Back in my college days, I painted this portrait of my boyfriend Brad—who later became my husband and still is 51 years later!
Our oil painting class was… unconventional, to say the least. The instructor showed up that first week, declared we were doing abstracts, handed out old magazines, and told us to cut out pieces, collage a design, then copy it in paint. No techniques, no fundamentals—just “go abstract or go home.” After giving us our assignment the teacher left and did not return until the last week of the semester to grade our painting.
I had zero interest in pure abstraction; I craved the challenge of realistic landscapes and lifelike portraits, the kind where light dances on skin and every brushstroke tells a story. But grades mattered, so I compromised in the most rebellious way I could: I created a bold, geometric abstract background in rich earthy tones—warm browns, oranges, ambers, and soft golds—those interlocking rectangles and bands of color marching across the canvas like a modernist wall. Then, right in the middle, I painted Brad emerging from it, leaning in with that signature smile, arms crossed casually, as if he’d just stepped out of the pattern itself to say hello. He wasn’t part of the abstraction; he broke through it.
The finished piece felt like a quiet act of defiance: my realistic portrait refusing to fully surrender to the abstract assignment. My teacher loved it and gave me an A. I walked away happy with the result (and still am; it’s one of my favorites because it was the first portrait I ever painted), but honestly, I didn’t learn a single useful oil-painting skill in that class. What I did learn was how to bend the rules just enough to make something meaningful—and how to immortalize the man who would one day share my life in a way that still makes me smile every time I look at it.