Turquoise Doors and Wildflowers…

Now, WordPress… when you say artists, what exactly are we talking about here?

Painters? Musicians? Poets? Or the neighbor who turns her front garden into a wild, defiant explosion of daisies and old wheelbarrows every spring? Because I have favorites in all those categories.

If it’s painters you mean, then give me Van Gogh, the man who painted the wind, the ache, and the madness of it all. He didn’t just look at a field; he felt it breathing. And Frida Kahlo, fierce, fragile, and unfiltered. She didn’t hide behind beauty; she dragged it out of pain and stitched it into her own skin. That’s real art, the kind that bleeds a little.

Then there’s music, my soul’s oxygen some days. Stevie Nicks, swirling like a storm, is equal parts witch and poet. Bob Dylan for the words that tumble like half-drunk truths. Leonard Cohen, for when I need to feel everything all at once. And Amy Winehouse, raw, unvarnished, and far too real for this world.

Writers? Oh, where to start. Rumi, when I want to remember, there’s light in the cracks. Maeve Binchy, when I want the warmth of an Irish hearth. Bukowski, when I need to snarl at life but still love it. And sometimes, the unknown bloggers, the quiet souls writing truth into the void, hoping someone out there nods and says, “Me too.”

But here’s the thing: my favorite artists aren’t always famous. They’re the everyday creators, the man who fixes old chairs and hums as he works, the woman who paints her shed turquoise because it makes her feel alive, the child who colours a purple cow and calls it art without apology.

Art isn’t confined to galleries or grand stages. It lives in the heartbeat of anyone who feels deeply and dares to show it. It’s in the gardener who plants wildflowers just to see what happens, the cook who turns leftovers into poetry, the wanderer who keeps walking even when the map runs out.

Art is how we survive being human. It’s how we make sense of chaos and beauty, heartbreak and hope. It’s rebellion with a brushstroke, healing in a song, prayer in a poem.

And maybe that’s what I love most about artists, they remind us that life isn’t about perfection, it’s about expression.

Message from Granny Frass:

“Real artists don’t wait for permission, Mae. They make something out of nothing, a stew from scraps, a poem from pain, or a garden from gravel. The trick is to keep creating, even when no one’s clapping. Especially then.”

Mae🧡