It was early Spring 2020. The pandemic engulfed the US with panic. No one knew what to do. As the first cases were being reported, I remember seeing a few people at the grocery store wearing medical masks and latex gloves and thinking, “Isn’t that a bit much” …?

“How long do you think we’ll be shut down for?”

“I don’t know… Two weeks at the MOST?”

“Okay, we should be fine.”

1st week: “Lets complete ALL the household maintenance we never manage to get around to, while drinking Moscow Mules!” 

2nd week: “I found some canvases in the garage! Do you need these old cans of house paint? I think I’ll do some art.”

The paint ran terribly and dried in feathery blotches. The brush was cheap and better suited for polishing fingernails than creating a masterpiece, but he didn’t care. It was exciting. It was familiar. Like being reunited with an old friend.

Weeks went by and the paintings kept flowing. Soon, he would be able to reopen his business, but he knew he had to continue making art a part of his life. His hunger for creating and discovering new ways to manipulate paint was insatiable.

One painting. Every day. For a year. His concept became clearer, his mediums became better, and his techniques began to solidify.

During quarantine, some people exercised. Others organized and cleaned every nook and cranny of their homes. Others learned to knit. There was a lot of baking and stocking of pantry items for what seemed like the end of the world. Too many hoarded toilet paper. And of course, many people drank because, again, why not?

And Thad? He became an artist.