I had four days off. Memorial weekend. I had a plan, a clean brush, and every intention of painting.

My granddaughter had other plans.

She showed up in size 3 diapers and a whole lot of opinions about how we were going to spend the weekend. The barn and the farm animals came out. The little tan horse. The spotted cow. The tiny plastic fence that never quite stands up right. And we played. For four days we played.

We ate toast together, the two of us in the kitchen table like old friends. We made big loud bubble sounds that told the whole room exactly how happy and full and content a tiny person can be. We watched Winnie the Pooh and she sighed after every bottle like the whole world was exactly right and she knew it.

Not even close.

I am a person who takes painting seriously. I mean that. I have a real commitment to making the world a better place, canvas by canvas. I believe art deserves a real story behind it, not just a price tag and a nudge to buy. I believe you can’t force it, and the painting will show it if you tried.

I know all of that. I meant all of that. And for four days, none of it mattered even a little bit.

When she left, when the house got quiet again and the little barn got tucked back on the shelf, I walked down the hall toward my studio. You have to go through her room to get there.

I got to the door and stopped.

The room still smelled like her. Lavender baby wash, soft and clean and delicate as when I bathed her. Powdery diaper scent, that sweet and particular smell that only belongs to a baby and fades so fast you almost can’t believe it was ever there. It hung in the air like a gift nobody asked for, tender and golden and already going.

I couldn’t walk through it yet.

I just stood there. Not blocked. Not stuck. Not failing any version of the artist I think I’m supposed to be. Just not ready. Full. Still holding all of it.

I used to think the work was on the other side of the feeling, not inside it.

But standing at that door, with the lavender still hanging in the air and four days of giggling still warm in my chest, something shifted in me. A quiet little click, like a door unlocking instead of closing.

What if this IS the commitment? What if standing there, not ready, still full of her, what if that’s not me failing the art?

What if that’s exactly where the art comes from?

I paint old docks. Weathered tractors. Crusty, beautiful, tired old places where the light does something worth stopping for. I soften them just enough to belong on your wall. I want you to feel something good when you look at them. Maybe remember something sweet from when you were young, something you didn’t even know you were still carrying around.

That’s not a small thing to me. That’s the whole reason.

And I have spent a fair amount of time wondering where that comes from. Why those things. Why that feeling. Why does a weathered barn door hit me the same way a certain kind of afternoon light does, like something important is happening and I better pay attention?

Standing at that door, I think I finally had my answer.

It comes from the stopping. It comes from the not being ready yet. It comes from standing in the middle of something beautiful and choosing to just stay there a little longer instead of rushing through to the next thing.

It comes from four days of Winnie the Pooh and raspberry sounds and toast and sighing babies.

Patience with yourself isn’t soft advice. I say that a lot. It’s the whole job. But I think what I really mean, what I have always meant even when I didn’t have the words for it yet, is this…

The work is not separate from the living. The work IS the living. The pausing at doors. The smells in a room. The playing with barns. The staying in the feeling instead of rushing past it to go be productive.

The canvas can wait. The lavender scent won’t.

Katherine

I remember the first time I saw the tractor. It sat quietly in the middle of the field, surrounded by rows of corn, like a silent guardian watching over the harvest. Something about it pulled me in—weathered and proud, as if it carried its own story. I kept coming back, photographing it through the seasons, watching how both the land and the tractor changed with time. Each visit made me think about the hands that had worked that soil and how the American tractor is more than a machine, it’s the backbone of the farmer, steady and reliable through every season. That’s where the name Backbone comes from.

The painting I’m working on captures the tractor in the heart of spring. The fields are softening under the warmth of the sun, and the scent of damp earth lingers in the air. New shoots push their way through the soil, and life begins to stir again after the long winter slumber. Birds return to the fields, and the breeze carries the promise of rain. And there stands the tractor, waiting patiently, just as it always has. Its paint may be chipped, and its metal worn from seasons of use, but it’s ready steady, enduring, and prepared to do what it was built to do.

Spring is a season of rebirth, reminding us that life always finds a way to begin again. Like the tractor, we all go through winters; times when we feel worn down or uncertain, but spring offers the chance to renew ourselves and move forward. The tractor’s quiet presence tells a story of strength, showing us that no matter how many seasons pass, we can endure, grow, and be ready for whatever comes next.

It’s a reminder that even when we feel weathered by life, there is always the promise of new beginnings.

Katherine

2023 has been an incredible year for me, both personally and professionally. My husband retired, and we made the exciting move to the beautiful coast of Delaware. While he’s enjoying his days fishing, I’m finding endless inspiration in our new surroundings.

Sussex County, Delaware, is a treasure trove of scenic beauty, with its charming barns, lush trees, vintage tractors, historic homes, and stunning botanical gardens. The natural beauty around me has become a powerful source of inspiration for my art. I’m particularly drawn to herons and birds, so you can expect to see these graceful creatures featured in my future work.

