 The day's trek was ordinary, until it wasn’t. A few inches of new snow muted our steps, and my 75 lb canine companion, who adores these hikes, moved ahead with easy confidence, nose working the air like always. The forest was still and tranquil, as if resting after the snowstorm. Delighted to find the well-picked remains of a deer, my dog scavenged a bone to carry along on our walk. The remains, upon examination, were probably from a couple of days ago. Fairly close to a road, I figured it had been hit by a car and either died or was injured and became coyote food. The fresh snow around the carcass was full of their tracks, indicating a recent visit. Nothing unusual. We meandered on, taking in the peace and quiet of the woods after a snowfall. After a mile or so, my dog tired of carrying the bone and let it drop. We kept going, descending a steep hill, passing the springs and crossing a meadow to reach the far side of the valley before beginning to climb the challenging slope that led to our way back. Out of nowhere a loud, sharp sound startled us. I usually recognize most of the calls and sounds I hear in the woods here, but this one stopped us both in our tracks. We turned toward the call. Then things happened fast. The single call was followed by one long howl, deep and resonant. It was close. The space quickly flooded with yipping and higher-pitched voices. Unmistakable. We both spotted them at once, circling and calling in a frenzy, across the valley, maybe 300 yards away. A pack of five or maybe six coyotes. My dog, leashed to my waist, was already pointing up the steep hill in front of us, urging me to move. The howls were braiding together, no longer chaotic, but coordinating, and in that instant the world narrowed to sound and instinct. We saw the pack unite and head down the incline, straight toward us. They could close on us in a matter of seconds. Fight or flight? My body decided before my mind could argue. Our animal bodies chose flight. We ran. The world around me disappeared into a cloud of nothingness. I couldn't hear or see anything. I couldn't feel my legs, just the sensation of forward motion. Tunnel vision. Time stretched and folded in on itself; there was no fear, only motion. I couldn't see or even sense my dog at the end of the leash. We were a single animal, driven forward by something older than thought. I felt like I was encased in a giant ball of cotton, blind to everything, but moving. As suddenly as it began, it ended. My thinking mind returned. The woods were silent. We were at the top of the ridge. No calls, no pursuit. Only the pounding of my heart. We slowed, then stopped. I turned, expecting eyes in the brush, bodies emerging from shadow. There was nothing. Just trees standing where they had always stood. And my dog, still attentive, but relaxed, looking around. In the quiet that followed, understanding settled in. The coyotes chased, measured, and then decided. We were not prey. The pack dissolved back into the woods, as seamlessly as smoke thinning into air. Maybe it was never even us that they were chasing? I stood there longer than necessary stroking the dog, feeling his fuzzy proof of life beneath my hand. The silence was no longer empty; it was full. Full of respect, of relief, of the unspoken agreement that had just taken place. We turned back to the trail, not triumphant, not shaken. Just thankful. In my rational brain, I knew full well that coyotes don't prey on adult humans, or dogs twice as big as themselves. And that the best thing would have been for me to just start making lots of noise and acting big. But that didn't happen. I did the wrong thing. If they had truly wanted to harm us, they would have closed on us in seconds. But that's okay. They didn't and I learned something that's still giving me pause to reflect and be grateful. After more than six decades, this body of mine still had a trick or two to show me. Under normal circumstances, running pell mell up the length of that steep, uneven incline is not something I could manage. A slow trot, maybe. But I ran. Flight. Nature tossed me a bone and this body's adrenaline did not fail. Whew! Not a miracle, just a sign— I'm not done yet. PS- After the big adventure, I want to be clear that I don't think coyotes are some sort of bad guy to be feared. They don't normally go after humans, and fear of them is rooted in misunderstanding. Like any wild predator, they'll take advantage of easy opportunities, including small dogs or cats. That doesn't make them bad guys, just wildlife acting instinctively. After hiking thousands of miles over decades, I've rarely spotted them while out roaming, despite myriad signs indicating their presence. Though I do hear them regularly from my backyard. Seeing them so infrequently is not coincidence, it's evidence of how elusive and intelligent they are. There's a reason they're often called, “the trickster.” Coyotes observe, adapt, and avoid confrontation, moving through and around terrain long before most of us even realize they were nearby. They aren't out to challenge humans, they're just living alongside us, generally with caution, intelligence, and remarkable invisibility. In the end, I don't know why or even if the coyotes were after my dog and me. Mistaken identity? By us? By them? Was there other prey nearby us? In any case, the situation was extremely uncommon and unique. Respect, awareness, and perspective go a long way. We returned to the trail the very next day. Those coyotes gifted me rare insight, and an energy that's driving some new work. I'm grateful.  "Fight or Flight." Tap image to see details and availability.
