Hello, dear readers. As I continue to put the finishing touches on pieces for my solo art show Crayons & Cupboards, here is a sneak peek at part of my process, a scale model of my grandparents’ house as it was in 1985, to help me recapture a specific memory.

Time travel is real

Scientists have confirmed that time is not as constant or linear as it seems to be. Objects moving at different speeds, or positioned closer or farther from gravitational fields, experience different timelines. After a twin travels to space, they return slightly younger than their earthbound sibling.

Crayons & Cupboards is a show built on the premise that time travel is possible in yet another way. If I look at enough photos taken during my childhood in and around my grandparents’ house in the 1980s, if I dig through boxes and unearth small objects connected to those times, if I create enough crayon-based artworks in response to these memories, then those times will become real again.

The physical house that once contained these memories belongs to someone else now. It seems impossible, but my reality would not match the house that I find at the same address today. And yet to me, the house on Tanner Road still exists as it did in the mid-1980s before I was out of grade school.

Even as I write this I must acknowledge that this is only one version of the house that I knew; I landed in 1985 because I decided to. But I knew this house in the 70s before the kitchen addition, then after; I knew it when it was re-painted cream and gray-blue; I knew it when the old chimney was torn down rebuilt, the 1950 shingles pulled off, and the whole thing re-wrapped in vinyl. I knew it with my grandmother, and without, and when it was emptied and when Grandpop moved away.

Frozen orange juice

I’m trying to capture a moment, or maybe an aggregate of moments around 1985, when it was summer, and quite hot and humid, and I had left Reading to spend some time with my grandparents at their house in Hatboro.

It was after dark, with the windows open to the breeze and the fans blowing, and we sat outside on the front porch for the night air, with the little orange glass lamp from New Mexico burning, and we were encircled by planters and hanging baskets filled with my grandmother’s impatiens along the perimeter of the porch, and beyond that border the night was blue-black, and there were lightning bugs everywhere, emerging from the grass and flying all around.

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My grandmother used to freeze orange juice in waxed paper Dixie cups, with popsicle sticks jutting out at an angle, and we each held one by the stick, and I was sucking the orange syrup out of mine, leaving the crunchy, upside-down-cup-shaped shell of ice behind.

Nana Bea was sitting on a cushioned redwood patio chair or maybe an aluminum folding chair, and I climbed up on her knee. Her skin felt slightly sticky from perspiration and a little cool, and she told me I was getting so big and heavy, but she let me stay there for a little while, anyway, before the circulation in her leg was cut off.

That’s it. That’s the moment I’m trying to capture.

Did I time travel? Was this real? Who knows. Maybe it wasn’t orange juice. Maybe there were many instances of climbing onto her knee. Could it be that the redwood patio furniture hadn’t been purchased yet when we she was making frozen juice pops in Dixie cups? Was the perspiration on her knee, or was it her arm?

Have you ever “time traveled,” and if so, how good at it were you?

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Screen doors, impatiens

For those who are curious about my technical process, I haven’t even started making the actual image yet, the one of the porch with the warm light, the flowers, the blue-black night, the lightning bugs, the feeling of enclosure and safety and summer heat. The plan is to use gouache, crayon, and colored pencil to complete a 17 x 11 inch artwork.

With the installation deadline looming for the show in two days, instead I’ve been combining what I know—what I think I remember—into a set of floor plans, and a three-dimensional scale model of the house. That model can be seen in the illustrations for this article.

Overall I’ve been building it with paper and cardboard and white glue. For the screen door I used floral wire to do the metal work. A teabag for the screen. The impatiens are globs of dried acrylic paint attached to preserved moss.

You are invited

Come see the model and twenty new crayon-based artworks, and hear more family stories at the opening night reception, July 10 at Art Plus in West Reading, PA. I may bring the house model just for the opening night (it’s so fragile!), but the 2D work will be up for all of July 2026.

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I’ve been mostly offline for the month of June for a very good reason: I was asked to participate in a cultural exchange between my home city of Reading, PA and Reutlingen, Germany, where I’d paint a mural with my dear friend .

At the same time Benji and his family were excellent hosts to me near Basel, Switzerland, sharing their home, their time, and many beautiful cultural traditions, foods, and sites around the country.

