I did’nt go looking for a gang. They found me.

It was my first morning in my new home on the marsh in Beaufort, South Carolina. I took my French Bulldog Coco out for what I optimistically called a walk. Coco does not walk. Coco prefers to be carried. She tolerates the ground when absolutely necessary, snorting like a small locomotive and moving through the world with the energy of someone who has deeply important places to be and no intention of walking to any of them.
We had barely made it to the water's edge when I felt it. That particular prickling at the back of the neck that means someone is watching you.
I turned around.
A Great Blue Heron stood at the shoreline, not ten feet away, fixing me with a look of such withering contempt that I actually took a step backward. He didn't move. He didn't blink. He just stared, with the slow, deliberate patience of someone who has been here a very long time and has watched far more impressive things than me come and go with the tide.

I'm fairly certain it was the snorting that offended him.Coco, for her part, did not care. The heron offered no pup cups. He was therefore of no interest.

But I was hooked.
In the weeks and months that followed, I came to know the residents of my marsh. Great Blue Herons. Great Egrets. Ibises. Wood Storks. Roseate Spoonbills. They are, without exception, beautiful, ancient-looking, and completely unbothered by your existence unless you cross them. They move in silence. They appear without warning. They watch everything with those cool, unreadable eyes, and they protect their territory with a quiet menace that no amount of charm is going to get you around.
They are, in short, a mob.
The Marshland Syndicate was born.
Let me introduce you to a few of the key figures.
PRETTY BOY HAL
A Great Blue Heron. Slightly smaller than the others, which he has spent his entire life compensating for. Every spring, Pretty Boy Hal works the shoreline with the focused intensity of a man who believes deeply in his own appeal. He is not wrong, exactly. The lady herons seem to find him compelling. He carries himself with the absolute confidence of someone who has never once considered that he might not be the most interesting person in the room. He is exhausting and magnificent.
FINGERLESS BEAU
Also a Great Blue Heron. Where Pretty Boy Hal is all swagger and display, Fingerless Beau is silence and shadow. He appears. He watches. He disappears. There is a rumor — unconfirmed, and he is not talking — of a run-in with a rival outfit down from Savannah. The complete details are unknown. Fingerless Beau prefers it that way.
The name, incidentally, is ironic. Herons have no fingers. This is exactly the kind of thing that amuses Fingerless Beau not at all.
FINN THE FIXER
A Roseate Spoonbill. The most complicated member of the Syndicate, in every possible sense.
Finn has a face that appears to have lost an argument with a meat grinder and the plumage of a Vegas showgirl — that improbable, unapologetic pink that has no business existing in a salt marsh and yet here we are. He is the most visually arresting creature I have ever attempted to paint, and my relationship with that painting is, to put it gently, complicated. Some days I love it with my whole heart. Other days I turn it to face the studio wall and we don't speak.
Finn does not care either way. Finn is above this.
The rest of the Syndicate — and there are others — can be found on my website. I will warn you: they do not photograph easily. They are clandestine by nature, moving fast, melting into the marsh the moment they sense a camera. They are, I am quite certain, on both the FBI most wanted list and the Interpol watch list. Getting their portraits required patience, persistence, and a willingness to stand very still in the mud at inconvenient hours.
I will not discuss technique. Some things are not for sharing.
What I will tell you is this: these paintings are not decorative birds. They are characters. They have histories, grievances, and opinions. They have earned their names. People who bring them home tell me later that the bird seems to be watching them from across the room, judging them quietly, waiting.
They are not wrong.
The Syndicate takes care of their own. As part of their ongoing legal arrangements, members who find themselves acquired by collectors enter a kind of witness protection — disappearing quietly into private homes up and down the Eastern Seaboard and the Midwest keeping a low profile, watching the room from their new walls.
It's a good deal for everyone involved. The paintings find homes. The marsh keeps its secrets.
And Coco, carried safely in my arms, remains entirely above all of it.
Some people keep journals. I paint mine — one brushstroke at a time.