  One of my favorite almost-the-solstice shots. I visit this family of trees every few days and they always have beauty and wisdom to share. One of the many things I'm grateful for. Celebrating the winter solstice gives us permission to slow down, to turn inward. As darkness lingers, are you feeling more reflective and intentional? I notice my thoughts deepening to match the season. If you're hosting a crowd or have young children, this may feel impossible. But truly, it's time to let go of worldly commotion. It's time to slow down, renew, and gather. As the solstice passes, the shift to light is subtle. The promise of returning light is a reminder that renewal begins in darkness and with patience. We don't need to rush to become something new. Our simple tasks are to recharge, to connect, and to trust that growth will unfold, is already unfolding. I'm a painter, not a writer or a poet. But I think it's important to switch it up, try new things, and be vulnerable. So in the spirit of the Winter Solstice, here's a poem I wrote to accompany a recent painting, "Beneath the Quiet Snow." The poem-in-progress is just called winter solstice. Pretty sure I won't be quitting my painting career anytime soon ; ) but it's fun trying! Happy Winter Solstice, my friends!!  Tap to see details of "Beneath the Quiet Snow" winter solstice oh longest night earth inhales darkness holds the sun just above horizon snow presses into silence slow pulse gathering strength under icy crust coiled energy lives invisible begin exhale patience not yet rising sun
Grief is not finite; it's a lifelong process that I return to in different ways. It moves with me, changing shape as I change shape. Losing my parents so young didn't just mark moments in my life, it shaped the way I see the world, the way I love, and the way I hold joy and sorrow. Every new stage of life brings me back to that loss with a different understanding. What I felt in my 20s isn't what I feel now, and what I feel now won't be what I feel in ten years.
I'm moving through that grief cycle again now. The ache feels familiar, but its texture is different: softer in some places, sharper in others. It rises and falls like weather, coming on suddenly and then fading into something quieter. I no longer expect it to go away; instead, I've learned to meet it with curiosity. What is it asking of me this time? What new layer of understanding is it offering? This return isn't a setback; it's part of the lifelong conversation I'm having with my past, my parents, and myself. As the years pass, I'm recognizing the gifts hidden within this process. Grief reminds me what truly matters. It strips away the nonessential and illuminates the heart of things. It's expanded my capacity for empathy. It brings me into the moment. Grief feels unbearable at times, yet somehow you make it through. Discovering that capacity, the ability to survive, is a lifelong source of inner strength. Strangely, grief also, and continuously, deepens my gratitude: I'm aware of how transient life is, so I find myself living with more tenderness, more intention, more awe. The last few weeks, a pair of abstract paintings has become the place where I'm working through these emotions, layer by layer. With each mark, I feel the sharp edges of grief become something I can touch with my hands and see with my eyes. The canvas is a vessel for what's too complicated to articulate, a space where gratitude and longing coexist without needing specific resolution. Each layer helps transform the heaviness into something honest, connected, and alive. In that act of making, I'm reminded that grief creates new pathways to beauty, purpose, and balance. And this creating helps me move grief outside of the body, turning it into something meaningful. Another thing to be grateful for! This Thanksgiving, we can gently hold space for our absent loved ones by allowing both gratitude and grief to sit side by side. For those experiencing their first holidays without someone dear, it can feel overwhelmingly raw and uncertain. By acknowledging the loss, we affirm that the love goes on even through pain. Let's all create a circle of grace and love around our Thanksgiving table. Thank you for taking the time to read this, and for all the support! Happy Thanksgiving, my friends! I have my comfort zone, and it isn't the enemy; it's a foundation. Comfort doesn't arrive suddenly. It increases over time, as skills improve through the repetition of showing up, failing, and trying again. You just keep going. And the comfort zone expands.
