A year in review…

Idaho Conservation League asked me to write some thoughts about my year as their first Artist in Residence, a program that will continue in 2015 with the talented photographer Peter Lovera.

My 2014 residency with ICL was a year of discovery and purpose. New landscapes I had the opportunity to explore included the Boulder White Clouds as seen from Railroad Ridge, the serene and friendly shores of Priest Lake, the Palouse (to be revisited soon!), Lake Pend Oreille and Schweitzer, and many places between. I gained a deepened appreciation of and intimacy with our Boise Foothills. And still I feel I have only seen the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Idaho's vast and varying landscapes. There are still the Craters of the Moon, the Clearwater Valley, Hell's Canyon, southeast Idaho, the Bruneau River and sand dunes, and on and on. The more I paint and explore, the more I value the work that ICL is doing to protect these places. I am so fortunate to live an artist's life in this amazing region.

Idaho Conservation League was a source of geographical information, logistical support, and encouragement throughout my year. They matched my efforts every time, enthusiastically supporting the gung-ho approach I took to my residence, which included over 100 works of art and three exhibitions over the course of the year. I could not have asked for a better collaborating organization.

My partnership with ICL has inspired me to continue to find ways to work with organizations in mutually beneficial projects - art has the ability to inspire an emotional connection to people and places, and as an artist it has been very satisfying to see this capability put to work for a cause in which I believe. Another benefit from an artist's perspective - collaborations have proved extremely effective in reaching a broader audience for my work. Advice to emerging artists -  figure out what you value, find an organization you respect who represents those values, and find creative ways of working together to promote each other's good work.

2015's Artist in Residence, Peter Lovera, and I had a brief conversation about his excitement for the upcoming year, and his excitement was contagious. He tossed out some ideas that never crossed my mind in the two years I've been working with ICL - ideas which use the characteristics of his medium effectively and creatively. Look out for a whole new take on what it means to be ICL's Artist in Residence in the coming year. And have fun, Peter!

Thank you to Idaho Conservation League for a fabulous experience working together. Special thanks to my dear friend Aimee Moran whose open mind considered all my ideas, feasible and not, and to Sean Scrivner who was vital in getting me to most of the far-out places I explored.

Greetings from the studio in my post-exhibition daze! I am still processing and recovering and am at a loss for words right now, so in lieu of new thoughts I am going to post the blurb from my show. The exhibition, which opened Thursday at Gallery five18 in Boise, was entitled "Befriending Time and Place." For those that wonder what that means to me…read first about befriending place, and then time, below.

A big thank you to all who have supported this project. 

Befriending Place

“The beautiful offers us an invitation to order, coherence, and unity, and when these needs are met, the soul feels at home in the world.” - John O’Donohue, Beauty the Invisible Embrace

I must admit, it was not love at first sight for the foothills and me. 

I arrived in Idaho intoxicated by the fog hugged hillsides and lush greens and blues of the San Francisco Bay Area. My first few years here in the Treasure Valley were spent acclimating myself to this change. 

But the desert loving side of me slowly and steadily reemerged. My New Mexican roots proved deep, and eventually the sagebrush, spaciousness, and austere beauty of this new desert place won me over.  

My tinyExpanse paintings began as part of this acclimatization. Thrown out of my regular studio practice by my move, I knew I needed a baby step to get back into it. 3 inch by 3 inch canvases seemed to be the perfect start. These small paintings allowed me to paint subjects I had never tried before. (After all how scary can 9 square inches be?) And they allowed me to paint quickly, covering many different perspectives and locations. Through these adventurous little studies, I became acquainted with my new home. And I became reacquainted with myself as a painter. 

Over the last year I have created nearly 600 tinyExpanse paintings. I estimate that since I moved to Idaho in the fall of 2009 I have completed over 1200. The daily practice of these miniature paintings has taken on a life of its own for me, serving as an anchor, an act of gratitude for the beauty around me every day, and as a way to share my love of painting and landscape with others. 

Eventually I returned to larger paintings – the largest of which are 512 times larger than the tinyExpanses. But to me the works you see presented together in this exhibition are all part of a journey of acquaintance. Completing these larger works in the studio, I feel as if the foothills, river, and mountains around me are old friends –friendships that were forged slowly yet steadily over onsite painting sessions, morning walks, and studio reflections. And wherever I travel or live, painting gives me a way of feeling at ease in the world.

