Free-range art.

In 1989, when polymer clay was still somewhat new on the art-materials scene, I made a series of pins and necklaces. I sold these fish— which I called “Art Sea”— at the much-loved annual Sidewalk Days sale in my hometown of Barrington, Illinois. On day one I managed to net (ha!) over $700, which to a young art student felt like all the treasure of Atlantis.

The body of each fish was made from Sculpey brand polymer clay, pressed into a plaster mold from a modeling-clay original; the fins were individually made from pleated sheets of Sculpey that I rolled out thin and textured using a toy football. After I assembled and baked each fish, I painted it individually using whatever colors struck my whim.

All was well in Art Sea land and I made several more editions, selling them at fairs in Illinois and Minnesota. But then disaster struck: it seemed that Sculpey did not agree with the hot glue I was using to attach the pin backs and pendant bails. Many fish went swimming free as their owners wore them. Big oof. The Art Sea quietly dried up.

Decades later, however, I found a trove of 26 remaining fishes. Instead of pins and necklaces, I’ve reconfigured them as magnets and have turned them loose to find new homes. Whichever one you found, congratulations! It’s a fish with a wish to be your finny friend.

Part of a series from 2000, in which I painted memories of pets I had known.

These are the famous birdies with the no-nonsense names: Green and Blue, my mom’s pets when she was first learning English. (For those who wonder, “green” and “blue” in Hungarian are “zöld” and “kék”.)

It seems, however, that when my mom discovered that she was to have me, these little tweeters went to a new home, where they would not be in danger of being squeezed by a rambunctious baby. Because you KNOW I’d have done it. Good call, Anyúka (that’s Hungarian for “mommy”).

Part of a series from 2000, in which I painted memories of pets I had known.

This is Zippy, my childhood gerbil (a newly fashionable pet in the 70s). She really did know how to drink from a thimble. She and her sister Fuzzy also managed to escape regularly, including once taking a memorable trip into the air ducts of our house, then still under construction.

Don’t worry, the HVAC man came by right away with his very slim son, who was able to Mission Impossible straight in there and catch ‘em.

Part of a series from 2000, in which I painted memories of pets I had known.

Every kids’ carnival at every school in the Universe is required to have a booth where the prize is a goldfish. Are we agreed on that? Good.

Well, as kids’ pets the goldfish are usually not long for this Earth, but a certain bug-eyed, veil-tailed denizen of the deep came home with my little brother in a plastic bag and stayed with my family till he was quite aged— we aren’t sure how old Spot was when he began his career as a giveaway fish. He was a very entertaining little fellow (and was actually white with a red spot, not gold—but the painting looked better that way).

Part of a series from 2000, in which I painted memories of pets I had known.

There are plenty of paintings in plenty of museums with titles like “After the Bath” or “Bathing Venus” or what have you. All of those baths involve water, but I wanted to bring a breath of fresh air, er, dust into the genre with this depiction of my sister’s pet chinchilla.

Part of a series from 2000, in which I painted memories of pets I had known.

In this case the pets belonged to our neighbors. They were two best girlfriends (Doberman Poco and Labrador Retriever Becky, who was really black, but I painted her as a chocolate Lab for visibility’s sake) and the catalyst for their eventual falling-out: the handsome and clueless male Collie, Snow, who soon learned that flirting with two different ladies— even if it’s through a chain fence— brings only yelping and gnashing of teeth.

The technique is acrylic on canvas, with the colors laid over an undercoating of aluminum-toned paint. The fence was fun to do, as I used masking tape as a resist.

Side note: before computers, many of us illustrators masked the edges of our art with protective tape for that finished look. Peeling off the tape at the end was a big thrill— something like seeing the words “UPLOAD COMPLETE” are today.

Part of a series from 2000, in which I painted memories of pets I had known.

This is Calvin. Calvin was one of the all-time greats, an individual with a personality that couldn’t be constrained in one place, time, or locality, so he had to leave us. And like Mr. Gump, that’s all I’m gonna say about that.

But as to what’s going on in this painting: this is one of Calvin’s many hunting and gathering expeditions. He liked catchin’ stuff. When not fetching his toys as fast as I could throw them, he would go outside and get all kinds of beasties— the usual mice, the odd bat, here a mole, there a mole and, on one memorable occasion, a very much alive and unharmed leopard frog.

Out in the pasture, horses utilize a buddy system. They drape their necks over a partner’s, so one can look out in direction A while the other looks in direction B. I use letters because (according to no less an authority than Steve Martin, in his “Toby the Horse” essays for Art In America) horses are adept at spelling and often do anagrams in their heads for fun.

These horses, however, aren’t thinking— they’re dreaming. In fact, they might be watching over one another to make sure those dreams come true. Doesn’t everyone want a buddy who’ll do that?

In the summer of 2012, I decided to try my hand at plein-air painting. I bought an easel/paintbox combo, stocked it up with oil pastels and brushes, and hauled it out to the ol’ BHPC polo field.

Lots of fun was had and four very small paintings resulted. This is painting #3, showing more sun-toasted grass… and a series of quite impressive clouds rolling in.

I’m keeping painting #4 but letting the other three out into the world. With a bit of luck, they’ll inspire their new owners to visit barringtonhillspolo.com and form the next generation of Six-Legs-Two-Arms-Two-Heads hockey players.