I've watched many experienced artists, talented ones, make the same kind of painting over and over again. Each subsequent piece is lovely, or thoughtful, or perfectly composed. But after a while, something feels dull. The work is still accomplished, but the spark that gave it life is dim. I can feel it when that happens in my own work. I notice a sense of expectation instead of exploration. Ooof. That's a deadly signal I definitely pay attention to. For me, pushing beyond that "too comfortable" signal isn't about chasing shock value. It's about staying alive to curiosity and a sense of wonder. I'm process-focused and almost always paint with zero plans or sketches, so one way I can zip out of my comfort zone is by sketching a plan to follow. Switching scale, large to small and vice versa, or even a unique underpainting color, can also be openings. If you're a planner and sketcher, try the opposite. Just go. Trust the moment more than the map. Be open to whatever happens. Another method I use is to narrow my palette to only black and white, experimenting with oil, watercolor, graphite, charcoal, or ink, instead of my usual acrylic. A few of the pieces are posted above. Going through multiple stages of uncertainty and awkwardness helps me to let go of expectation. It brings forward lines and forms and rhythms that breathe, the ones that remind me why I make art. I let them surprise me, and beauty doesn't vanish, it expands. It starts feeling more true, raw, and human, and that feeling flows generously into my work and life. I see that same determination in art aficionados who choose a piece not because it matches their walls, but because it stirs something inside them. Hooray! That's embracing curiosity, too. It's saying, I want to live with something that challenges me. It's motivation. It's trust. Well done! Art can be lovely and feral at the same time. Everything in the world changes, and personal style reflects that evolution—or not. For me, the most meaningful work in art and in life exists in the zone between comfort and surrender, between knowing your craft and letting it lead you to an unfamiliar place. So enjoy your comfort zone because you've earned it with your persistence. Then step outside of it. It feels impossible to look at the world without feeling the weight of its sorrow and the constant churn of violence, grief, and uncertainty that seeps into every quiet moment. I'm not ignoring it; that would feel dishonest. These posts and paintings are my small attempt to keep creating, to find meaning through art, not as an escape, but as a way to breathe through the heaviness and notice beauty even when everything feels ripped apart. See all my available work here  Work in progress with my studio assistant This month in the studio has been a balancing act between inspiration and administration. On the creative side, I've been into a series of large abstract works, drawing energy from early fall walks in the woods. It's been unseasonably warm and dry. Leaves are just drying up and falling from the trees without changing color. Still, there’s something in the shifting light, the crispness of the air, and the quiet turning of the season that’s been making its way into the canvas—unpredictable, like the times we live in. I consider walks in wild places part of my art practice. They're a quiet ritual, a way to gather not just visual cues but a rhythm, an energy, that's been informing the way I paint for decades. These adventures encourage looser gestures, broader movements, a kind of expansive thinking that only seems to come with fresh air and a dog covered in nasty burrs. Of course, not everything this month has been poetic. Lots of work in the garden with harvesting the bounty, and the in kitchen, with eating(!), and canning. I've also spent time catching up on the less glamorous side of being an artist: organizing the studio, sorting materials, and doing application paperwork and business planning. Necessary, but not exactly soul-stirring. Maybe that's part of the practice too—making space, tying up loose ends, and clearing the way for what comes next... Wishing you a peaceful, colorful, and creatively nourishing fall. Please drop me an email or dm if you're interested in any of my work for your home or workspace. Tap here to see what I currently have available.
 Finally finished, "Prism Drift." Tap on the image to see details and price.  My studio’s a hot mess right now. New work and ideas are slowly coming around. Staying grateful, open-minded, and kindhearted as the world feels faster and meaner is a priority. Our garden's bounty, and Arts and PBS funding cuts have me thinking a lot about perspective and Mr. Rogers' quote: “You can grow ideas in the garden of your mind.” It sounds simple, even cutesy, but the more I sit with it, the more powerful it feels. As an lifelong gardener, I love the idea that our minds are like gardens. What we choose to plant, water, weed, and pay attention to ends up shaping how we move through the world. Belief systems — the kind that prescribe rules and answers for us —can feel comforting, especially in uncertain times. These days, it feels like we're giving up curiosity for convenience, and replacing critical thinking with rubber stamps and echo chambers. This kind of dogma—whether political, cultural, or religious has a way of making us feel safe. But that safety comes at the cost of asking hard questions. We stop asking because someone already gave us the answers. Asking can even become dangerous. So we stop growing. Curiosity has always been one of my superpowers — mostly from the angle of wanting answers. I've been shifting that as I age, learning to ask more “what ifs” and “whys” and being fine with not having answers. It feels like I'm learning to be present, and not needing to know or be right all the time. Frankly, that's a relief. Maybe it's why this garden metaphor really resonates with me. It reminds me that we each get to choose and nurture what grows in the garden of our mind. At least for now. We can continuously feed our roots with rich, organic ideas, new perspectives, and love. Or we can take the manufactured path, and broadcast spray with marketed fertilizers and herbicides that offer quick results, profit others, and are not in our own best interest. Using Mr. Rogers' metaphor: I'm curious and excited to learn about how you plant and tend your garden. Just don't push me do the same in mine. The world thrives on a rich assortment of fertile gardens. Studio News: I'm honored and delighted to have my work selected for the show, “Drawing Resistance: The Artist’s Dilemma in Political Conflict,” a group exhibition by Woman Made Gallery in Chicago. "In a world increasingly shaped by political unrest, censorship, and global crises, artists are often confronted with a critical question: What is my responsibility in the face of conflict?" See the painting and read my statement: https://womanmade.org/artwork/michelle-louis/ View my 2025 solo exhibition, "Rounding the Light" See my other new paintings here.  "You Can Grow Ideas in the Garden of Your Mind" 24H x 18W x !.5D on cradled natural wood. Michelle Louis, 2025. Tap image for price and details.  "Fjords and Fireflies" Tap image for details and price.  Norwegian rosemaling on wood plate from mid 1800s. A Reflection on Roots, Resilience, and Renewal Like many, I’m a product of the great American melting pot—my ancestors arrived from Scandinavia, Ireland, Central and Eastern Europe more than a century ago, bringing old‑world traditions, traumas, and hopes for a better life. Their journey shaped me, and this summer I’ve been driven by a yearning to reconnect with those roots—to find ground and meaning in a world that often feels unmoored. To seek calm and clarity, I’ve turned to painting—using art as a contemplative space to honor where I come from and the conviction I carry: we are stronger together, embracing our differences, and learning from past mistakes. The Story of a Trunk—and a Tradition I once spotted a rickety steamer trunk up in some auntie's attic, adorned with delicate hand‑painted flowers and names I couldn’t quite decipher. Later, I learned the decoration is called rosemaling—a Scandinavian folk‑art style carried by my Norwegian ancestors when they crossed the Atlantic in the late 1800s. That trunk held all they could bring to this new land: hope, memory, and grit. A New Take on Rosemaling Rosemaling, born in the 1700s, is known for bold, flowing scrolls, stylized petals, and regional variations in style. I’m taking that heritage forward—reframing it with minimalist restraint, monochromatic tones, and unexpected glints of light. My abstractions twist the familiar motifs into something more unpredictable: twining lines, minimalist shapes, and subtle layers. Each brushstroke is a bridge—linking old‑world memory and American experience, connecting disparate pasts into the complex present of who we’ve become. Why It Matters At a time when certainty is fading and systems feel broken, I find solace in art that acknowledges who we were and imagines who we could be. My work is a statement—and a question: can we draw strength from diversity, stand together in respect rather than fear, and acknowledge our collective history—mistakes and all—with openness? Through these paintings, I hope to weave together personal history with shared values. They’re not just decorative—they’re a tribute, a statement, a conversation. Thank you for reading. If this resonates with you—whether through shared heritage, creative practice, or belief in unity—I'd love to hear your thoughts. You can tap any of the images for more details, including price.
 "Maybe is Enough" Tap image for details. What lots of people believe: "To be truly creative you need lots of space, unlimited time, and endless materials." What's true: Constraints—whether physical, emotional, or practical—are the prime drivers of the creative process, at least for me. Limits force choices. They strip things down, sharpen focus, and lead to deeper, more surprising outcomes. Far from stifling creativity, they give it direction. I treat challenges as collaborators. Constraints give me something solid to lean on—or push against. Instead of scattering my energy, I can focus, dig deeper, and see new things. It's why my work is always evolving, always changing. Often in ways that surprise me. We all live within certain constraints. Certainly constraints are part of who I am, physically and emotionally. Some things I can change. Some I can't. Others I choose in order to challenge my way of seeing. Here are some examples:  Weighing the Options" 17H x 22W inches, on paper. Tap image for details. Working on a small piece can completely shift how I approach composition. Without room to sprawl, marks matter in a completely different way than working on a large canvas.  "Walk Me Through the Ways" 50H x 36W inches, on canvas. Tap image to view details. Limiting my palette, sometimes drastically, pushes me to use contrast and layering in ways I wouldn’t if I had every color at my fingertips. Constraint becomes a catalyst. Contrarily, using loads of color, but never the same color twice, whew, that's also an eye-opener.  "Galloping Horse" 49H x 61W inches, on canvas. Tap on image to view details. Creating during heightened periods of grief, pain, excitement, or joy affects my capacity in ways I don’t necessarily choose or understand. There's just no head space for second guessing or over editing. Emotions are a kind of truth serum, cutting through noise to reveal authenticity that's wondrous and uplifting. So here’s to ceilings that aren't tall enough, and time that’s too short. To the canvas that’s too small, the house that needs cleaning, and the wound that needs healing. Whether you’re a fellow artist or an art lover, know this: the richest, most authentic works rarely come from wide-open space, unlimited time, and endless materials. They come from limitations. When you collect work born in challenge, you’re connecting to more than a painting—you’re getting the grit, ingenuity, and grace that shaped it. That’s power, and it enriches your own story, too. Studio News: *I'm thrilled to have my work highlighted in Studio Visit Magazine, volume 53. A juried artist magazine produced by the publishers of New American Paintings, it features artists selected by professional curators and presented to a serious national audience of art world professionals. pp. 144-145, Volume 53, Studio Visit
*"Rounding the Light," my 2025 solo exhibition, has received lots of positive feedback. Thank you! If you haven't visited it yet, please check it out here *Thanks so much for supporting me during these challenging times. I appreciate you and wish you love, laughter, and abundance. 