Painting has become my way of befriending a place and making wherever I find myself moment to moment my current home.

Befriending Time

“Time has been called God’s way of making sure that everything doesn’t happen at once” – Hans Christian von Baeyer

Recently I came to the realization that I often live my daily life at war with time. I have also discovered that when I paint, time slows down. Or becomes irrelevant. I’m not sure which, but in any case the battle subsides and pure experience arises.

This is especially true of my time-lapse series, where I complete one painting after another in specific increments of time. For example, I painted the Boulder Front from Boulder Creek every two hours from 5am to 11pm. The experience of that day remains in my memory as one of spaciousness, ease, and harmony with the world around me. I also painted each hour of the morning from Railroad Ridge, a breathtaking place in the White Clouds. The crisp, clear, morning sky became a threatening one; rain mottled my panels; a brilliant rainbow appeared and disappeared, and the sky returned to blue. How much did I appreciate and internalize every hour of this morning, each so different from the last. 

“tinyExpanse 365,” my year-long project that came to completion this fall, has also resulted in a restructuring of my relationship with time, specifically in teaching me to appreciate the transformative nature of time’s passing. When I look at all 365 paintings together and see the change of time and place that occurred throughout this year, I can also see the growth, healing, and wising up that has taken place within myself. These paintings as a collection are an external representation of internal transformation. As I completed my 365^th painting on September 30,^th 2014, and placed it in its place next to October 1^st, 2013, a cycle was closed, and seamlessly, another began. In the words of the Irish mystic John O’Donohue, life is “a constantly unfolding event.” 

While in New York City over the weekend, I had an interesting (ok, and slightly traumatic and scary yet encouraging and clarifying) experience.

I had meetings at two galleries in Chelsea to show my work. I was plunged into this opportunity quite unexpectedly, which was good because I had no time to get nervous or put any weight on it, and bad because I was unprepared. But that's how it was, and I learned a lot.

The first gallery visit was deflating and depressing. The second made the whole experience humorous.

The first gallery owner began our conversation with a bit of a diatribe on how bad the art market is for galleries and young artists, that all the work was being sold through auction houses and only big ticket artists were selling. After this encouraging beginning, I was then asked to show my work, which he promptly dismissed. "You are obviously an accomplished painter," he said, "but western landscapes don't sell in New York. I can't even consider your work." Done.

Next gallery. A few doors down. I was surrounded by Western landscapes of barns by a not-too-famous Californian artist. I was told by this gallery owner that thirteen of his fifteen $30,000 paintings had sold at his recent show. He also reviewed my work, and said only "thank you," but did leave me with my most applicable take-home advice.

What sticks with me most was the answer to a question I asked the second gallerist. I asked him what was it that made this particular western landscape painter's work appealing to New Yorkers. The gist of his answer was that I just had to keep making the work I loved to make. Period. Which deep down we all know. But it's hard not to want to also make work that sells in big markets once in a while too.

But truly, I am going to continue to just keep making the work I love to make. New York, take it or leave it.

Today is a notable, celebratory, and slightly uneasy day for me. It is the first day in 367 days on which I will not paint.

My official year of painting ended on Tuesday, but I found myself automatically picking up the brushes both Wednesday and Thursday, taking a giddy pleasure in the voluntary nature of these extra days. But this morning I find myself on an airplane to New York City sans tinyExpanse painting box. A twinge of separation anxiety accompanies my airborne sense of freedom.

This is a fitting day to look back over my year of painting. The prevailing sentiment I feel is gratitude – gratitude that I was healthy and privileged enough to paint for 367 days straight.  Gratitude for those close to me who again and again showed patience as I impulsively pulled out my painting box, apologetically saying “I think this one will be quick.” Grateful for the moments spent observing the beauty around me, especially when doing so in the company of a friend or in a new and strange landscape. Grateful for the beauty of transformation inherent in the passage of time. When I look back over these 367 paintings, each one triggers a memory for me – the quality of the day, the thoughts in my mind at that moment, the people around me.

