Artist Feature: Carin Vaughn

Abstract Succulents
16"x20" - acrylic on canvas

Hello everyone!  Having a good week so far?  I hope so!  I have another feature post for you today and something tells me you're going to absolutely LOVE this artist! 

These magnificent works of art are original oil and acrylic paintings by Carin Vaughn!  Carin is a self taught artist living in South Carolina and experimenting with different painting techniques, mediums and subjects so as to discover the extent of her talent - and it's quite obvious she has lots of it!  Not only is she an artist, Carin is also a traveler, surfer, longtime lover of succulents and above all, a loving mother.  I must say, her vivid and detailed paintings certainly reflect her love of nature!

I have selected my favorite paintings for this post, but in truth they're all gorgeous so please pass by Carin's Etsy store and take a look at the rest of her artwork for sale!  Also, NBC has just purchased two of her paintings for the set of their show Parenthood, isn't that awesome - I can only imagine her excitement, congratulations Carin!  So stay tuned to the upcoming season of Parenthood to catch a glimpse of her paintings on set - I'm sure you'll know'em when you see'em because her style is quite unique but you can also check them out below (first two paintings below).  A big thank you to Carin for allowing me to use the images of her artwork for this post, I really can't say enough about them...  Oh, and need I mention how I'm madly in love with her succulent paintings?!  It should go without saying, but I couldn't help myself!  Have a wonderful afternoon! ;)

Carin Vaughn Original Fine Art
E-mail Carin Vaughn
Girl With A Surfboard (Carin's blog)

These two paintings were just bought by NBC for the set of their returning show Parenthood!  Stay tuned this fall to see them in action on set, making everything else shine brighter no doubt!  :)

 

So Succulent
18"x24" - oil on canvas

Succulent In the Spotlight
24"x40"x1.5" - acrylic on wood

Abstract Onion Blooms
16"x20" - oil on canvas

Pineapple Chevron
16"x20" - acrylic on canvas

Bunch of Blues
11"x14" - oil on canvas

Panamanian Boat
8"x10" - oil on canvas

Heron
24"x40" - painted on a raised birch panel

Panga
36"x48" - oil on canvas

Bevy of Barnacles
16"x20" - oil on canvas

Tarpon
16"x20" - oil on canvas

(All images in this post are property of Carin Vaughn and should not be used without her written permission.  Please contact Carin Vaughn by visiting her Etsy profile page or store.)

Man, Instinct, Risk, Stupidity

Fables - The Dodos (mp3)
Dark Turn of Mind - Gillian Welch (mp3)

“It’s definitely too rough out here for your brother.”

One of the bigger indicators of gender is the inability to heed one’s own better wisdom. The better half has things called “mother’s instinct” or “women’s intuition,” and we act like this is because men don’t have the ability to foresee dangers or portend calamity.

But it’s not true. Men have tremendous intuition; they just ignore it.

Last week, after three days of overcast skies, three days of an oceanfront experience as if we were vacationing inside the caves of The Lost Sea, we were all desperate to squeeze out some cloudy time in the sand and sea. With my 3-year-old son on the shore building sand castles merely for the chance to stomp them, my daughters and I braved the testy tides. The choppy waves and strong undertow, tugging us northward, were great fun because they were just a bit risky.

My younger daughter, not quite yet 10, is the more cautious soul, and trepidation always accompanied her into the ocean. She’s a little too short and scrawny to fight the ocean pull, and she was having to work twice as hard to keep from drifting further away from us.

“I bet Turner will want to come out here,” she said. On our first day down, we had beaten the rain to the beach for a desperate hour of celebratory arrival swimming, and he had stayed glued to my shoulders or waist as we jumped waves. He'd loved it and been wigged out by it at the same time.

My response to her -- it's too rough for him -- was the right one. And it was obvious.

Hardly had the words drifted away from my mouth in the word balloon than I heard him at the water’s edge, calling out to me. “Come get me, Daddy! I wanna go!”

Twenty minutes later, as I stumbled and wobbled back to shore, Turner screaming and fighting to spit out all that salty nastiness from his mouth, my daughters both laughed at how quickly I had ignored my own observations, and I could only shrug in resignation.

Something in dads, in men, in boys, is desperate to downplay risk. And it doesn’t even have to be a “risk/reward” calculation. The reward for taking Turner out into the torrents was low at best. I would receive no medals. My son wouldn’t “cherish this moment for the rest of his life.” My in-laws and wife wouldn’t look out on the waves, crashing in above our heads, and then tilt their heads adoringly at each other with that “Isn’t that the greatest dad alive?” look on their faces.

