For me, painting requires certain conditions to be in place. It has very little to do with inspiration in the romantic sense. It’s closer, I think, to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. I know—what? But the idea resonates with me: that a person needs their basic needs met before they can discover the space, time, or calm required to make art.

There’s a familiar Hollywood stereotype of the artist plagued by dark thoughts and real-world suffering, producing unimaginable work from that turmoil. Maybe that’s true for some. I honestly don’t know. But for me, it doesn’t work that way. I seem to need stability before anything creative happens—some level of financial security, placidity in my relationships, and even something as simple as a nice day. I need to feel like things are going well.

And even then, the inspiration isn’t specific. I don’t feel an overwhelming need to paint one particular subject. Instead, I feel relaxed enough to paint at all. I feel good—and that’s when painting becomes possible.

2025 wasn’t that kind of year for me. Grocery prices have skyrocketed, Tariffs have devastated the economy, and I’ve been feeling the pinch. Morale at my day job seems to be at an all-time low. There’s a kind of fear emanating from the people around me. I can’t fully explain how I sense it, or why, but I do. On top of that, a few people close to me have died recently. Taken together, it’s been difficult to maintain a positive attitude.

And positivity, whether I like it or not, has always been central to my work.

Still, I’m going to push forward. It is a new year, after all. Dividing time this way helps, doesn’t it? I don’t imagine anyone is following my work with the attentiveness reserved for the greats, but if they were, they might see the story of my life unfolding through it—the timelines, the shifts, the pauses.

That’s why I’ll keep working, even without inspiration. I believe that persistence itself leaves a trace. My work has always been about time. About documentation. About recording my small sliver of experience here on earth. And whether I’m aware of it in the moment or not, I trust that whatever I’m moving through will find its way into the work eventually.

Being an artist is often romanticized — the image of a lone creator, undistracted and immersed in their craft, is what many people picture when they think of an artist’s life. But the reality is far more complex and challenging. The struggle between the desire to create and the constant interruptions of daily life is a frustration shared by many, myself included.

How can I be an artist if I don't have time to create? How can I produce art when my days are filled with appointments, obligations, and the need to take care of myself and my home? It's a real question. There's eating, resting, maintaining my place so it doesn't descend into chaos, and, of course, there’s the changing seasons. Spokane's winters are long and harsh, leaving only a narrow window of time when I can tackle outdoor projects — like building a fence or tending to the yard — or even take on home improvement projects like painting a room. When the good weather finally arrives, it’s a race against the clock.

What about the time for art? Where does it fit in?

For artists in other climates, maybe the time spent creating can be stretched out with longer seasons. In California, for instance, it’s easier to say you have more “artist time” than someone in the Northwest, where winter seems to drag on and on. And let’s not even get into the endless planning — every artist faces the challenge of choosing one direction to pursue, but every path seems just as valid as the next. It’s overwhelming, and the truth is, there’s no guarantee of success in any of them. If there were, everyone would be doing it.

Art, at the end of the day, doesn’t pay all the bills. It’s a pursuit that requires sacrifice, and often, the payoff comes as a rare and unexpected windfall. It takes incredible skill and persistence to get to the point where you even have a shot at that. I’ve known talented artists who simply gave up because it was just too hard. And they were good. So what keeps me going?

I ask myself this question often, especially in these times. Art grants are being slashed. AI is taking over more and more of the commercial applications that used to require human hands. Even major players like Disney are now all about computer-generated art. The gallery scene is shrinking, and it’s harder than ever to break into, let alone find a market. And then, there are the scams — the EFT fraudsters, the endless emails promising art sales to “a spouse” — it feels like being bombarded from all sides with people trying to take advantage of us.

And still, the legitimate opportunities feel so scarce. You can have stacks of completed paintings, created with sweat and passion, yet they sit there because finding a real buyer is as time-consuming and difficult as making the work in the first place.

But then there’s the art itself. When it strikes, when the image starts to form in my mind, it can’t wait. The need to create becomes overwhelming, and I paint because I have to. And when that painting is finished, there’s satisfaction, yes — but also the harsh reality: it could be months before anyone actually sees it. Oil paintings take time to dry, sometimes up to six months before they’re ready to be varnished. And that's good because I have all the time in the world, right?

No. I don’t.

But here’s the thing: despite all the frustrations, the uncertainty, the setbacks, I keep going. Why? Because art is a part of me. It’s not something I choose to do; it’s something I have to do. And though the path is difficult, the act of creation itself offers a kind of meaning that no amount of rejection or frustration can take away. It’s the only way I know how to express what I see, feel, and understand about the world.

So, if you’re an artist reading this, feeling the same frustrations, know this: you’re not alone. The struggle is real, but it’s the very act of creation that keeps us going. And no matter how challenging it is to find the space for it in a busy life, we keep making our work. Because, in the end, what else can we do?