The great majority of this collection of memories is characterized by joy. This was an amazing year, and the sad or difficult time capsules on canvas are few and far between. My painting box and I traveled from the desolate Owyhee Canyonlands in Idaho to the desolate interior of Iceland. From the glow of autumn leaves in the alley behind my studio on Regan Avenue to the midsummer glow of the sun bouncing along the horizon line at a lakehouse in Finland. Boise, Blonduos, Brooklyn, Bozeman, Bear Tooths, Mazatlan, Mill Valley, Mount Borah, Sun Valley, Sandpoint, Salt Lake, Golden, Nampa, Hudson River Valley, Helsinki. How vastly diverse and beautiful are the landscapes of this globe which we call home.

I am delighted to notice that this practice of creating a small painting every day began and truly remained a practice of process rather than product – the process of staying alert to the presence of beauty every single day. (During the writing of this blog, I have witnessed the star-studded sky transforming into a magical pink and blue sunrise symphony over a bed of clouds. I challenge myself to allow the site to wash over me, at least for a moment unfiltered by the language of paint). I know that this habit of observation has sunk in deeply enough that I won’t need my paints to continue, though I’m quite sure painting will always be my own, personal, most tangible way of expressing my experience of the world.

And how wonderful that we each have our own way of expressing our individual experience. We each find beauty in different ways, find our hearts quickened by different impulses. As Rumi says, “Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.” I believe it is each of our duty, or perhaps simply opportunity, to share what we love about this world in the way most suited and unique to ourselves. I thank every one who has taken a moment to notice my own personal way of sharing my experience of beauty in the world.

Onward! As Shay would say.

Because this is a blog primarily for other artists, I feel free to admit - it's been a tough month. Well, a tough few months.

A phase where a flurry of creative output has left me feeling completely spent;  the strange coexistence of deep, satisfied tired that is the result of good hard creative work, and the feeling of futile fatigue and an undernourished bank account and soul.

It's the part of the cycle of the professional artist where working at Starbucks sounds heavenly in its repetition, lack of self direction, and guaranteed financial compensation for each hour of work.

Where one feels simultaneously under-supported by society and annoyed at the self-absorption and unrealistic expectation from which this feeling of being under appreciated springs.

But luckily I always seem to remember just in time that, in fact, this is a phase. It's one that comes less frequently the longer I am in this line of work, but it's increasingly less frequent occurrences seem to grow in intensity. I suppose this could be looked at positively - that the deepening intensity of slumps indicate that I have gone further on this path, that more heart and soul is invested.

And I have also learned that these tough phases are important and necessary, that they are nurseries for ever deepening belief in oneself and appreciation for the times when things are flowing - financially, creatively, joyfully. It is trite but true that showers do spring flowers. As artists we are hearty plants indeed, burrowing deeply into the darkness with unrelenting faith of the beauty crystallizing there.

I'm stopping myself here for a second - sometimes I get so tired of my own tirades of the "artist's dilemma." After all, we are profoundly lucky to live a life focused primarily on seeing and creating beauty. But once in a while it's nice to wallow in the reality that it's damn hard sometimes, that the lightness and pleasure that our livelihood appears to be filled with from the outside is not always our experience.

Still, I feel lucky. And stirring with anticipation of seeing this phase from the other side, where I can recognize the beauty that was forming in the mud. That phase is also a certainty.

tinyExpanse North Idaho 

A blogging, painting, exploring good time up north!

Reeder Bay - 5am-11am

It's documenting day - enjoyable in that I get to review everything I've created in the past week, and in that I get to have paint-free hands all day!

As I worked with the images from 40 paintings completed this week, I began to think about the purpose and meaning that images have. As a landscape painter, sometimes I feel that I am simply trying to recreate what is in front of me in a mediocre representation of the real thing. But thinking further, there is more to it than that. A Plein Air landscape painting is an accumulation of perception that includes all senses, not just visual. The temperature of the day, the elements of the place, the changing of the light throughout the painting session, and of course my own mood and thoughts, swirl around together in a big cauldron and assimilate themselves into the resulting image.

That being said, I still think the experience of the real thing is best. I hope that my images spark curiosity for places not yet seen, and love and dedication for places already experienced. In a world with many different perspectives, perhaps the one thing we can all agree on is the beauty of nature. An image might be superficial, but if it can spark something universal that inspires each of us to preserve this beauty, then I'm satisfied with my work.