Warmly,

Marianne

There is a moment every spring in the Lowcountry when the world simply stops and makes you pay attention. You might be heading to your car, coffee in hand, mind already running through your to-do list, when it hits you — that scent. Sweet, warm, and completely unapologetic. The jasmine is blooming, and it doesn’t care what you had planned for the morning.

You stand there. You breathe. You forget what you were doing. Honestly, it’s the best kind of forgetting.

This is my favorite time of year here, and I say that having now survived two Lowcountry summers — so I know what’s coming. But right now, in this sweet spot of April, the living is easy and the air is perfumed by something that no candle has ever quite managed to capture. The jasmine rides in on the softest breeze, wrapping itself around you like a welcome. It’s the Lowcountry saying, hey. Slow down. Look around.And when you do look around — oh my.

The sky this time of year is its own kind of painting. That particular shade of blue that makes you question every blue you’ve ever mixed on a palette. The clouds build themselves into grand theatrical productions by afternoon — towering, dramatic, lit from within by a sun that hasn’t yet decided to punish us. The sunsets lately have been nothing short of outrageous. Pinks and golds and that deep bruised violet that makes even non-painters pull out their phones and try, unsuccessfully, to capture it. We all try. We all fail. We go back inside humbled.

Down in the marsh, the transformation is quieter but no less thrilling. The grasses are greening up — that deep, saturated green that anchors every Lowcountry landscape and reminds you why you moved here in the first place. The water reflects the sky show above and the whole scene shimmers with the particular magic that makes artists set up easels and never want to go back inside.And then there is the wildlife. The herons are back in full courtship drama, standing tall and ridiculously elegant, clearly convinced they are the most important creatures in the marsh — and honestly, it’s hard to argue. The egrets drift in like white brushstrokes against the green. The gators have surfaced, blinking slowly in the sun, looking for love in all the wrong places. I don’t know who needs to tell them, but the whole marsh is watching and it is absolutely not subtle.

This is what I paint from.

This light, this air, this moment before the heat settles in and we all retreat to the shade and sweet tea and the faithful porch fan.

April in the Lowcountry is a gift, and after two years here I’ve learned not to rush past it — not even for a second coffee.Go outside. Breathe the jasmine. Watch the clouds do their thing. Let a heron judge you from across the water.It’s good for the soul. And if you’re an artist, it’s good for the work.

Some people keep journals. I paint mine — one brushstroke at a time.

Spring doesn’t arrive in the Lowcountry with a grand entrance.

It doesn’t kick down the door and announce itself like it does in other places. Here, it wakes up slowly… almost shyly.One morning the light looks a little softer. The grasses shift from winter brown to something greener that you can’t quite name yet. The air carries that faint warmth that says, stay a little longer. And suddenly, the marsh feels alive again.

I’ve been noticing it more than ever this year. The quiet winter landscape is giving way to movement — the kind that happens gently enough that you miss it if you’re not paying attention.

Egrets stepping carefully through the shallows.

Herons watching the water with the patience of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

Even the smaller birds seem busier, as if they have plans and aren’t telling us what they are.There’s something about the Lowcountry marsh that feels especially alive in spring. It isn’t loud or showy. It’s subtle. The light reflects differently. The water looks calmer and brighter at the same time. The wind carries sounds that weren’t there a few weeks ago.

You start to realize that what looked quiet all winter was really just waiting.

That sense of quiet waiting has found its way into my work lately. I’ve been drawn to softer colors, more open space, and those moments where the land and the sky feel like they’re speaking to each other. The marsh has a way of slowing everything down just enough that you notice the small things — a reflection, a shadow, the curve of a bird’s neck, the way the light touches the water before disappearing again.

