When the Grandsons Visit

Send Help, Send Snacks, Send More Paint

There's a rule in my studio: when the grandsons come to visit, work stops. Almost entirely. I say almost because I must have studio time. It is practically a food group for me. But if we're being honest? That rule doesn't hold up for long. Three boys‚ 7, 10, and 12‚ walk through the door and the whole operation just... reorganizes itself around them. I mean a “dad joke” should begin with “A 7-year-old, a 10-year-old, and a 12-year-old walk into the house…..

My love and joy are to share with others. And with these three it is, full stop, capital letters, everything.

So, here's what almost no studio time looked like:

• We hit the circus, because nothing says "grandma knows how to have a good time" like watching someone fly above you, blindfolded.
• We logged what can only be described as extended tenure at the best parks in town‚ not a quick swing-by, a full residency.
• We made the pilgrimage to see the troll that lifts the roof, which never stops being funny, just never
• There were approximately one million trips to the food carts, because they have wildly different opinions on what constitutes a perfect lunch, and somehow the answer is always "one of everything."
• Thrift stores got the toy-hunt treatment. Boys on a mission, scanning shelves like tiny appraisers on a treasure show.
• Thousands of hours making forts or pillow fighting.
• And we went to the movies. Their movies. The ones I knew I would just tolerate. I did not just tolerate them. I enjoyed them. Shhhhh. Don't tell the boys.

Did I forget Miniture Golf at Glowing Greens with Aunts & Uncles?

Now, about that studio time I swore would basically vanish ‚ turns out it didn't vanish so much as transform. The monster collection painted on my windows is exploding, and I mean that in the best way: more eyes, more teeth, more glorious chaos with every visit. We attempted something new ‚ small paintings on 3x4 inch wood panels. I thought "small" would mean "easy." It does not. Turns out working tiny is its own special kind of hard, and I have a newfound respect for anyone who paints miniatures without losing their mind.

So, did studio work stop while the grandsons were here?

Technically, yes. Mostly.

But somewhere between the circus and the troll and the food carts and the thrift-store toy hunts and a window full of new monsters, I think the real work happened anyway. It just didn't look like what I expected.

It looked like joy.

 — Cynthia

OK, so it wasn't a million food carts. It's called artistic license and if you enjoy reading our stories from the studio, please share them with a friend (just below the title, there is a share button). Dare to suggest they join our Collectors Circle so they too can receive early notice of when originals will go on sale, studio news, and sometimes, just ramblings of an artist.