A gallery from my week in North Idaho follows…starting with the tinyExpanse collage which is by the way available on Etsy, along with small prints of the Priest Lake painting.(https://www.etsy.com/shop/tinyexpanse)

For information on the purchase of originals, please contact me at rachel@teannalach.com.

25% of proceeds for both prints and originals go to Idaho Conservation League.

tinyExpanse poster available on Etsy (shop name tinyExpanse)

Priest Lake Morning 30"x48" oil and wax on panel

Bottle Bay and Beyond from Schweitzer 18"x24" oil and wax on panel

Selkirk Crest from the top of Chair Six 18"x24" oil and wax on panel

August 22nd Sunrise/Sunset 12"x12" oil and wax on panel
(sunrise from the long bridge, sunset from Reeder Bay)

August 23rd Sunrise/Sunset 12"x12" oil and wax on panel
(sunrise from the Reeder Bay, sunset from Bottle Bay Road)

August 24th Sunrise/Sunset 12"x12" oil and wax on panel
(sunrise from Sweeney Drive, sunset from Lincoln Avenue)

August 25th Sunrise/Sunset 12"x12" oil and wax on panel
(sunrise from City Beach, sunset from Lake Street ballfield)

August 26th Sunrise/Sunset 12"x12" oil and wax on panel
(sunrise from City Beach, sunset from Kootenai National Wildlife Refuge)

tinyExpanse North Idaho 

A blogging, painting, exploring good time up north!

Sunrise at City Beach, Sandpoint

I began the day again at City Beach, a place that is now firmly on my "happy place" list. Sandpoint has so many great public spaces that are clean and well cared for, and well used. The Pend d'Oreille Bay Trail is another of these - a stretch of natural walking trail along the water, preserved by the efforts of Idaho Conservation League and the Friends of the Pend d'Oreille Bay Trail. These islands of sanity in urban areas often are my favorite places - from my childhood stomping grounds near Bandelier National Monument, to the stunning Redwood Grove of Old Mill Park in Mill Valley, California, to the foothill trails in Hull's Gulch in Boise, many of my most peaceful memories of the places I've lived are set in these refuges. 

Later this afternoon I returned to City Beach and took a swim. I love experiencing a public place early in the morning before it is occupied by other people, and then witnessing the transformation later in the day. The rhythmic oscillation between of tranquil rest and joyful activity always makes me feel strangely content - perhaps in the knowledge that these places have a life of their own outside regular human business hours. 

After my swim I drove 30 miles north to Bonner's Ferry to paint at the Kootenai National Wildlife Refuge. This is the site of some of my most lasting impressions from my first visit to North Idaho with my dad almost five years ago.  The Wildlife Refuge is an exquisitely, almost painfully beautiful place. A wide glacially carved valley is filled with the sounds of birds and meandering water reflecting the ever-changing colors of the sky above. After painting the sunset I slowly drove the tour road around the refuge, enjoying the color of the sky and water constantly changing into different hues of what I like to call magic pink and magic blue (the colors of sunsets), the grasses in the marshes fading from Prussian green to a gentle chromium oxide green as the deer emerged for evening feeding. 

Solitude in natural places is a very different kind of aloneness than that which I experience inside in my studio. The solitude that nature provides is more of a feeling of "becoming one" than of "being alone." It is a great service that organizations such as Idaho Conservation League are providing by preserving these sanctuaries. Here's to 50 years of the Wilderness Act!

This was my last day to paint for the exhibition on Friday - tomorrow I will be painting edges, adding hanging wires, printing labels, photographing - all the numerous tasks that are part of preparing an art show. Thursday is installation day, Friday the opening (after a jaunt up Scotchman's Peak). Wish me (and ICL) luck! And if you are in Sandpoint, come on by! 5:30-8:00 at the Panhandle State Bank.

The Kootenai River

Kootenai National Wildlife Refuge

tinyExpanse North Idaho 

A blogging, painting, exploring good time up north!

Today began with a glorious sunrise painted from City Beach, shortly followed by a tub of pigment-laden turpenoid spilled all over my lap. Ah, the ups and downs of the Plein Air painter. 

Sunrise from City Beach

After City Beach, I spent some time at the ICL office painting edges of works from previous days, and then drove 20 minutes to the bottom of Schweitzer Mountain Resort. My plan was to take the lift to the top for a day of bird's eye view painting of the lake and the Scotchman Peaks. The lift runs from 10-5 every day of the week. Gearing up in the parking lot, I nervously decided to take a larger panel to the top with me - an 18x24. It's always tricky to transport wet oil paintings, especially the large ones, and especially down a ski lift! I bought my lift ticket and headed up.