After months of dedicated work and creative wrangling I'm thrilled to invite you to experience my solo exhibition! Rounding the Light is now online so you can visit at your convenience. I'm incredibly proud of how it's come together, and I can't wait to share this body of work with you. Whether you're a longtime supporter or a first-time visitor, I hope you'll find something that resonates, surprises, or inspires. After all, It's your eyes and mind that bring this exhibition to life. Thank you. And welcome!
Please tap ENTER to start. Use the arrows to navigate around the show. "Learn More" gives you info on each painting. Link to the price and more details by tapping "BUY." (That doesn't mean you have to buy!) Of course I'm happy to answer any questions you might have about my work or a specific painting. Press INQUIRE to email me. Enjoy! Wisconsin Visual Artists began in the year 1900 as the first professional association of artists in Wisconsin, and has continued for 125 years as an educational, supportive, and connective force for artists within the state. I was recently interviewed for WVA Magazine. My "spotlight" is on pp. 20-23. Or read it below.   
What are you seeing? What are you feeling? Once a painting is finished, my presence as the painter is embedded and reflected in the work, but it's fluid, shifting as different viewers, and you, begin to engage with it in any number of ways. That's the part that can get intimidating.
It means that a significant part of what completes each of my paintings is unpredictable and maybe surprising. It's you! You play a vital role in completing every one of my paintings. Your interpretation of my work gives you the power to delve into and uncover your own emotions and perspectives. This makes my painting a personal space that exposes aspects of you as you search for meanings and mindset. That's always the gift of art. And what you see and feel and express about any artwork, including mine, gives me a view of you, too. When I step back to observe a finished piece, I don’t just see a collection of marks and colors; I see a reflection of the time, experience, movement, and emotion that went into creating it. I see places I've been and where I might be going. And when you stand before my paintings, I hope they speak to you—I hope they become a mirror, revealing something personal, unexpected, and perfectly yours.
I trust my creative process, my curiosity, and my deep respect for the natural world. I like to think of my paintings as one way Nature expresses itself. Examining, confronting, and celebrating Nature and the transience of life through form and movement, I want to share how Nature and time constantly expand and contract all around us, kindling our sense of awe, urgency, and wonder. I hope my work serves as a reminder to be receptive to mystery and change. We'll never understand everything and that's ok. Keep trying, make mistakes, cry, laugh, fall, rise up, never stop learning. This one life, this "self" is ephemeral, yet composed of myriad generations of lived experience carried forward genetically and epigenetically. That just blows my mind. It's why I'm drawn to painting abstracted environments where "self" is fully accepted and absorbed as inherent to the whole. I'd like to live in that environment. So of course I believe that my personal life experience makes its way into my paintings while Nature reminds us that we are all part of something larger. And I believe that when you experience or view a work of art—the creative outpouring of another human—you too, tap into that something larger, bringing your own life experience to the work. Finally, I believe that with or without humans, some form of Nature will endure and I find that comforting. Each of my paintings is a declaration of these convictions and a record of my mercurial adventure through these complex days. See my available paintings here  "Maybe is Enough" 38H x 60W inches on canvas. Tap for price and details.  A little tzatziki for you? Nope, just mixing a little sunshine for my next canvas. Happy New Year! As 2024 comes to a close, I'm reflecting on what a whirlwind it's been and how grateful I am. I’ve had the privilege of participating in several exhibitions and many of my paintings found new collectors in the U.S. and abroad. I was honored as one of 99 international artists selected to the world's leading online gallery, Saatchi Art, “Best of 2024: Paintings.” As challenging and alarming as 2024 has been has been for many of us, I'm holding the stance that challenges are opportunities for growth and change. Looking ahead to 2025, I'm fingers-crossed optimistic. I've already noticed many friends focusing, fine-tuning, and paying attention to help make the world more just and kind, less selfish and greedy. I'm doubling my efforts and hope you will too. As we all reflect on 2024, I wish you peace. Let's make 2025 a year of open hearts, kindness, and community. Your support over these many years means the world to me. Thank you.  "Soft and Gentle" Tap on image for price and details.  It's been a challenging year for artists and others in many ways. During these days of literal and figurative darkness, choosing love over fear, day after day, is a worthy endeavor. Can we begin by sharing our humble gratitude for a moment? Winter's holiday season is a perfect time to foster an attentive "now"—to be active and grateful, to celebrate family and friends and food, and the abundant Earth that sustains us. I am beyond grateful for the privilege of presence, and to you for encouraging my explorations. Your kind words, likes, thoughtful critiques, and support mean the world to me. Choosing love over fear, day after day is not easy. Through my paintings, I hope to remind you of your strength, endurance, and connection. We are strong. We will amplify goodness and kindness. The world needs us. Thank you for being part of my adventure. Please consider shopping handmade this year. Craftspeople and artisans need your support more than the big box or Amazon. Check out your local small businesses. And just in case you want to wow them, tap here to see a collection of my smaller paintings.
