Dear Art Lover,

It is a fitting week for gratitude.

Gratitude is not just something that arrives at my doorstep every morning.  Gratitude is a practice.  Last week, I shared with a family member one of the most effective gratitude practices I’ve employed on and off for years, since discovering it in one of my favorite books, Dr. Roy Vongtama’s “Healing Before You’re Cured”.

Every night, just before bed, write out five things that you are grateful for, that happened that day, or even just five positive things that come to mind.  In taking a few moments to relive those events, or to think of those people (usually my five are all people in my life), your brain re-lives the positive experiences, and your mirror neurons cannot tell the difference between conscious recollection and the event actually happening again - you live those positive thoughts and moments again, for free.

I’ve found that over time, with practice, I can become and have become a more grateful person, no matter how challenging the days might seem.

With so much good news to bring lately, and more to come that I’ve been saving for the right moment, I want to emphasize how grateful I am to this network of people who remain subscribed to my (often shameless) marketing emails.  Make no mistake - that is what these are!  I am also so grateful not for the validations and accolades, but for the endless chances I’ve been given that allowed possibilities for long-term sustainable practice of art-as-profession.

When some painting of mine “wins first place” in a show, for example, I don’t think of the painting itself.  I am, of course, grateful to whatever organization is hosting, to their staff, to the other artists, and to the jurors for selecting my piece among many.  I think of these people, of their efforts, of their contributions to creating places where art can be seen.

I think of mornings when the water was freezing on my paper.  I think of being rained on, losing whole paintings I had just painted in a wash of water from the sky, of getting sick from the cold.  I think of trying to paint through stinging pollen and dust whipping my face from the bluffs at Discovery Park (Paul R knows what I mean), and of the countless times I tried to paint a scene that was beyond my ability to do so, and came away dissatisfied, but not discouraged.  I think of the sunburns and the fatigue and the hunger I feel when I paint all day, not taking breaks until my back is so sore and my stomach so empty my subconscious drives me to seek out food and shelter.  I think of torquing my back carrying heavy portfolios for miles and miles seeking the perfect setup venue, the shoulder straps cutting into my skin, blood on my shirt.

I think of all the passers-by, who say kind things to me as I paint, or stop to watch, or ask if they can take a picture, and I think, none of these minor discomforts are anything when they are the price of entry to be able to make the kind of work I want to make.  I feel incredibly lucky to be able to pursue this dream.

I feel gifted by the light I can see, and acknowledge that whatever color vision I have was as much inherited as it was learned by the teaching of Anthony and Celeste Ryder in their school in Santa Fe.  I think of my art friends, Paul, Max, Hans, and so many others, who remind me that as long as we keep going, and don’t give up (completely!), we will be ok.

Happy Holidays,

David