A second visit to Germany gave me the opportunity to reunite with close friends near Freiburg im Breisgau, do a bit of hiking up the vineyard-covered Kaiserstuhl, and to eat some tasty Alsatian flammkuchen.

This preview is just a small taste of the many wonderful things I was fortunate enough to experience in these past few weeks—traditional Swiss and German dishes, art, natural beauty, and time with friends. More to come in a series of photo essays starting in July.

In the meantime I’ll be putting finishing touches on my solo show Crayons & Cupboards at Art Plus Gallery in West Reading, PA, where I hope to see you opening night, July 10, 2026, from 5 to 8pm.

And now, here are some of the things I saw on my recent trip to Switzerland and Germany, in reverse order.

So there you have it, just a hint of things to come. And once again, if you can make it, I’d love to see you at the opening of my solo gallery show Crayons & Cupboards, which will be coming together and installed within the next week or so at Art Plus Gallery in West Reading, PA, with opening reception to be held the evening of July 10, 2026.

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Hope you're having a lovely day. I just wanted to share a brief update on the work for my upcoming solo show, Crayons & Cupboards, debuting in July at Art Plus Gallery in West Reading, Pennsylvania.

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Hello All! Just an update, as I’ve been very busy preparing for my solo show at Art Plus Gallery in West Reading, Pennsylvania, Crayons & Cupboards (opening July 10, 2026 from 5 to 8pm).

All work for the show must be done by the end of May, because I’ll be heading to Europe to paint a mural in Reutlingen, Germany in June, a gift as part of a cultural exchange with my home city of Reading, Pennsylvania. The gallery show gets finishing touches and installation when I return in late June. Whew!

Crayons & Cupboards will be about many things, but the key theme is returning to a state of childlike curiosity, working with crayons, and finding inspiration inside closed-up storage spaces, both physical and metaphorical cupboards, to see what’s inside.

What’s inside?

There were two, matching, built-in cupboards built by my grandfather which stood on either side of the wide, front picture window. Inside the left cupboard, if you were facing out the picture window, was where our games and small toys were kept. There were two cardboard Quaker Oats canisters: inside one I kept baseball cards, bouncy balls and jacks, toy cars, and other assorted small toys. In the other canister were the crayons. I can remember popping the paper lid off, which made a satisfying “FFFFFF” sound as it slid straight up, and the intoxicating smell of crayons would waft out, an aroma tied closely to feelings of freedom and creativity.

The crayon cabinet was a favored space of mine, but I was a curious kid who loved digging through all my grandparents’ storage spaces, as they were full of fascinating objects that might inspire my next great artwork or imaginative play session: the doors to the hutch revealed fancy unused sets of china that I was to look at, but not touch; then a stop over at the front built-in cupboards to check out the player piano rolls (like Spanish Flea by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass) games, toys, and crayons; kitchen drawers that slid open so nicely, filled with neat rows of nested, round, plastic ice cream tub lids; lazy Susan cabinets with cans and spicy-smelling bottles of sauces; the pantry closet with the sweet-smelling Masonite pegboard attached to the door, laden with pots, pans, dusters, and other items that all swung together, going “Clang! Clang!” at the same time whenever the door was moved; tiny vanity drawers with tiny prizes inside; laundry room cabinets smelling of cleaning solutions and cleanser; back porch cabinet that my grandmother said was full of bird poop, and which I should not touch (but I did anyway); mysterious knee-wall storage areas upstairs that Grandpop had built himself, next to built-in bookshelves where you could find a few scandalous pulp fiction paperback novels. On the rarest of occasions I’d get a glimpse of my grandfather’s garage loft, accessible only by a frighteningly tall ladder (probably about eight feet high!)

Moving on

When my grandmother passed away in 1997, Grandpop stayed on in the house they had built together for another six years until Uncle Tom, a builder, made him a new “dream house” in Newburg. In the months leading up to completion, we learned that the new house would have wide porches, lots of light, and a huge workshop for making wooden furniture and crafts. It would be airy and spacious, both inside and out, with broad views of the countryside valley and mountains from its position on a grassy hill. A much-needed fresh start for Grandpop was in order.

At the same time, the old house had been a place so full of lived-in color, pattern, texture, and of course memories, not just for Grandpop but for all of us. My sisters and I had grown up there in the summers (probably just weeks at a time but it felt like much longer), playing outside all day under the shade trees with the Wanner kids from the neighboring house, and it felt strange to pack everything into moving trucks and move it a hundred miles or more to a new place.