 October 2024 on the trail. "Hello & Happy Autumn!" Like many of you, I'm feeling anxious with the times. Taking a mini break from art talk to share a story I wrote a while back feels right. More than ever, the small, consistent kindnesses and rituals that connect us are essential. They make us all better at being human: A couple of miles into a morning hike and I've been jolted from my solitude several times to practice what used to be considered common courtesy—saying, “Hello.” Hikers are a generally a friendly lot, so "hello" can sometimes morph into an actual conversation—what's blooming, what birds you've spotted, often adding an extra moment to scratch a four-legged furry hiker behind the ear. I've chatted with folks whose ancestors used to live on the lands I was walking, hunters out scouting game trails, and kids whose curiosity was infectious. I've never left these encounters without a genuine good feeling. So when did it become okay to pass within a few feet of another human without any greeting at all, essentially pretending they're not there? I'm not talking about bustling city streets where greeting passersby is impossible and even weird. People are starting to use isolating, big city behavior out in the woods. I don't like it and here is my rule- you don't get to pass by me on the trail without a greeting. Don't even get me going on people wearing earbuds or talking on their phone. You're still going to get my attention, like it or not. (And by the way, you're missing an incredible symphony of soul-soothing wild sounds and interactions.) Paying attention to others in small ways, like saying "hello," matters. It's an affirmation. It signals respect. It takes time, and sometimes, courage. Offering a greeting requires a willingness to be open and to learn something new. Paying attention to ourselves, our surroundings, and each other is a foundation of healthy being, and indeed, a healthy society. So please don't think walking by your fellow humans without a greeting is normal. For most of us, in many circumstances, it's not. It's a symptom of societal “dis-ease," disconnection, and distraction. Civility, courtesy, even “common decency,” call it what you will. Please pay attention to others along your path. Kindly acknowledge them. A simple “hello” will do.
 "Dusk," by Michelle Louis.  "Dawn," by Michelle Louis. The angle of light, the intensity of color, even the feel of the air goes from cottony-thick to crisp as the natural world prepares for winter here in the north. My recent paintings dive into light, color, and the flow of time as we move through seasonal change.
Influenced by that time of day just as the sun has set but before the stars are revealed in the night sky, "Dusk" quietly revealed itself over many weeks and layers of color. When it was done I immediately started work on another canvas. It was developing a similar feel but with a distinctive palette that included lots more whites. I recognized the luminous quality of the early morning sunlight from the hikes I hustle to get in before the harsh glare and heat of day. As I worked the surface of the second painting with planes of transparent color and subtle figurative references, the work of Michelangelo began looping in my brain, focusing on his exquisite allegorical figures in the Medici Chapel and mausoleum in Florence that I visited decades ago. To me, his monumental "Dawn" and "Dusk"—along with "Day" and "Night"—epitomize the awareness that nothing in life stays the same. They are the essence of the symbolic transition from substance to spirit. Comparing my paintings to Michelangelo's work would be laughable, but it is somehow okay with me that I named the second painting, "Dawn." And so I present to you my own "Dawn" and "Dusk." I hope Michelangelo, in his own exquisite marble tomb at the Basilica of Santa Croce in Florence, is not offended :) You can see details of my paintings, including price here.  New work— "Shifting Priorities," 44h x 32W inches on canvas. Out in the meadow, midsummer's peak wildflower explosion of colors is over. Now yellow runs the show. Silphium and Big bluestem still tower overhead, dripping cool morning dew onto my face as I brush past. Red is just beginning to touch the leaves of the sumac. Cicadas buzz. Bluebirds gather. Unhappy to have her nut-burying extravaganza interrupted, a flustered squirrel is scolding from the upper branches of an old oak. Even though I may not be ready for summer to end, summer doesn't care. Autumn is looming, ready for her turn. And that's okay. I love autumn too. I love living in a place with four distinct seasons because it means change is always at the doorstep. And sometimes getting out that door requires a shovel. "Shifting Priorities," is a recent painting resplendent with the aura of a new day full of possibilities, light, and color. Its uplifting forms and lines have a vibrant movement and feel. Bold, saturated colors contrast with more muted tones. It radiates beauty, confidence, and balance. Tap on the image to see details & price.