Schweitzer is beautiful. At the base of the hill there is a little village with shops and apartments, but it's not super fancy and exclusive feeling like other ski resorts. From the top, one has a wonderful view of Pend Orielle and the surrounding mountains, and for the first time I was able to fully orient myself in my surroundings. This desert girl is just not used to so many trees and meandering bodies of water! My hunt for views of the sunrise and sunset have been laughable, repeating "never eat shredded wheat" to myself and trying to figure out over which hill the sun would come up. This is why I am not a sculptor - I work better in two dimensions. 

The day yielded five tinyExpanses and a larger painting of Pend Orielle with the slopes of Schweitzer draping the foreground. I found a baseball field to hunker down in for the sunset back in Sandpoint and am now decidedly down for the count. Tomorrow - the glacial valley wetlands of Bonner's Ferry.

I have some musings on the perils of being alone with one's thoughts a little too long (perhaps the hardest part of being an artist), but that's for tomorrow.  

Scotchman Peaks

Pend Oreille

Southeast from Schweitzer

Pend Oreille from Schweitzer

An odd chairlift passenger

tinyExpanse North Idaho 

A blogging, painting, exploring good time up north!

A day on the town…

Marina from City Beach

Historic Sandpoint

I suppose before this week I've held a not-too-uncommon impression of Sandpoint. Rainy. Drizzly. Grey. But today was beautiful and it was a pity that I had to spend even a part of it inside.

After painting the sunrise from Sweeney Drive in Sagle, I headed across the long bridge into town and to City Beach. Amazingly quiet for a beautiful Sunday morning, I had the beach nearly to myself for quite some time. I found one sweet spot and painted five tinyExpanses from there.

Four days spend mostly sitting caught up with me. I found a juice bar and a yoga studio and came back out into the sunshine a new person.

Time to get organized. At the Idaho Conservation League office I spread out my bounty for the week - the six-painting Reeder Bay series, three days of sunsets and sunrises, and twenty three tinyExpanses. I spent the rest of the day working on a large painting of Priest Lake, the largest piece for the show, sneaking out briefly to do tonight's sunset painting. Nothing like a deadline.

I have to admit, I'm getting a little tired.

(By the way the entire ICL office now smells like oil paint - I can only hope the staff love it as much as I do.)

Today's painting adventures within city limits increased my appreciation of this beautiful little town very much. I love how on-site painting leads me to places I would never discover otherwise. Often these places are very mundane but I never look upon them again without remembering the beauty they held upon a closer look. Last night, I got stuck waiting for a train to pass on Bottle Bay Road. The sun was heading down, so I pulled around the traffic and headed up the hill to find a spot to paint the sunset. I ended up painting parked next to some utility boxes above the railroad tracks. Tonight I ended up in another very random place - the parking lot between a bowling alley and a retirement home. Each place I paint becomes a special place to me, ridiculous as that sometimes may be. I hope that this little painting project makes these places a little more special and noticed for others as well!

Sailboats from City Beach

Pend Oreille Bay Trail

As for Priest Lake, pointing out its grandeur through a painting is perhaps redundant, but it sure was a pleasure.

Priest Lake Morning 30"x48" 2014

tinyExpanse North Idaho 

A blogging, painting, exploring good time up north!

5am-11am  (A morning at Reeder Bay)

My alarm goes off at 4:45am. Like many early morning endeavors, I promptly hit snooze and decided that my project planned for the morning is completely ridiculous and go back to sleep. 9 minutes later my alarm went goes off again and I drag myself out of my sleeping bag. 

By 5am I am at the beach with my headlamp dimly lighting my palette and painting panel. Last night I prepared six of such panels, drawing the outline of the scene to be painted today on each one using carbon paper. The line drawing makes painting faster and the finished works more consistent. I will paint one of these panels each hour (think Monet’s haystack paintings) to document the changing light on the water and the Selkirk mountains beyond. 

I have done several of these projects now, and always the 5am one is the hardest. Well, getting up is the hardest. But the glorious experience of having the sun rise and warm my cold, paint covered hands by about the third painting makes it worth it every time. 