Spring here doesn’t feel dramatic. It feels hopeful. Like the landscape is taking a deep breath and starting over, one small change at a time.And that’s exactly what painting feels like right now. Not rushed. Not forced. Just steady and alive in the same quiet way the marsh is.

Some people keep journals. I paint mine—one brushstroke at a time.

Some days offer you a gift you didn’t know to ask for.

I found myself standing on a quiet road in a very small rural town, waiting. Around me were people from every walk of life.

Different ages.

Different races.

Different beliefs.

None of it mattered. What mattered was why we were there. A shared desire for peace.It was remarkable how quiet it all was. For such a large gathering, there was no urgency, no jostling, no impatience. Traffic slowed. Parking was imperfect. A cool breeze moved through coats and scarves.

And still, we waited.

Patiently.

Together.

Then they came. Humans, a dog, and the road between us.The monks walked steadily, their presence calm and unannounced. And leading them was Aloka, before his injury, moving with gentle purpose. His heart-shaped marking caught the light. His tail curled into what looked unmistakably like a P for peace. People smiled instinctively. Some laughed softly. Others cried without explanation.There were flowers offered. Quiet welcomes. Small gestures that felt enormous in meaning. No one rushed forward. No one pulled away. We simply bore witness.

What struck me most was how little needed to be said. Peace wasn’t a slogan that day. It wasn’t a debate or an argument. It was embodied. It walked on four legs and two. It met us at eye level. It reminded us that humanity doesn’t require agreement to exist—only presence.As a painter, I’m always paying attention to moments that slow me down. This one did more than that. It settled into me. The road. The dog. The stillness of so many people choosing patience, choosing kindness, choosing to stand together quietly.These are the moments that find their way into my work. Not literally, but emotionally. The feeling of shared ground. The understanding that light and peace often arrive softly, without spectacle.

Some people keep journals. I paint mine—one brushstroke at a time.

There is one ornament that never leaves our tree.

It’s very small.

Very old.

Perfectly round.

Its surface is crazed with age, the silvering softened and clouded by time. It hangs from a piece of kitchen twine that’s been there as long as I can remember.

Not ribbon.

Not wire.

Twine. It always was.

That ornament has followed me through every Christmas of my life. It hung high on the tree when I was a child, placed there carefully by my mother and father, just out of reach. High enough to protect it from curious noses and wagging tails. High enough to keep it safe from little hands filled with wonder. Those fur babies are gone now, and the children have grown, but the instinct remains. It still goes near the top.

When I look at it now, I don’t see my reflection clearly. Time has fractured it.

Instead, I see light.

And memory.

And love layered so thick they blur together.

I see Christmas mornings when the world felt impossibly magical. I see my parents, steady and sure, quietly creating wonder. I feel the hush before dawn, the promise of something beautiful waiting just beyond sleep. That ornament holds all of it — not because it’s perfect, but because it’s endured.

This is what draws me to paint this time of year. Not the sparkle, but the memory beneath it. The way light carries feeling. The way time leaves its marks and somehow makes things more precious, not less.

In that tiny, weathered reflection, I see Christmas past — and the reason it still matters.

Some people keep journals. I paint mine—one brushstroke at a time.

Thanksgiving is a special time for artists—not just for the food (though that’s certainly inspiring!)—but for the quiet moments of reflection that fuel creativity. It’s a season that sits right on the cusp of two worlds: the warm, introspective glow of fall and the sparkling excitement of the upcoming holidays.

For those of us who work in art, this time of year can be a delicate balancing act. There’s gratitude: for a studio filled with light, for brushes that bring our visions to life, for collectors and friends who support our work. There’s busyness: wrapping up fall shows, preparing for holiday markets, finishing commissions, and planning seasonal décor that transitions smoothly from autumn warmth to the sparkle of Christmas.