Going through photo prints, I found a series of images of my grandfather in each empty room of the old house. Without the furniture in place, the wallpaper and carpets look more worn than I ever remember them being. I assume it was the last day. It’s hard to tell if Grandpop looks sad in these pictures, or resigned, but in any case he was ready to start something new.

And yet, my grandfather insisted that every prized possession (everything) must make the journey with him, and so we dutifully packed every object away, big and small, his things and my grandmother’s things, and moved all of it to the new house on the hill in the countryside with a view of the Blue Mountain and the turnpike tunnel, just down the road from Uncle Tom.

The new house was set up nicely, the old familiar furniture and wall hangings arranged in a new configuration, familiar and not quite familiar at the same time. To my grandfather’s delight, you could sit on the deck and look across the farmland to the turnpike, with tiny cars and trucks going back and forth, just like a miniature scale model layout.

Not everything survived the move. My prized cardboard Quaker Oats canister full of waxy crayons was already long gone, having mysteriously disappeared during my grandmother’s lifetime, around the time I was in high school (maybe donated to some other visiting children?) The built-in cupboard where the crayons were kept stayed behind in my grandparents’ old living room and now belongs to a stranger, assuming it still exists at all.

And the people have gone somewhere else, too. I dreamt once that my grandmother was back in her old dining room. I was stepping out of the kitchen, surprised to see her there. “I thought you died?” I said. Her hair was longer, the way it was in photos taken during her youth, and it moved as if being blown by a gentle breeze. She was fooling with something on top of the hutch, barely noticing me. She told me that she had moved on, had other things to do. When I looked there in real life, I found a small toy in the shape of a baby chick which chirped when placed in your palm.

My grandmother, an early champion of creativity and play in my life, passed away nearly thirty years ago on the last day of my sophomore year of art school, and my grandfather followed thirteen years later in autumn 2010.

More cupboards

After Grandpop passed, we closed down the house gradually over a couple months. Not the old cupboard house, but the dream-house built by Uncle Tom by the Blue Mountain tunnel.

Even though I helped move them, I was somehow still surprised to see that so many items I fondly remembered from the first house had been saved. The clocks that didn’t work anymore. The chunky, blown-glass and iron lamp from the old front porch, and the two-seater wooden swing, too. The saloon doors from the little hall—there they were sitting askew in a pile of more stuff up in the attic.

Most of these things got given away or sold. Some things, like the old porch swing, were burned. My grandmother’s clothing, saved away for thirteen years and still smelling faintly of her, was given to a women’s shelter. Grandpop’s extensive collection of toy trains were sold, as were his Craftsmen tools, as were so many of the little decorations and knick-knacks that used to decorate the house. Bit by bit, it all disappeared. When a thrifty, gum-chewing stranger gestured at the train room and commented, “I’d probably insult you if I offered $500 for that whole collection,” my Uncle Tom didn’t even look at the man. He just said, “Yep, you probably would.”

Rebuilding memory from scratch

So the show is about this, too: looking back at my grandparents, trying to remember what that time was like, reviving the old house as I remember it in the 1980s and 1990s, a living document of our family’s life: parties, aunts, uncles, neighbors, picnics, road trips, sticky nights without air conditioning, Japanese beetles, flower gardens, motor oil and chains and wrenches, wood ash, dog dander, the smell of the Inquirer on the wooden piano bench.

Somehow, from this, I hope to create a unique, comprehensive body of work made primarily with crayon. I want to draw with a sense of spontaneity and weirdness and play similar to when I was a kid, but with decades of experiences folded into the mix now that I’m nearing my… sixth decade of life? Wow.

But how do I produce such work, with memory getting hazy as it does?

Well, to that end I’ve been opening more cupboards, those which hold items that I had squirreled away—ones that escaped the sales tables and giveaways after Grandpop died—including some smaller memorable objects, and every family photo and letter and greeting card and children’s drawing that my grandmother saved, and then my grandfather saved, and now I saved.

In these boxes are love notes written between my grandparents, presumably using my grandfather’s lunch box as a mail box when his work hours as an interstate truck driver were long and demanding. There are letters from friends and family with glowing, loving endorsements of my grandparents, thanking them for the feeling of safety and warmth which they created in their home. My suspicions are confirmed when I read these words, over and over. They had built something special.