 In the studio, what becomes a painting emerges from my life experience of doings, plus paint, add in the evanescence of the moment—touch, scent, sound, sight, even taste. I make things up. I giggle and fret. I cry. I remember, and I aspire. I believe we have the capacity to create a brighter future. Whether we do is up to all of us. Focused introspection, choices, and actions can move us all toward presence and love and balance. Keep going, every day, one step, then the next. Remember to breathe. I'm an optimist. I'm curious. I'm a doer. I'm a believer in inherent good. These days, that might just mean I'm kind of boring and nerdy—basically a focused, thoughtful, mature woman with a strong mind and a healthy positive attitude who's grateful to be able to use what she's got in this miraculous universe. My artworks are a declaration of these convictions and a record of my mercurial adventure.
 "Eclipse | Totality" by Michelle Louis The Sun. No wonder our ancestors revered it. Earth's weather, seasons, climate, and ocean currents are all driven by solar power. This yellow dwarf star, a near perfect sphere of blazing hot gases, holds our solar system together. On April 8, 2024, the moon passed in front of the sun bringing daytime "night"—a total eclipse—to those in the path of totality. We took a road trip to the zone and were not disappointed. The experience was mind altering and life changing. You may recognize that distinctive influence in several of my recent paintings—day versus night, light versus shadows—a whirlwind of time and shape and emotion. My large diptych (two paneled) painting, "Eclipse | Totality" expresses my wonder and joy at the collision of the terrestrial with the celestial with human consciousness. I hope you get a chance to feel it in your lifetime. You can see all my eclipse-influenced paintings here.  In the artist's studio.  Michelle Louis in the studio working on "Look, the Clouds." Please tap the image to see finished painting and price. Do you notice small things that happen in a day? Motes of dust that catch the morning light? A breeze across your cheek on a warm day? The trilling of crickets at dusk? On a good day, I think most of us do. Art in all its forms brings resilience and beauty to a world that needs it now more than ever. It's a reminder that even when the world seems overwhelmingly bleak, beauty and meaning persist. Viewing or creating art is a direct experience of the resilience, inventiveness, and determination that are foundational to the human spirit. Abstraction is intriguing when it nudges us to explore the intangible. Whether artist or viewer, day-to-day life experience makes its way into every artwork.  "Soon," by Michelle Louis. Please tap the image to see details and price.
 "Day to Day" 128W x 62H inches on canvas. Standing in front of a big blank canvas, the magic between now and what comes next is where the action is.
I start with openness to the emergence of something unexpected, unexplainable, and without sketches or specific thoughts. Process-focused, how the natural world communicates with me and how I communicate that relationship is played out on canvas in brushstrokes and synaptic flashes. It's about doing. The natural world is still wondrously cryptic and I'll never stop learning. Recognizing patterns, rhythms, and connections in nature and life is a well-established survival skill of humans and other beings. A good painting reveals things. The “presence” of a finished piece is an exposé of symbiotic, holistic points condensed in time. Whatever time is! Whew. That's a whole other story.  Digital image of one of my paternal great grandmother's quilts with my own digital work. I'm deeply touched and honored to have been personally invited to show one of my ongoing, long-term projects at the Center for Visual Arts in Wausau. It's truly a labor of love and a distinct departure from my painting studio. The 'Piece by Piece' exhibition brings together several contemporary makers to examine their different approaches to quiltmaking and the use of quilting techniques. Displayed alongside are representations of quilts in other mediums that demonstrate how artists can use the visual language of the quilt to connect with the viewer. The exhibition runs from March 27-May 24. 𝗦𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗔𝗿𝘁𝗶𝘀𝘁𝘀: Colleen Ansbaugh, Tony Bergeon, Pat Bishop, Rachelle Craig, Maday Delgado, Janet Dietrich, Helen Dolan, Pat Gaska, Mary Hermanson, Debra A Ketchum Jircik, Michelle Louis, Linda Marcus, Heidi Parkes, Hannah Rae, Jean Sredl, and Kelsey Voy The story behind my 'Quilted' project included in this exhibition: Handmade from late 19th - early 20th century flour sacks and cut from worn out clothing, my grandmothers' and great grandmothers' quilting scraps and quilts are objects of artistic beauty. Some of the textiles are more than 100 years old. A sentimental time capsule and labor of love, I have bundles of their quilts and pieces but wasn't sure what to do with them. Digital technology gifted me the answer. Many years ago I began documenting the textiles by scanning and photographing them. It's a painstaking task I tackle when I need a change from painting. More recently I've begun composing and digitally “stitching” the images together, adding my own simple markings to continue the history. Last year I entered some of my digital images in a more broadly based show on technology and art. They were accepted and shown. The curator at CVA Wausau later contacted me wondering if I'd be interested in showing more of this work in an exhibition specifically focused on quilting. I thought to myself, "Could there be a better way to honor my foremothers? Of course I'll put together a collection of images!" These digital images hold memories of the past—family, identity, thrift, creativity, skill, love, and longing—and melds them with our present moment to bring together generations of artful women. And to the generations of women who kept their families warm with their labor, thrift, and love—thank you. I hope if you're in the area you'll stop in to visit, 'Piece by Piece.'  Digital image of one of my maternal great grandma's quilts with my added personal touches.