And there’s Grace Unbound. I’m so grateful for the direction this piece is taking my work—its light, energy, and sense of freedom are guiding my art into new, exciting territory. It’s thrilling to watch where Grace is leading me next, though I have to admit, I’m very glad this graceful egret is not the bird on my Thanksgiving table this Thursday!It’s a juggling act—much like blending colors on a canvas. You want the deep, comforting tones of pumpkin, copper, and ochre to linger, but you also feel the pull of festive reds, greens, and golds, hinting at the celebration to come. As artists, we learn to find harmony in contrast, to let the overlapping seasons inspire rather than overwhelm.

This Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for the rhythm of creativity, for the way each project—whether a painting, a show, or even a carefully curated table centerpiece—adds depth and texture to life. And, yes, I’m thankful for pie. But mostly, I’m grateful for the ability to turn the beautiful chaos of the season into art.Whether you’re celebrating with family, friends, or a quiet moment in your studio, may your Thanksgiving be full of inspiration, color, gratitude—and maybe just a little laughter when you glance at the birds in your paintings instead of your table.

Some people keep journals. I paint mine - one brushstroke at a time.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about connection—the kind that happens in those small, genuine moments between people.

Working the Bluffton Seafood Festival, live painting at the Beaufort Art Association, or chatting with visitors at the Sea Pines market, I’ve realized that my art often serves as the opening line in a much deeper conversation.It starts with a smile or a simple, “I love that color.” Before long, we’re sharing stories about home, family, joy, and loss.

Through those moments, I’ve learned a great deal about what makes a place feel like home—and how art reminds us of our shared humanity far more than our differences.That spirit of connection came to life recently with Frankie Two Feathers. From the moment I began painting him, I sensed he had a story to tell. He was proud, quirky, and undeniably Southern—like the kind of neighbor who’d greet you from his porch with a knowing grin. At one of my shows, a woman stopped mid-step, smiled, and said, “He just makes me happy.” I could tell she felt the same spark I did when I painted him.

By the end of the day, Frankie had gone home with her—and I knew he’d found exactly where he belonged.It’s moments like that that keep me painting. My work may start in solitude, but it finds meaning in the stories people bring to it.

Each brushstroke becomes part of a larger dialogue—a conversation about place, memory, and the simple beauty of being human together.Some people keep journals. I paint mine—one brushstroke at a time.

If you walked into my studio right now, you might wonder if I’d switched careers from painter to holiday elf. Oyster shells are spread out on tables, little wings are waiting to be attached, and there’s enough ribbon to tie a bow around the Lowcountry. Somewhere under all of that, there are also canvases, greeting card mock-ups, and at least three brushes stuck together with paint that was supposed to be “quickly rinsed out.

”In short, it’s a season of joyful chaos.

This fall has been full of exciting things: new gallery opportunities, showing work at the Sea Pines art market, and gearing up for the Bluffton Seafood Festival (where I promise to show up without paint in my hair… maybe). And on top of that, I’ve been diving into holiday prep — creating angel ornaments from local oyster shells and designing art cards for holiday markets.

The only problem? Most of it is still in progress. Paintings are half-finished, ornaments are mid-wing, and my to-do list keeps reproducing like Spanish moss in summer. It’s a little like being a short-order cook in a bustling kitchen: “Coming right up, one marsh sunrise with a side of oyster angels — hold the glitter!!”

But here’s the thing I keep reminding myself: the messy middle is part of the creative process. Every painting I’ve ever finished has gone through that awkward stage where nothing looks right and I’m tempted to throw it in the closet. (Some actually did spend a little time in the closet.) The same is true for ornaments, cards, and even festival prep. What feels like chaos now is really just the underpainting for what’s to come.

So if you see me at an upcoming market or festival, you’ll get the polished version: finished paintings, carefully packaged cards, and angel ornaments that won’t shed glitter on your shoes. Just don’t peek behind the curtain — back in the studio, it’s still organized chaos, and honestly, that’s probably where the best stories (and art) are born.

Some people keep journals. I paint mine—one brushstroke at a time.