People sometimes describe me as a self-taught painter. It even showed up in Art Chowder Magazine — one of the few issues they printed before shutting down. But I’ve never liked the phrase.

It makes it sound like I pulled this ability out of thin air, or that I got here without anyone showing me how. And that’s not true. I had help.

I started the way many artists do — by trying and failing. I tried books. I tried YouTube. I asked around. I wanted to learn oil painting, and I couldn’t figure it out on my own. Eventually, through word of mouth, I heard about a free painting class taught by a man named Barry Blackerby.

At first, I didn’t know who Barry really was. Most people in the class didn’t. Students came and went all the time, but I stayed. I wanted to learn this badly enough that I would’ve kept searching if I had to. Along the way, I also took a few workshops — a few from Joe Kronenburg, and one expensive class from a retired airbrush artist who used to paint cars out in the Valley. He said it was good money. I could’ve followed in his footsteps if I wanted to paint skulls and naked ladies on motorcycles. But that was never what I wanted painting to be about.

Barry was different. Quiet, kind, generous with his time. For a long while, he never said much about his background. Then one day, he brought in a replica of The Arnolfini Wedding by Jan van Eyck. And it was perfect. Not just close — perfect.

I started asking questions.

Barry explained the painting in layers I never would’ve discovered alone. He told me about the symbolism — the convex mirror, the candle, the tassels, the dog, even the three lemons on the windowsill representing the Trinity. It was the kind of knowledge you don’t get from watching a few tutorials.

That’s when I learned he had studied at Oxford. That he had traveled the world to visit museums — the Louvre, the Sistine Chapel. That he’d been a professor. And here I was, learning from him, for free, in a small classroom.

I stayed in that class for years. Long after I’d learned the techniques, I stayed for the culture, for the sense of focus and quiet. There were about eight of us who stuck around — a small, loyal group.

But it didn’t last.

A woman named Marsha started bringing in a young lady in a wheelchair who couldn’t speak. Barry, being the good man he is, gave most of his attention to her. That wasn’t the issue.

The issue was Marsha — who didn’t understand the nature of the space. What had once been a quiet, focused art class, interrupted only by the occasional inside joke, slowly filled with the noise of YouTube videos, dance footage, and randomness from her phone. And her laugh — oh God, her laugh — was an unpleasant cackle.

Worse, she let all of her caretaker friends know about the class, and soon we were interrupted by a steady stream of interlopers. People arrived who had no interest in painting and no understanding of what the class had once been.

The room changed.
One by one, the regulars left. Until it was just me and one other.

I stayed out of loyalty, but I had already learned what I came to learn. I couldn’t keep showing up to a space that had been swallowed by noise.
The culture, despite my desire to have it return, was gone, and it wasn't going to come back.

It was the end of an era — a beautiful group that I was lucky to be a part of.
Had I not been in Spokane, in the year 2014, and free on Wednesday afternoons, I would have missed it completely.
It was rare. And I’m grateful.

After that, I began what most people think of as “self-teaching.” I bought books. I collected videos. I painted from Jerry Yarnell lessons, studied illustrations by Gustave Doré, and copied work by artists I admired — Thomas Kinkade, Edward Hopper, Canaletto, Gilbert Williams. I reverse-engineered paintings and found mentors in pages, not people.

I paint every day. I’ve never gotten tired of it. And I don’t think I will.

So yes, I’m self-educated. But no — I’m not self-taught.

I had help. I had a teacher.
And I got a serious head start.

On the Wall, in the Silence

by Aaron Smith

It’s April now, and the first real spring-like day has finally arrived. Sunlight on the porch. That strange mix of warmth and wind that makes you wonder if anything is about to bloom, or if winter’s just playing nice.

I have paintings up again — this time at Wiley’s Bistro. This is maybe my fourth or fifth show there. Usually when I hang work in a venue, I see a little ripple online — people find the site, poke around, maybe even send a message. This time, though, nothing. Not a blip. Like casting a net all night and pulling up only shadows.

Some of that’s the economy. I’m not the only one feeling it. Tariffs kicked in just days after the show went up, and it’s like the whole town took a breath and held it. Maybe you felt it too.

But the paintings are there. They hang quietly. No fanfare, no opening night. Just light and color, catching the corner of someone’s eye between a glass of wine and a second course. And maybe that’s enough.

Not every show is meant to be a triumph. Sometimes, it’s just a witness. A record of where we are, and what we’re still willing to make — even when the nets come back empty.

So if you find yourself downtown, and you’ve got a moment, stop into Wiley’s. Sit near the paintings. Let them do what they do best — wait, without expectation. Maybe that’s the real work right now.

— Aaron