5am

6am

7am

This morning I have the beach to myself for several hours. The water transforms from silver slivers on on indigo plane to gentle king’s blue and olive green stripes. 

Beach goers begin to trickle by, most not really noticing the unusual project going on at the beachside picnic table, some giving words of encouragement, others suspicious looks. At moments like these I thoroughly enjoy the abnormality of my profession - I am completely content in my disheveled appearance and bizarre activity. 

8am

9am

10am

Time for a swim, lunch, and a nap. If you haven’t had the chance to visit Priest Lake, put it on your list. It’s a little piece of paradise. 

This afternoon - back to Sandpoint to photograph and paint the Scotchman Peaks from Mineral Point. 

Priest Lake at Reeder Bay - 5am-11am

tinyExpanse North Idaho 

A blogging, painting, exploring good time up north!

I painted a lot today. Twelve tinyExpanses (my 3x3” paintings), a 12x12” painting of the sunrise, and a 12x12” painting of the sunset. I’m happy. And tired.

It’s like the tired that comes from digging in the dirt all day - a satisfied, somehow enlivened kind of tired. It’s the blissful hangover of what John O’Donohue would describe as a “quickening” experience, one that makes you feel alive. 

Sandpoint's grain elevator

My journey began this morning in Sandpoint, where I rose early to paint the first of my six sunrise paintings I will complete this week. I parked on the south side of the long bridge leading to Sandpoint, and found a spot to sit against the concrete that divides bike path from road. It was the kind of painting site where I expect to be confronted by a policeman following up on a report of a disheveled young woman shooting up (my little painting box, brushes, and an unkempt painting outfit have more than once confused a concerned citizen). 

It wasn’t ideal, but when painting in quickly changing light, there’s not much time to find the perfect place. Painting sunrises reinforces a lesson I’ve learned from Plein Air painting - one must learn to MAKE the real ideal. What is in front of you is full of potential to be experienced as perfect. It wasn’t the heavens-opening-up kind of sunrise; it was rather moody and windy and anticlimactic. It was real, and it was perfect. 

A quick coffee at the bank where my paintings will be exhibited next week with Nancy Dooley, ICL’s wonderful North Idaho Outreach Coordinator in Sandpoint. Nancy experienced a quintessential first impression of me - I realized afterward our meeting that I had paint on my nose the whole time, a relic of my prior painting session on the bridge. Nancy thought my nose was just peeling and sunburned. She’ll know better next time!

My next destination was Priest Lake, but before leaving Sandpoint I had to indulge an undeniable urge to paint the old grain elevator downtown. I do love landscapes most but once in a while I get a craving to paint something formed by humans and with straight lines. 

Priest Lake from Hanna Flat Road

Granite Creek (?) someone correct me if I'm wrong!

From Sandpoint I drove east on Highway 2 to Priest River and up 57 to Priest Lake. (A familiar rush of exhilaration upon breaking out of town.) A detailed email from a friend as familiar with Priest Lake as his own backyard (thank you Rob!), as well as a map from the Ranger Station, sent me merrily on my way. Climbing up Hanna Flats Road up to lookout over the lake, bumping along Tango Creek Road to paint cedar groves, streams, and a westward view, the day moved along painting by painting. 

Southeast from Reeder Bay

I had expected to find a primitive campsite or pull off on a quiet dirt road to sleep, but I ended up finding lucky #13 campsite at Reeder’s Bay welcoming me sans reservation card. To be honest I was craving the company of other humans more so than that of bears. 

I spent the evening painting on the beautiful Reeder beach amongst exhuberantly vacationing families, observing the light changing on the Selkirks on the other side of the lake. Wasn’t much of a stretch to make the real ideal here. A grandson swam with his grandmother, who moved about in the water like a teenager, shouting, “I love the water!”. I envied both the boy for his remarkable grandmother, and the grandmother for her joyful, fearless way with the water. I myself am afraid of boundless depths of water below. 

The painting session on the beach produced four of the twelve tinyExpanses I made today, and ended with the first of six 12”x12” sunset paintings to be completed this week along with the sunrises. 

And tomorrow? I’m a little too tired to transform anxiety into excitement for what I have planned...

I’ll leave you with a bit of suspense.

In Bob Ross's language, 12 happy little paintings in a happy little box.