Studio Journal Entry 006: The Story Behind Grace Unfolding

“Some paintings begin with an idea. Others begin with a memory that doesn't realize it's becoming art."

When I painted Grace Unfolding, I wasn't trying to paint a memory.

I simply wanted to challenge myself.

I'd been wanting to create something more intricate with my palette knife, and after seeing a similar technique online, I wondered if I could recreate that feeling using the acrylic mediums and impasto techniques I was still learning.

At the time, I had very little experience.

I wasn't sure I could pull it off.

Looking back now, that uncertainty became part of the painting.

A few days before I started, my sister and I had finalized the guest list for our mom's memorial. We'd also begun creating a shared photo album for the slideshow, sorting through decades of family memories.

My mom was everywhere.

Even if I wasn't painting her intentionally...

She was already in the room.

This painting challenged me from the very beginning.

After I finally figured out how I wanted the left side to look, I remember staring at the blank right side thinking,

"Now what?"

For a while, I became fixated on making both halves match perfectly.

Then I laughed at myself.

They weren't supposed to be butterfly wings.

They weren't meant to be identical.

Somewhere in the middle of that frustration, I heard my mom's voice.

"Just have fun with it."

So I did.

Or at least...

I tried.

If I'm being honest, I struggled through almost the entire painting.

One of my favorite details now is actually something behind the subject itself.

The background.

It quietly supports everything happening in the foreground without asking for attention.

I almost overlooked it while I was painting, but now it's one of the reasons the whole piece feels balanced to me.

When I stand in front of Grace Unfolding today, the first emotion I feel is comfort.

My relationship with my mom was complicated.

There were seasons where we hurt each other deeply.

Grace wasn't always something either of us gave freely.

For a long time, I thought that was simply the story we'd always have.

But grief has a way of softening places inside you that once felt impossible to reach.

I've realized that grace doesn't always arrive during the relationship itself.

Sometimes it unfolds afterward.

In memories.

In understanding.

In choosing to remember the love that existed alongside the difficult parts.

Just two days after I finished this painting, I found a small handwritten note tucked inside an old box of photographs.

It wasn't profound.

It simply read:

"If adding more photos I gave some extra choices :)"

I smiled the moment I saw it.

Because only a couple of days earlier, while I was struggling with this painting, I'd heard her saying almost the exact thing she always would:

"Just have fun with it."

Sometimes comfort arrives in extraordinary ways.

Sometimes it arrives on an ordinary piece of paper that's been waiting quietly in a box for years.

Grace Unfolding reminds me that grace is rarely instant.

Sometimes it takes years.

Sometimes it takes loss.

Sometimes it quietly unfolds until one day you realize your heart has become softer than it used to be.

If this painting could whisper one sentence...

It wouldn't say anything new.

It would simply repeat the words I needed to hear then—and still need to hear now.

"Just have fun with it."

Until next time,

Thanks for spending a few minutes behind the easel with me.

One of my favorite things about abstract art is that no two people experience a painting the same way. If this piece reminds you of a place, a memory, or simply a feeling, then it's already begun a conversation—and I love that.

See you in the studio,

Lisa
LBW Creative Studio

——

One Last Thought Before I Clean My Brushes

"Grace isn't about pretending the hard parts never happened. Sometimes it's simply allowing love to take up a little more space than hurt."