When I returned to Southside Virginia in 2019, one of my first worries was simple:

Where do I find the art?  

Not just to see it — but maybe to belong to it.  

I really wasn't an artist, but I needed to know.

Soon after, I found Red Door 104 in Farmville. A gallery and studio about thirty-five minutes from home. Close enough to reach. Far enough to feel like a small pilgrimage.  

I met Audrey, the owner, at a black-and-white competition reception. One of my entries ribboned. The other sold.  

The place had my attention immediately.  

It took her a couple years to coax me into selling and teaching, and now I’m part of the little collective there — a handful of artists who teach, sell, and take turns “minding the store.”  

Red Door has become my creative oasis after a long, desert workweek.  

So the first Saturday of this new year, I signed up to work the gallery.  

It would be a nice break after the holidays and felt like the right way to start the year.  

I didn’t know what kind of Art would be waiting.

There was a clay workshop in the studio that morning.  

I held the heavy red door open for an older woman and a young girl.  

The girl stopped just inside and whispered “whoa”, staring at the mosaic in the floor like she’d stepped into another world.  

I showed them back to the studio.  

Between visitors, I slipped in with my camera.  

Grandparents and granddaughter at a paint-splattered table. JJ, the instructor, working between them.  Two generations a generation apart pressing their hands into the same lump of earth. Rolling. Shaping. Trimming. Quiet laughter. Quiet focus.  

Clay has a way of slowing a room down.

We talked while I photographed.   Family roots. Old places I knew. Stories that sounded like home.  

Later, the girl wandered out into the gallery.  

And something shifted.  

She moved from piece to piece like a hummingbird — paintings, glass, wood, felt, photos — whispering “whoa” and “wow” to each one like every corner held a small miracle.  

I’d toss in a word now and then, but mostly I just listened.  

Then Audrey walked in.  

The girl froze.  

She knew the name.  

THE Audrey Sullivan.  

And suddenly she was talking — really talking — asking questions, leaning in, bright and curious.  

Afterward, her grandparents told me something that stopped me.   She’s usually quiet. Withdrawn. Doesn’t talk to strangers. Doesn’t show interest like this.  

Not ever.  

But here?  

She couldn’t stop.  

Back in the studio, we talked more — the grandparents and I.  

Laughing.

Trying.

Making.  

The girl’s clay had taken shape and color — blues and greens and teals and purple — the same colors woven through Audrey’s hair.

Like she’d already tuned herself to the Light without even knowing it.

Something alive moved through that room.  

I saw Light moving into Art.  

Into clay.  

And then back out again.  

Ebbing.

Flowing.

Breathing.  

Like the room itself had a pulse.  

I didn’t fully understand it until later, going through the photos.  

What Audrey built isn’t just a gallery.  

It’s a garden.  

A place where things grow.  

Sometimes it’s a mug or a painting.  

Sometimes it’s a person.

I realized the same thing happened to me the first time I walked through that red door years ago.  

Just… later in life.  

A couple of lifetimes later.  

But it happened.  

People often ask me how to take better pictures.  

They expect something technical.  

Settings. Gear. Lenses.  

I usually just say:  

Act like a kid.  

Look at the world with that same wonder.  

If something catches your eye, stay with it. Ask questions. Get closer.  

Don’t rush past the miracle.  

That Saturday, I got to witness that wonder again.  

A reminder.

A reset.

A good way to begin a year.  

If there’s a child in your life — or anyone, really — and they show even a spark of interest in Art…  

fan it.  

Take them somewhere like Red Door.  

Let them make something.  

Let them grow.  

Because sometimes all it takes is a table, a lump of clay, and a little Light.