It took us a full year to settle in and adjust to our new environment, and now that we’ve found our rhythm, I’m back in the studio with renewed energy and creativity. As fall approaches, my paintings will begin to reflect the rich colors and cozy vibes of the season, along with the festive spirit of the holidays.

As we embrace this slower, more reflective time of year, I’m looking forward to sharing my latest work with you. See you around the art galleries!

Katherine

What tells your story?

Step into the world of this one, where eyes and lips take center stage, each telling a story of its own.

Eyes, they say, reveal the depths of one’s soul, while lips speak volumes, whether it’s a whisper of sensuality, a hint of everyday chatter, or the language of business.

This artwork began as snapshots, capturing life’s fleeting moments, then evolved into hand-drawn illustrations, each stroke adding depth to the narrative. With a chosen palette and a dash of personal flair, the essence of the piece took shape.

Through the craft of Illustrator and the finesse of Photoshop, the images were melded together into a seamless composition.

But wait, it’s not just about the visuals. The background typography adds its own voice, sharing insights into the journey of the individuals.

Together, these elements invite you to explore a world where beauty meets authenticity, where the everyday becomes extraordinary.

My world!

Who knew that participating in the Montco Studio Tour would lead to an interview with CBS 3 news?

Anyone who knows me realizes that this would not be a jumping up and down moment.

Interviews terrify me, but as a fresh artist I sucked it up and answered questions. I figure the only way to get past this is to keep doing it scared. I guess that is where courage comes in.

That is what we are going to talk about today, courage.

Courage to ask questions, courage to put your face and name in front of your work, and courage to let a higher power lead the way.

I have always been inspired to leave something behind in this physical world besides my children. I want to leave something inspiring and conversational for the next generations to ponder and think about.

Now, I’m not a Duchamp, Klimt or Van Gogh, but I do have something to say that is worthwhile hearing and thinking about.

The world we live in is a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes to be viewed at different times and angles; artists are influenced by their surroundings.

This is why you get so many different interpretations of the same thing. I love to look at plants, leaves and trees for my ideas. My mentor Jim Femino always talked to me about trees, “a tree doesn’t do anything but grow, sprout leaves, and shed leaves in the fall.”

This process takes place day after day, week after week, year after year until death.

As a visual artist breaking down the artistic process into the most basic of pieces helps the design develop. This works through sketching rough ideas, developing sketches, and the actual project.

For an artist this takes courage! Courage to believe that the product you are creating visually says what you want to say, is worthwhile for public viewing, and holds value.

The Montco Studio Tour helped build up my courage. People looking at my oil paintings and pen/ink pointillism enjoyed what was displayed. Their comments were positive and friendly.

The Valley Forge Tourism and Convention Board partnered with the King of Prussia mall to hang art for the public. Myself and other Montco Studio Tour artists were offered this opportunity.

Seven of us are hanging in the First Arts Montco Wall.A wide variety of pieces from prominent local artist(s) Robby Schlesigner (Elkins Park), Lynnette Shelley (Ambler), Harry Boardman (Souderton), Katherine Bampfield (Norristown), Sandy Alves (Collegeville), and David Rozek (Bridgeport) is currently on display.

You never know where each opportunity is leading you, so have courage and jump in!

Katherine

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I didn’t want to make a fool of myself. I had to keep throwing cold water on that thought.

It started while I was sitting on the floor surrounded by tubes of oil paint, canvases and palette knives. I can’t answer why I paint abstract paintings sitting on the floor, I just do.

Maybe I feel more grounded to my surroundings.

I painted three 5 x 7 abstract oil paintings that day. Completely mesmerized by the feel of the paint with the noisy swoosh that a palette knife makes on a canvas. Think of a kitten licking your hand and that sandpapery feeling.

I can hear that.

Painting with a palette knife is relaxing and rhythmic as I go over the canvas, a horizontal mark, a vertical mark, change color then lay a larger swath of paint. I continue this action over and over until I’m satisfied that the canvas and I have finished our conversation.

The last painting however, that canvas and I had a moment.

I realized as I was painting this canvas that I’m All In. This is where I’m going in this later stage of my life.

I’m a visual artist.

The weight of that realization didn’t hit me until I signed up for the Montco Studio Tour that took place in September 2021.

What was my conversation going to look like with the public?

How was I going to explain how I feel about these pieces of artwork in front of us?

Would anyone even like a painting by me? Would they feel what I feel as they look at the finished artwork?

So many questions that ran through my head, of course the loudest statement that I kept hearing was I don’t want to make a fool of myself. I had to keep throwing cold water on that thought.

The cold water won and I survived the Montco Studio Tour.

In fact, people did want to see and hear what the canvas and I had to say.

Katherine