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For years I have put memories of my grandparents away, not just the photos and objects I have saved, but the memories themselves, filed away safely into “emotional cupboards” where their deaths cannot hurt me. But my solo show has given me the opportunity to look again. It doesn’t seem too painful to look again, now that so much time has passed. But in the meantime I wonder how many memories have I lost through disuse?

I believe the process of building this show is helping me jump-start my memory and emotions surrounding those days. I’ve even started building a detailed scale model of the house (30:1 scale) from floor plans I’ve gleaned from old papers, and what can be surmised from the thousands of print photos. This has allowed me to enter into conversations with my uncle and my parents and sisters about the house, how it was shaped, what things were where, who did what on what occasion in which room.

My father pointed to the model, referring to it as if it were the house itself, and said “your great-grandmother complained of feeling tired one night, and we helped her from this front room to her bed over here in the back room, and there she died during the night. She was a strong, strong woman. Here is where we saved a bird that had gotten trapped between the walls, by using a miniature motor, and a string attached to a platform with birdseed on it.”

No matter how the show itself is received in July (and I am curious how it will be received) I’d say the show is working. It’s reviving something that was put away for so long… I’m busting the old crayons out, and the memories, and the stories, dusting things off that were squirreled away in cupboards for years and years, and just seeing what’s there, and what happens when I sit down with some blank paper and crayons.

Is it true?

Part of me wonders if my memories are accurate, or if my memories are something totally new produced in the act of looking at the objects and photos from the past. Part of me is afraid that may be true: Is the past, and are my lost relatives, really trapped forever behind an impenetrable barrier?

In making the scale model, I’ve caught myself feeling certain about a configuration of walls, doors, or windows, then found the belief contradicted by photo evidence, or math. What does that mean about everything else I thought I remembered correctly?

In my drive for accuracy, while balancing a sense of crayon-freedom and play, part of me wonders if it ultimately matters whether the memories are real, or just new stories, or a blend of both, and whether it’s even really possible to have it any other way.

I’m hoping friends and family who I have not seen in years will come to the opening and share even more stories. I have letters, drawings, and souvenirs that my grandparents saved from you, which I would like to return. Uncle Joe’s craft projects from first grade; drawings made by the Wanners next door in the 1980s; beautiful letters from Uncle Tom and Aunt Brandii and my cousins.

Hope to see you all at Crayons & Cupboards, at Art Plus Gallery in West Reading, opening reception July 10, 2026 from 5 to 8pm.

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Did you know that it is International Urban Sketchers Week every year from May 1 to May 7? Coincidentally, my plein air sketch group got rained out of our last session, so we moved inside to the new Thorn Alley Kitchen at GoggleWorks Center for the Arts in Reading, Pennsylvania, to d…

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In this lesson we will cover uses of smooth, synthetic Yupo paper, and how to draw bright fruit using colored pencils and other media.

Inspirational fruit artwork

Here are some examples of fruit drawn and painted by skilled artists. Only one example was done with colored pencils, but the rest are nevertheless beautiful and useful examples of fruit rendered in color.

Some of the artists prioritize realistic light and shadow effects while others present fruit as zones of flat color within a patchwork of shape and texture.

Limitations of Yupo paper

I was curious how vibrant drawings of fruit would appear on Yupo paper, which is a smooth polypropylene plastic sheet, not comprised of wood fibers, cotton, or linen as some other artist papers are. The surface is slightly toothy, and somewhat resistant to the application of art media.

I quickly discovered that if you use colored pencils on Yupo, there is a limit to how much layering, burnishing, and erasing is possible, sometimes leading to clumping of the wax or oil binder and creation of areas that won’t accept any more drawing material.

Oil-based Faber Castell Polychromos pencils seem to grab onto the Yupo surface more readily than wax-based Caran d’Ache Luminance colored pencils do, especially when building layers using crosshatching.

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In my recent outdoor sketching class sessions, students and I completed miniature plein air studies to capture the fleeting twilight, plus learned a bit about perspective.