Yet there I was, picking up my small child, pulling him into my waist and chest, and trudging out into the foamy tuggy waters.

I could have said no. He might have pouted or objected briefly, but I’m not the kind of dad who worries about that stuff. I render my children painfully disappointed and pouty all the time and never think twice about it.

But I wanted us out there, together, doing something a little risky and stupid and fun. No defense attorney, no psychologist in the world could rightly defend me.

We hadn’t gone 20 yards into the water when my decision paid off. A wave hit us so intensely that it buckled my knees, and I barely managed to prevent our mouths from taking in ocean. Turner thought it was hilarious, which made me proud and giddy. This was all the reward I was to receive. Soon after, a wave that seemed to curve at least three feet above my noble leap slammed into us, and it took intense focus to keep any kind of balance while keeping hold of my son.

As I recovered, and as I tried tending to his drenched face and screaming panic, I'd barely even cleared the water from my own eyes when another wave hit us full force, knocking me to my knees and Turner briefly under the water. This second attack did us in, and he was (understandably) inconsolable.

The reward for ignoring my instincts? A son it would take two days to coax and coddle back into the ocean.

Oh yeah, and that first wave knocked the glasses off my face. Didn't even know it until I got back to shore. I spent the rest of my vacation with only a pair of prescription sunglasses. Until I can get an eye appointment, I either wear my sunglasses at night, or I view the world in a strange blur.

Yay me and my instincts.

FROM THE ARCHIVES: A Little Light in the Belfry

This was originally posted on October 16, 2008. Reposted with permission from the author. Well, I'm the author. And I gave permission to myself.

Tennessee (Live) - The Wreckers
1000 Miles Away - Hoodoo Gurus


We ate lunch Tuesday at a little restaurant called Bandon Boatworks in Bandon, Oregon. Its existence thrives on the view from its western windows, which look directly out to the town's centerpiece, the Bandon Lighthouse.

This is the first lighthouse I've ever seen.

The view of this inlet, of the Pacific, of this lighthouse, stirred a range of emotions, all which likely speak more to my psychology than to the view itself.

As we have driven up the coastline over the past two days, often driving mere feet from the edge of huge cliffs, staring out into the vast blue eternity of the Pacific, I've felt two seemingly countervailing forces: yearning and loneliness. Something about being able to stare into a place where the blue of the horizon barely distinguishes itself from the blue of the sky, but knowing how much is out there in The Great Beyond makes one yearn. I look out and think how little I know, how little I've seen, how little I am. Were I raised on this coast, I'm conifdent I would have hopped on a boat by now and made my way out there. Perhaps just to fish, but maybe to see distant lands. All I know is, you look out there, and suddenly your own backyard feels confined, like a prison.

Yet... it's also so very lonely. I look out into that emptiness and am so powerfully grateful to be surrounded (metaphorically, not physcially) by loved ones, family, friends. That ocean is huuuuuge. Isolating.

These two feelings -- yearning and loneliness -- are sisters.

You can't long for something more, something different, something better, without a willingness to leave behind those things that make you comfortable. Finding success (or change) requires neglecting the safety of home, of confinement. At some point, if you yearn strongly enough, you're willing to pay that toll of loneliness to get where you long to be.

It's lonely at the top, they say. It's probably lonely trying to climb there, too. (Or, to keep from mixing metaphors, it's lonely trying to sail there, too.)

Then there are lighthouses. All the cliches about them, all the obsession with them, are definitely the stuff of eye-rolls. The love of lighthouses is no better or worse than some people's obsessions with penguins or panda bears or unicorns. There's nothing original about these fascinations. Yet seeing it with my own eyes, I felt these cliches in my own heart, and they felt very genuine. They didn't feel worn. They didn't feel boring. Seeing these lighthouses all along the coastal drive feels invigorating, warm, and hopeful.

They are the story of the Prodigal Son, the story of hope, the story of homecoming, the story of refuge. They are also a reminder that we have a greater responsibility to our neighbors, and to strangers, if we are on solid ground and they are adrift or lost.

Human nature is to yearn, to carry this longing to be more, do more, see more. But some must remain ashore, shine a light out into the vast darkness, and be anchors on which others can depend. Those who have the courage to go out into the ocean of possibility earn my respect. But those who work the lighthouses are the true heroes.