In the summer of 2012, I decided to try my hand at plein-air painting. I bought an easel/paintbox combo, stocked it up with oil pastels and brushes, and hauled it out to the ol’ BHPC polo field.

Lots of fun was had and four very small paintings resulted. This is painting #2, which depicts the effects of a really dry summer: streaks of sunburned grass, compacted by the tractor/mower, alternating with some that stayed green.

I’m keeping painting #4 but letting the other three out into the world. With a bit of luck, they’ll inspire their new owners to visit barringtonhillspolo.com and form the next generation of Six-Legs-Two-Arms-Two-Heads hockey players.

In the summer of 2012, I decided to try my hand at plein-air painting. I bought an easel/paintbox combo, stocked it up with oil pastels and brushes, and hauled it out to the ol’ BHPC polo field.

Lots of fun was had and four very small paintings resulted. Well— not really. This was the first one in the series and was partially from imagination. The field was NOT so lush that year, let me tell ya.

I’m keeping painting #4 but letting the other three out into the world. With a bit of luck, they’ll inspire their new owners to visit barringtonhillspolo.com and form the next generation of Six-Legs-Two-Arms-Two-Heads hockey players.

I had a dream. I mean I really did— one night I dreamed I made a painting of some water. So I did that in real life, and it was oddly satisfying.

I hope you also find it oddly satisfying to gaze upon the surface of this undulating little artwork and see my shadow as I pass by.

In 1995-6, I made a series of small paintings depicting idioms which referred to various animals. This one features four female canines and three human versions thereof: specifically, the “Cold-hearted”, “Two-faced”, and “Back-stabbing” species.

To the new owner: it’s my hearty hope that you never meet any of these types! We ladies oughta stick together. Amirite sisters? Live, Laugh, Love, Eat, Pray, laugh some more, pass the wine.

In the early 1990s what seemed like a seismic shift in youth culture took place. Gone were the cries of “awesome, dude” and all the other epic-party-animal markers of the previous decade. In came a subtle, slouchy ironic detachment, fueled by espresso and cigs at the local coffeehouse.

In this environment lurked a population of lusty fauns— or at least, they lurked in a set of wood engravings I made while a grad student at UW-Madison (itself an epicenter of coffee joints). In this piece we see “Mr. Appetite”, who wants pie. Right here, right now.

Wood engraving on 6 1/2” x 9” mulberry paper. Its tiny size is part of a wood engraving’s charm.
Signed and numbered. From an edition of 36.

Fine art prints are NOT reproductions—every print is a unique, individual work of art. Printmaking is a fascinating, craftsmanlike process. I make a block or plate, apply various inks to it, and then transfer that ink onto the paper. The final result is like a painting with lots of relatives!

How convenient that I was born in a year ending in 0. That means you can look at the date on this and see that I made it as a teenager.

This colored pencil drawing was a gift for our neighbors, the Larsens, who used to have a farm back in Denmark where they raised draft horses. I drew it from a photo of two of their mares enjoying a lovely grooming sesson— while the foals imitated mama.

However, after the Larsens passed on this drawing found its way back to me. Like many artists, I’m overloaded with my early work and have found the perfect solution: releasing art out into the wild (where you can find it!)

So congratulations. You just adopted 4 of the Larsens’ horses! Give the young ones a few years and you’ll have a really snappy team for plowing, logging or driving to town.

How convenient that I was born in a year ending in 0. That means you can look at the date on this and see that I made it as a teenager.

This colored pencil drawing is one of those compositions meant for a tweedy decor. It’s the classic pair of horse and hound: has mankind ever had two better friends? (Oh, hi, cat and cow...)

Like many artists, I’m overloaded with my early work and have found the perfect solution: releasing art out into the wild, where you can find it. If this piece is now yours, I suggest complimenting it with a comfy armchair, a deep and well-filled bookshelf, and a fireplace.

How convenient that I was born in a year ending in 0. That means you can look at the date on this and see that I made it as a teenager.

These etchings are clearly meant to complement a tweedy decor. They also have the distinction of being the first etchings I ever made— Barrington High School, then and now, has a terrific art department where we young ‘uns had access to adult-level tools, techniques and instruction

Like many artists, I’m overloaded with my early work and have found the perfect solution: releasing art out into the wild, where you can find it. If these ducks are is now yours, perhaps it would be wise to re-frame them and hang them in a row.

This depiction of what might be a punk scarecrow is a real photo made on real Ilford paper from a real negative, developed in a real darkroom with real chemicals. Yup. We used to do that.

This depiction of shabby stuffed toys locked in mortal combat is a real photo made on real Ilford paper from a real negative, developed in a real darkroom with real chemicals. Yup. We used to do that.

This depiction of a skull-shaped night light— nah, ha ha, it’s Death!— is a real photo made on real Ilford paper from a real negative, developed in a real darkroom with real chemicals. Yup. We used to do that.

This depiction of antique fans on a friend’s country porch is a real photo made on real Ilford paper from a real negative, developed in a real darkroom with real chemicals. Yup. We used to do that.

This depiction of a Madison youth diggin’ a sunny day in his back yard is a real photo made on real Ilford paper from a real negative, developed in a real darkroom with real chemicals. Yup. We used to do that.

This depiction of two icons of Badger State culture is a real photo made on real Ilford paper from a real negative, developed in a real darkroom with real chemicals. Yup. We used to do that.