Clear s…

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Students meet me once per week from 6 to 9pm to sketch outdoors at the courtyard garden of the local arts center. With the sun setting around 7:30pm, this presents a challenge: How do we capture the light with…

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I am looking forward to beginning a new plein air sketching course with my students at GoggleWorks Center for the Arts in Reading, PA. But on our first day of class, we’re expecting rain. What do you do when your outdoor sketch party gets rained on?

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This week my students and I studied the intricate background paintings for Walt Disney’s feature-length, animated film Sleeping Beauty (1959), created by painter Eyvind Earle (1916-2000). In this lesson we cover—

• Art techniques used in the production of Sleeping Beauty

• Eyvind Earle’s role in elevat…

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Back in November I got to be one of a lucky few artists in attendance at Aaron Blaise’s Living Line workshop in Orlando, Florida. Here’s my take on how it went, what we learned, and why you might want to attend a future workshop.

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Were you a 90s art school kid like me? Are you 90s-art-school-curious? In honor of Artist’s Cheat Sheet being mentioned in the winter 2026 edition of RISD Alumni & Friends Magazine—I’m opening up my analog photo albums and taking us on a little trip down memory lane. Let’s go back to Coll…

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Gouache is the opaque cousin to watercolor, allowing you to cover dark colors with lighter ones and vice versa; it dries quickly and reactivates with water quickly and takes some getting used to. These notes are for my students or any aspiring gouache artists out there looking for practice and i…

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Following our introductory watercolors cheat sheet lesson, I asked students to paint a landscape using any techniques that we had discussed. For my demo I copied Winslow’s Homer’s beautiful 1892 watercolor, The Blue Boat.

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Carnotaurus facts—

• Name translates to “meat-eating bull” because of the unusual, hornlike protrusions above the eyes.

• Lived 70 million years ago in the area now known as Argentina; only one individual has ever been unearthed!

• Lost part of its fossilized tail and lower legs due to weathering, (femur bones indicate the size and shape of the missing lower legs).

• Found with fossilized skin attached to the skeleton, showing a scaly, non-feathered body with some pointy, conical scales distributed throughout.

• Carnotaurus was 26 feet (8 meters) long!

• Its stubby vestigial arms were smaller than T-Rex’s!

• Bipedal and capable of reaching speeds of 35 miles per hour (56 kilometers per hour).

• Body structure similar to chickens. Terryl speaks about the relationship between birds and dinosaurs in this short video clip from the workshop.

Drawing Carnotaurus from the inside out

Terryl emphasized that you need to understand anatomy if you hope to become good at drawing animals. She took us through a multi-step process, starting from Carnotaurus's skeleton and working our way through the muscle layer and out to the surface skin.

Gesture, armature, rig skeleton

The first step was to create a simplified armature or “rig skeleton” with accurate proportions. This included the skull, ribcage, and pelvis, and a few lines indicating the placement of limbs, joints, spine, and tail. The rig skeleton is good for planning and quickly posing out different kinds of gestures.

Skeletal structure

Next we developed the full skeletal structure on tracing paper on top of the rig skeleton. Parts of the only known Carnotaurus skeleton are missing (a section of tail and lower limbs); these have to be surmised by scientists.

Musculature

On another layer of tracing paper, we reconstructed the musculature. Anatomy of modern-day birds helps us understand what to do, but the skeleton fossil gives us clues as well. Tendon attachment points for the caudofemoralis muscle (connecting the tail and upper legs) shows that Carnotaurus was a powerful runner. (Thanks to for lending me his notes for this part.)

Skin and coloration

Very well-preserved sections of fossilized skin were found with Carnotaurus. These indicate a scaly, non-feathered kind of skin with a distribution of spiky bumps throughout. Some interpretations (like the one we drew) show these bumps arranged in rows along the back.

We don’t know for sure what colors Carnotaurus had, but large animals typically display subdued coloration. Terryl chose a female collared lizard as the inspiration for her Carnotaurus color and patterning, imagining a protective mother with a nest full of eggs, needing to blend in with her natural environment.

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About Terryl Whitlatch

Terryl is a world-renowned scientific illustrator whose works of art appear in films and books you may well know. She has worked as a creature designer for Lucasfilm, PIXAR, and Disney (including alongside Aaron Blaise on his film Brother Bear), and as an animal artist for zoos and natural history museums all across the world. It was a pleasure to learn about Carnotaurus with her!

For live, online workshops with Terryl Whitlatch, visit Creature Art Teacher.

