad Peck Studios:

It reads: “Providence, Rhode Island where it rains two days out of three except during the rainy season when it snows like a bitch; And Friendship is a one way street; Rich folks live on Power Street; But most of us live off Hope.”

I went to college in Providence and returned a couple years ago for a stint at one of the local TV stations, and my apartment was, indeed, off Hope Street (a little closer to North Main, but “off Hope” sounded better).  I’ve always identified with the expression, the idea of being a creative twentysomething struggling to make it in the Real World (and especially in the current economy), when some days all that keeps you going is the idea of the future, of one day realizing your dreams.  And it seemed fitting for my style, bold, bright, cheerful, and–I’d like to think–hopeful.

I hope you enjoy following along with my creative adventures, and please, don’t hesitate to comment and make suggestions!