Where to Find Me (Without Tripping Over Ornaments):

 • 🎨 Artisans Alley Art Market at Sea Pines, Hilton Head Island — Oct. 2 & Nov. 6, 4–7 PM

• 🎨 Live Painting Demo at Beaufort Art Association — Oct. 17

 • 🎨 Bluffton Seafood Festival — Oct. 18, on the porch at SOBA Gallery

 • 🎨 Featured Artist at SOBA Gallery — Oct. 26, 11–3 PM

If you’ve noticed a lot of boats showing up in my paintings lately, you’re not imagining things. I promise I haven’t secretly bought a marina or taken up fishing—though if I did, I’d be the person in the big floppy hat eating an ice cream cone instead of carrying bait. The truth is, boats keep finding their way onto my canvas for reasons that are equal parts memory, longing, and that slippery thing artists like to call inspiration.

When I moved to the Lowcountry just two years ago, I thought I’d be painting marsh grasses forever. And don’t get me wrong—those sunlit waters still tug at me daily. But this summer, as I was anticipating a trip back up north, I stumbled across a photo I’d taken in Kennebunkport back in 2017. It was a quiet shot of three moored boats, rocking gently together, like they’d been tucked in for the night. That photo became the seed for my painting Tucked Ashore, and once the brushes got moving, I realized I wasn’t done with boats—not by a long shot.

There’s something about them that feels both rooted and restless. They belong to the water, but they’re also waiting—waiting for tide, wind, or a willing captain to point them somewhere new. Maybe that speaks to me right now: part of me rooted in the Lowcountry, painting the light of the marsh, and part of me still drawn to the salty harbors of Maine. Painting boats feels like holding both places at once, and for me, that’s where the magic lives.

So yes, expect more boats. Big boats, little boats, maybe even a dinghy or two. Just don’t expect me to actually sail one—I’m happier with a paintbrush than a paddle.

"At Chauncy's" "Waiting" Perkin's Cove (coming soon)

I pass that old, sun-faded Chevy almost daily—it sits off the road like a monument to Southern resilience. Rusted, forgotten by most, and yet somehow full of presence. When I painted Gone to Seed, I wasn’t just drawn to its weathered charm. I was pulled in by a memory. A feeling. A whisper of my father’s 1963 Kelly Green Chevy pickup. I know this is my second blog about this painting, but the memories it has been bringing to light have been haunting.

That truck was a big purchase my parents made for their glass business, Clover Glass—named for good luck and my Mother’s Irish roots. We weren’t wealthy, but I don’t remember lacking a thing. What I remember is the sense of pride that came with that truck, and the way I’d bounce along beside my dad as he drove to jobs. Just the two of us. Me swinging my legs over the vinyl seat, the windows down, the sounds of the Sixties on the AM radio, and fresh air filling the cab.

He never rushed. We always took the scenic route. I learned how to read a Road Atlas. My Dad was meticulous in his craft, and he was sought by restorers of antique automobiles throughout the Boston area. Sometimes we'd stop for a Coke or a donut if Mom wasn't watching. In those drives, I learned that work could be a kind of love language. That showing up, doing the job right, and making something lasting mattered.

When I painted Gone to Seed, I wasn’t thinking about composition or light—at least not at first. I was remembering the curve of the hood, the soft rumble of the engine, the way summer air smells different when you're riding beside someone you admire. The painting holds all of that, even if no one else sees it. It’s a roadside relic to some, but to me, it’s a memory stitched into the canvas.

That’s the thing about painting—sometimes it surprises you. You set out to capture a scene, but what pours out is something deeper. A moment that lingers. A quiet, green echo from your past.

Some people keep journals. I paint mine—one brushstroke at a time.

1963 Chevy C10 Pickup in Ivy Green Dad, Duchess, and Me The only picture I have with Dad's truck

Yes, it's AI. Don't hate me! Look in the top left for the red arrow

Duchess was by BFF and we were inseparable