enter the dream

As I packed up my studio for a move across town, the 20th anniversary of September 11th passed by. Curious timing since I had just unfurled some old paintings that I’d taken off the stretchers and rolled up when I moved from my last studio. I’d made them years ago in the wake of that terrifying event, and they’d been out of the light for so long I wanted to let them breathe. Seeing them again made me remember what we all felt — the shock and fear that no one was safe, not even in our own back yards. We couldn’t fathom the dark force of violence that came out of the clear blue sky.

What does one do when they’re feeling every single emotion at the same time? What does one do when they realize they can’t truly protect the people they love? It was unbearable, and so I went into my studio and painted. I painted versions of myself in armor, or superhero costumes, or animal skins — alternately battling or just holding ground against suffering and the fragility of being human. I made them as large as I could, in some cases 12 feet across. Side by side they lined my studio walls, creating a sanctuary where I had power over pain and could stand between danger and those I loved so fiercely.

In the years that immediately followed the making of these paintings, my youngest child would become gravely ill, and a gunman would enter a grade school in my small town and ravage the lives and hearts of everyone I knew.

In the end the studio wasn’t really a sanctuary, and the paintings couldn’t protect anyone. They didn’t imbue me with special superpowers to deflect violence or stop suffering. They didn’t save the Sandy Hook children or alleviate my own child’s pain. That was all just a dream.

But the paintings did mark time, proving that I was there struggling to find some beauty in the darkness. They helped me learn not to turn away from suffering, how to express compassion and tenderness. And in a world full of violence, they helped me hold onto kindness with all my might. The paintings couldn’t save anyone else, but perhaps that was never the point. Maybe they came into being to save the only person they could — me.

– Caroline Harman | Artist | September 17, 2025 –

As I pack up my studio for another move, I’ve slipped into nostalgia. Aside from my paints and brushes, there are a few things I’ve brought along on my travels from one studio to the next. It’s a modest pile, but as most everyone knows it’s the small treasures that bring us the most joy in this life.

First let me introduce you to artist. She’s striking her best nonchalant sexy pose in the center of this shot. Preferring to be in the background, the lack of a face suits her just fine. But those who meet her can easily see her heart and soul because they’re always right there on her sleeve. She’s been through hard things — as most of us have — and yet remains standing. That amazes her, and so she spends her days trying to transform hard things into something beautiful.

On her head is a crown of very old stone scarabs that she found strung on a wire in her mother’s drawer years ago. She knows that ancient Egyptians believed scarabs warded off evil spirits, and though she’s a skeptic, and it’s a very heavy crown, she wears it on most days just to hedge her bets.

Around her neck is a cut-glass crystal with a tiny Budda dangling at the end of a red string. It just showed up one day as things often do. Even when times are at their darkest, the crystal still seeks out and reflects light. When the sun is shining, it makes rainbows that dance around her studio walls.

She reaches out with encouragement and affection toward her friends, one-eyed dog and garden gnome. These three have been through many things together, but dog has been there from the start. Originally belonging to her father, he can no longer play fetch because he’s missing an eye. Artist loves him so much more because he’s tattered, and because he makes her feel less alone.

Her other friend gnome is a grounded fellow (and by that I mean he actually lives under the ground). He stops by the studio each day to have a chat about his good friend butterfly who’s struggling on her migration, or his other friend frog whose thin skin is proving troublesome with lawn chemicals. Gnome often brings ideas to artist from his shadowland garden, and she’s forever grateful for his company and for what he helps her discover.

Skeleton tray doesn’t hold things, it just sits unassumingly on artists’ desk while she sketches. When her eyes rest upon it she’s reminded of how we’re all the same, under the skin.

The last two treasures in artists’ pile are a first-edition copy of The Little Princess and a 1947 copy of Raggedy Ann. She admires the first story because she believes it’s only one’s conduct that can make a true princess, and she adores the second because she knows being raggedy is often what makes a doll perfect.

– Caroline Harman | Artist | August 8, 2025 –