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This is part six and the conclusion of the Beautiful Savannah series. Enjoy previous chapters at this link. In this edition—our favorite experiences; attractions that we missed; a few tips for sketching on the go; and a note for wheelchair users.

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Beginning at the end

“Goodbye” is never fun to say, especially after you’ve spent…

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Back in November I got to be one of a lucky few artists in attendance at Aaron Blaise’s Living Line workshop in Orlando, Florida. Here’s my take on how it went, what we learned, and why you might want to attend a future workshop.

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On the third Sunday of each month, let’s hop online to sketch and draw together from 11 am to noon eastern time. I call it Sunday Sketch & Paint. Grab a beverage of choice plus your art supplies, and let’s get ready to sketch!

Starting in March 2026 I’ll send invitations to members (paid subscribers) each month. Cost is currently just $6 a month, so please consider supporting with membership. Thank you!

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What we will do

• Brief round of intros (who you are, where you are from)

• Sketch using a prompt (will be announced in the email invitation)

• Friendly chat throughout and quick art share at the end

What we won’t do

• Only chat—because making stuff is half the fun!

• Workshop. Future sessions may operate like workshops with an art lesson plus feedback. For now, sessions will be time to create art in a no-pressure, social setting—not a lesson or critique.

How to join

Members (paid subscribers) of Artist’s Cheat Sheet will automatically receive email invitations with a Google Meet link a few days before the session. Simply tap the link to join.

Sessions are on the third Sunday each month. Check your junk mail folder, and mark the email invitation as ‘safe’ if needed.

I hope to see you at the next Sketch & Paint session!

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A student recently wrote to me asking for tips on photographing artwork. Using my mixed media drawing of an autumn leaf as a test subject, I’ve shared the basic steps I use to photograph artwork; twelve additional tips are included for paid subscribers of Artist’s Cheat Sheet.

By the way, I got a head start on my 2025 income taxes, and for the amount I worked last year I honestly thought the income would be better. You can help support my labor as an arts instructor and writer (which includes many hours outside the classroom) by becoming a paid subscriber to this newsletter.

Current cost is just $6 per month for new subscribers—priced so that almost anyone can afford to pay. Thanks for your support.

It’s not too complicated

You’ll get the best results if you have your art professionally photographed or scanned; but for most purposes (sharing on social media, submitting to shows) you can shoot decent photos of your artwork yourself using a DSLR or cellphone camera and a free image editing program like Google Photos.

I photographed this multimedia drawing of a leaf using a Sony DSLR for the image above, and an old Samsung Galaxy cellphone camera for the image below. You may get greater clarity from the DSLR camera, but the cellphone didn’t do such a bad job, either.

Lighting and positioning basics

Lighting is important. Too dark, and the image will be grainy. Too bright, and you’ll lose detail in the white areas. For best results, follow these basic rules:

• The camera should face the image head-on; get as close as possible without using digital zoom and without distorting the picture.

• Take the photo outside on a sunny or overcast day. If it’s sunny, try taking the photo both in full sunlight and in the shade of a building.

• Check for shadows and reflections, and take several pictures so that you can choose the one that most resembles the original artwork.

• Use image editing software on your phone, tablet, or computer to crop the image or make small adjustments to exposure, color, or sharpness if needed. Basic image editing programs include Google Photos, Apple Photos, or Gallery on Android phones.

Twelve more photography tips

For paid subscribers I have a dozen more tips below illustrating what to do (and not to do) when shooting photos of your artwork. A very modest fee (less than the cost of a monthly latte) helps support the substantial work that goes into writing, illustrating, and publishing Artist’s Cheat Sheet. Thank you.

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The illustrations above and below show eight common and problematic scenarios when photographing artwork. Here’s how to avoid them.

Above, starting top left and going to bottom right:

• Brightly colored clothing, buildings, or cars nearby can put an unwanted color cast on your artwork (I was obviously wearing a bright yellow shirt). Wear neutral colored clothing and stay away from colorful buildings or anything that may reflect strong color onto your artwork.

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In my recent watercolor workshop at Historic Yellow Springs in Chester County, Pennsylvania, students and I braved the snowy, sub-freezing climate to draw inspiration from the American master Andrew Wyeth (1917-2009), and to try to answer a few questions: Was Wyeth a real artist? What is the Wy…

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