The Story Behind Storm

Sometimes a painting begins with a grand idea. Other times, it starts because you're trying to use up a tube of paint that's about to become useless.

Storm definitely falls into the second category.

I had a small tube of hot pink acrylic paint that was drying out. There was a little hardened blob inside, and before tossing it, I wondered what would happen if I just smeared it across a canvas. No plan. No sketch. Just curiosity.

Once I blended that bright pink across the surface, it reminded me of the colors you'd see during a sunset. From there, the painting started to find its own direction. Layer by layer, it slowly became a landscape with dramatic skies and water. It wasn't the painting I expected to make, but that's one of my favorite parts about creating—sometimes the artwork decides where it's going before I do.

Then disaster struck.

The next morning, I walked into my studio and found a tear right in the middle of the canvas. About an inch and a half long.

To this day, I can't say with complete certainty what happened, but I have a pretty good suspect. My cat had never bothered my art supplies before, so seeing that tear was equal parts frustrating and confusing. It was my first damaged canvas, my first repair, and definitely my first moment of thinking, Well... now what?

Instead of giving up on it, I grabbed some fabric glue, cut a small piece from an old shirt, and patched the canvas from the back. Structurally, it worked. Visually, there was still a noticeable bump on the front.

At first, my instinct was to hide it.

But as I kept painting, something unexpected happened.

The repaired area naturally became part of the darkest section of the painting, where the tornado meets the water. Instead of fighting the imperfection, I let it become part of the storm itself. What began as damage slowly transformed into one of the painting's strongest visual elements, almost as if it had been planned that way from the beginning.

Looking back, I think Storm ended up reflecting more than just dramatic weather. It captured a little bit of my own frustration in that moment, too. The annoyance of discovering a damaged canvas found its way into the darker tones and heavier atmosphere of the piece, even though I never consciously set out to paint those emotions.

That's one of the reasons I enjoy making art. Not everything can—or should—be controlled. Paint has its own ideas. Accidents happen. Supplies fail. Cats occasionally keep life interesting.

Sometimes the thing you're trying hardest to cover up becomes the part of the artwork that gives it the most character.

Every time I look at Storm, I know exactly where that repair is. Most people won't notice it unless I point it out or they look at the back of the canvas. But I do, and I wouldn't change it. It's a reminder that imperfections don't always need to disappear. Sometimes they simply become part of the story.