As a small child I didn’t know or understand what my father’s background was in architecture. I didn’t even consider it could be a form of art at that time. All I knew was that he was an artist. He painted, that is what artists did. Yet, he was building a studio. He knew exactly what he was doing and how it should be done. I know I wasn’t much help, but I enjoyed following him around, passing him nails, screws and other tools. He was putting so much love, care, and time into what he was doing that I finally started to see that it was another beautiful expression of art and imagination that he had learned, and knew how to implement. I had no idea at this time, though, how special this place he was building with his own two hands was going to be. That it was going to be his world. That it was going to be a world I was so fortunate to be a part of.

He built it too nice. Giant windows on all sides, a fireplace with two sliding glass doors on either side overlooking the lake. A  high vaulted ceiling and lots of little special touches here and there with the wood framing around the windows. It was so big and open, so full of light. We all wanted to be in there instead of our living room that only had one small window and now felt like a small dark cramped hole. Of course he wanted to share this new space with his family, but it had been built with a purpose. Built to be a place he could work from and support his family. I’m sure it was so frustrating to him, trying to balance pleasing us and making the studio into a space he could still work from. He crammed all of his paintbrushes, paints, easels, drafting tables, and implements of the trade against the walls and in any nook or cranny they could fit. He put this beautiful big wood table that he and his father had built right in the middle of the room directly in front of the fireplace. He did this to provide me and my brother a place to come and do our homework or any other projects and visit with him while he worked. A table so we could all have meals or play games together. As he started working you could feel the energy changing. We were still welcome there, but it was his space. A part of him, just as it was supposed to be. It filled with the smell that to this day I relate to him. The smell of fresh paint, turpentine and pipe smoke. Some may never understand how these smells can mix and become such a comforting, calming, sweet aroma, but they do, at least to me. Not only was the smell permeating the air, but the walls, the floor, the whole room began to pulse with his creativity, his imagination. It became a space filled with magic. It was a whole other world to me. One that I knew was special and unlike any of the others I had come to know.

I could go in there and touch every paintbrush and feel the power he pushed through it and on to a canvas. I would watch as he dipped his brushes into various little pools of color on his color palate, mixing and swirling, creating new hues and colors I had never new imaginable, all the while telling me the names of the colors he was using or letting me help make up new names for the ones he created. Then the jars of strange smelling solutions that tingled my nose hairs would come out. He would let me swirl and stir his brushes in these jars. Excitedly watching as the color was pulled from them and into the jar creating what I liked to believe was a special potion.

The thing I imagined as a child to be his most powerful and magical tool was not his paintbrushes as you may expect. Surprisingly, it was his paint stick. A long metal rod with masking tape balled up on both ends. Covered in specks of paint, something a lot of people visiting his studio would never notice, propped up against an easel, innocently minding its own business. But to me, it was his magical wand. His sword, his staff. It was an extension of himself. With my fathers M.S., his hands would shake terribly. So for him to be able to execute the delicate fine strokes it took to bring his work to life he used this stick. He would hold it in one hand, gently rolling its taped ends down the canvas, while his other hand held the brush and rested on the rod. Funneling all his energy through this devise to steady his hand and allow his imagination to flow.

There was another tool, not as special, but a lot of fun to play with. It was his “eraser gun”. It looked like a drill, but the bit was a skinny soft white eraser. I viewed this item as my vanishing gun. A super powerful laser gun that made all in its path disappear. He gave me a mission with this gun, with only a few reminders here and there. Those reminders being ” I know its fun to pull the eraser tip out too long and apply enough pressure to the paper and break it off sending it flying into uncharted territory, but erasers cost money and your mission is not to make money disappear but to make unwanted marks on paper disappear.” Lucky for him, it had a cord on it that was plugged in securely to the wall behind the draft table where I could not reach and unplug it. Otherwise it surely would have been lost in the woods where I would have taken it to blow my imagined foes into oblivion. That is where it stayed, and that is where I played or carried out my important mission he had given me. The mission to erase the unwanted on a sketch.