I'm excited to share a new series I've been working on in a solo exhibition!
Here's the backstory: Last fall I noticed this crazy, spirally vine. I hiked past it many times. I knew it was an invasive species whose desire would eventually smother its host tree. Yet I grew to anticipate and love it in a curious sort of way. Then one day it was gone. And I actually missed it. Even though it was a threat to our native woods. Even though I appreciated and have often participated in the back-breaking work of invasive species removal. I knew it most certainly didn't belong. Or did it? It's the inspiration for this series, after all. 'What Goes Around: Reflections on Nature, Spirals, and Meditative Process,' reaches beyond my beloved vine to honor the hard-working spiral. Ranging in size from 12 to 90 inches, these 15 curvy, acrylic paintings have an honest rhythm that invites a deeper dive with time to linger. Each painting is a call to invigorate your sense of wonder and connection. I couldn't help but put on my artsy naturalist hat for some of the accompanying text. I hope you'll visit the show to learn more. You can view the exhibition from wherever you are simply by tapping 'ENTER.' It's nicer on a large screen, but should work on your phone, too. Tap on any of the paintings for a close up view and on 'Learn More' and 'Buy' for no obligation details and prices. The navigation arrows are tricky at first, but I know you can do it! Thank you!  Another year's gone by and I'm noticing some new folks around here. So first of all—thanks! You can't imagine how much that means. I'm Michelle Louis from Wisconsin, USA. A full-time painter who's also a naturalist. I'm curious about how nature inspires awe, how we feel it deep in our bones, how to express that connection, and what we can learn from it. My perspective has been deeply influenced by opportunities to live, work, and study in rainforests from Mexico to the Bolivian Amazon. At home in Wisconsin, exploring contrasting landscapes formed at the last glacier's edge gives form to a living palette ready for my brush. I tend to work large scale, painting mostly with acrylic on big canvases tacked to my studio wall. My drive to paint is indefatigable. I work hard. And I'm honored to have been recently named by the curators at Saatchi Art, the world's leading online art gallery, to "Best of 2023: Painting." One of the strengths as a painter I've worked to achieve over decades is the ability to silence the constant stream of distraction and self-criticism, connect with earth's natural rhythms, and see what my brush and paint will do. Exploring wild places in nature by myself is another way I'm able to tune in. On these kinds of adventures, I'm more aware of things beyond my usual perception. You might spot them in my paintings. Shapes, lines, and patterns appear, disappear, and then recur. Some make sense to me. Others, not so much. Process-focused, I'm kind of obsessed with how the natural world communicates with me and how I communicate that relationship. I love abstraction as opposed to more realistic work because it challenges my courage as a painter and your openness as a viewer. I especially love painting big because it allows my whole body to join the process, over and over, in silent rhythm. It's so satisfying and has the added bonus of being great therapy for the painful auto-immune disorder I'm working to overcome. I don’t begin with a sketch or specific thought, but with openness to the emergence of something unexpected, unexplainable. Standing in front of a big blank canvas, the magic between this moment and what comes next is where I engage. The natural world is still so cryptic in spite of all we've learned. To gain understanding it's important to recognize patterns, rhythms, and connections. Painting reveals things to me. It’s active. It arises symbiotically, holistically, in repetition. It's points in time that lead to the “presence” of a finished piece. Trained in studio art, graphic design, and landscape architecture, my studio extends to our yard, where I grow oodles of fruits and vegetables, including eight kinds of berries—honeyberries, strawberries, raspberries, aronia, mulberries, goji, kiwiberries, jostaberries, serviceberries. Okay, that's nine. Our yard is also a native plant haven for area wildlife and pollinators. I love being an artist because it helps me connect to you while honoring my kinship to the natural world. And I'm grateful that my work carries nature's harmony and balance to places all over the world, and to you. NEWS FLASH!! I have a solo exhibition coming up and you'll be able to view it wherever you live! Inspired by a spiral vine I saw on my hiking adventures, it's called, "What Goes Around." These 15 curvy paintings are a reminder to keep learning, adapting, and reaching. Life is a dynamic journey of growth and change in a series of interconnected cycles. Stay tuned for more info & the opening mid-February!
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Artist and naturalist Michelle Louis has a vigorous curiosity about the natural world. Her energetic, investment-quality paintings bring balance and harmony Archives
January 2026
©2023 Michelle Louis All rights reserved. Content and images are property of the artist.
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