He was always trying to find ways to include me and my brother in his work in some way. We both modeled here and there for different things. He also took on commissions he never would have considered, just because he knew how happy it would make us. Because of my brothers interest in video games he took one on that was to be a painting for this new video game chair, and boy were we were excited to pose for it. My brother sitting in the chair placed in front of one of those old box TVs, me behind him pointing at the TV, as all these fantastic images came shooting out of us from the game he was playing. I remember how special we both felt because unlike other photo shoots we had seen my dad do in the past, we were his models this time and he wanted our input. What angles, what poses and lighting looked the best? What images should be coming from the TV? As a little girl I was also stoked because I knew he always took a lot of care in the wardrobe worn in a shoot, but he was letting me choose my own. I got to wear my silly pink ballerina slippers I loved so much at the time. I felt like a star. Another commission came up, one that he was sure to not make much money on, just like the video game chair, but he knew it would make us happy. Some big shot paintball tycoon wanted a life size painting done of him wearing camo from head to toe and dripping in all his finest paintball gear. Paintball was a new interest of my big brothers so he took it, he at least would get some cool stuff in trade to give my brother and me. While my father laboriously put brush stroke after brush stroke onto this huge canvas bigger than him, we built little pallets on the floor near him and watched. Sometimes we would do our homework or projects of our own, sometimes were spent just chatting as progress continued. It felt like we had some kind of club. We would almost never let him work on it alone. At that same time my father was still working for this ad agency and he knew how much I liked to model for him. So when an ad came up that they wanted a little girl in we both jumped at the opportunity. I had gone to work with him before, just hanging out in the lobby coloring, but this time I was really going to work with him. It was ridiculous. The lights were blinding, the people were no fun, and we were in a plumbing/hardware store set. Not really a place a little girl finds too exciting. They had a woman there that was supposed to be my mother, she was pushing a shopping cart and I was pointing excitedly at some plumbing parts I wanted her to fill the cart with. I guess to finish my important plumbing project. It was so silly, so fake. On the way home we laughed and joked so much about what a great little plumber I was destined to be some day. I realized on this day that it wasn’t about any kind of thrill I might have at modeling for my dad, or childish hopes I had at being a star someday. It was about spending time with him. Being in any way a part of his world.

As I grew older that stayed with me. I was always lurking around the studio watching him paint, but I began to also stick my nose in every photo shoot whenever I could. I felt like I was his unofficial, yet proud assistant. Ready to fetch whatever he needed. I was so interested in the whole process in which it took him to create his masterpieces.

They started with an idea, a dream, then maybe a rough sketch or two. Then it was gathering materials for costumes or to build props. Finding the right location, the right lighting. Who would be the model? I no longer cared to be a model, but loved helping find and recruit the right ones for the project we was doing. He used a lot of my friends and his. There was one time though that I literally chased down a startled stranger after we had both watched her try on this chainmail head piece in an antique store we were all shopping at. He didn’t have a plan then, we just both saw this incredible thing happen when she donned that medieval headdress. She left the shop and he looked at me and I knew. He said go, go get her, I have to paint her in that. With some convincing we actually got her to come down to to the lake in front of our house, wear nothing but the chainmail and get into the water. Meanwhile, the local fishermen in boats caught on to the beautiful naked women being photographed near them and crept closer and closer almost crashing into each other. That painting is known as Lady of the Lake. One of my favorites. Not just for all its beauty, but for all the laughs we had over it. The chase, the model falling in love with the idea, my father, and of course – the stumbling fishermen.

I always loved when a new model was brought into the fold that had never seen my dads work. I loved to watch how their faces changed as they took it all in. His work, he himself. It always started with a look of some skepticism, a bit hesitant maybe, then moving quickly into awe and then followed by pure excitement. Finally pride, proud to be a part of what he was doing, but more than that. Proud that they were getting the chance to know him. Their growing respect I was watching always grew into real love and friendship.

He did have his challenges though. Not all have an open mind and an open heart. Not all can see the beauty around them, especially if it is something they don’t understand or care to understand. I saw him face many challenges on this front, some I know I even was the cause of at times. We lived pretty much in the buckle of the bible belt. His images of fantasy and god forbid, nudity, were not acceptable for young children to be around. My friends’ parents would even call and berate him on this. He was scorned and ridiculed. I saw my father for what he was, a kind and caring person, creative and inspiring, loving and supportive. He made magic and beautiful things. For a short period of time I let these things hurt me. I know they hurt him. In the end it really only made him shine brighter in my eyes. He had dignity, he had honor. He was a champion for following dreams, for being true to yourself, for creating and sharing beauty. He also never backed down. He defended himself against all the backlash he was given. He stood up for me or anyone else who suffered the same. He was always one you could count on. I am still so proud of him. The role model he was for me and for so many others.

My father shared his gifts with a lot of people and in a lot of different ways. On occasion he would take on a student. I didn’t get to watch their faces change like the models did. They already came with so much admiration in their eyes. They already knew what they were getting into and felt honored. What I would see is that admiration grow. A bond and a friendship for them that was like no other would start to bloom. As much as I liked being in on whatever my father was doing, I understood that their time spent with him shouldn’t be disturbed. He was passing on to them and sharing with them so many valued skills, plus all the wisdom and knowledge he had acquired over the years. During those lessons his studio, which I had come to think of as a sacred place, became that also for his students. I recall one of his students saying to me, “I’m not a religious person and I know you guys aren’t either, but coming here isn’t like going to school or some fancy class. It feels like I am going to some kind of church. One that fits me, one that I understand and really feel a part of. I feel like I am getting more than art lessons, I feel like I am getting life lessons”.

So whether you were family, a friend, a model, a student, a peer, or just someone bumping into my father for just a moment on this journey of life, he shared something with you. Even if you just viewed some of his work for the first time and never met him, he shared something with you. He shared his imagination, his sense of joy in seeing and finding magic and fantasy that is all around us. His work will continue to send that message through the ages to whomever is listening. And if you listen well you will also hear another important message he never quit telling me, one that I will always cherish and try to live by: Don’t stop dreaming.