Hello there. There is a funny thing about places. We tend to think they stay the same while we are the ones who change. I've come to believe the opposite is true. Places collect pieces of us. They gather our memories until, one day, we realize we aren't simply looking at a street corner or a riverbank anymore—we're looking through a lifetime of experience.

That is exactly what happened with In My Fishbowl.

At first glance, it is simply a painting of downtown Springfield. But for me, it has never been just downtown. It is the only downtown I've ever truly known.

As a little girl, my mom would take me shopping at Heer's, Woolworth's, and Jupiter's. I can still remember walking through the Bargain Breezeway at Heer's, tucked between the department store and the parking lot. To a child, it felt almost magical, full of little discoveries waiting around every corner. At Woolworth's, my favorite place was the soda fountain on the entry level floor. I can still picture the polished chrome reflecting everything around it. I would stand there fascinated that I could see myself over and over again from different angles. Funny how a memory like that stays with you.

Back then those stores felt permanent. Of course, they weren't.

One by one they disappeared. Downtown grew quieter. During the day, much of the square seemed to fall asleep. The DMV remained. A few banks stayed open. Flea markets occupied storefronts that had once were occupied by shoppers. It felt like the city had exhaled and never quite breathed back in.

Then evening would come, and everything changed. My generation X discovered a different downtown. Music spilled from doorways into the streets and alleyways. We'd wander through old buildings that had been left behind, curious about what stories they still held. Looking back, I think we were searching for ghosts—not necessarily the kind that appear in movies, but the ghosts of lives that had unfolded there long before ours.

College Street, the side of the square that became the heart of this painting, was once part of Route 66. Thousands upon thousands of travelers passed through there, each carrying their own hopes, worries, destinations, and stories. Long before I understood the history of Route 66, I think I could feel its energy. Downtown Springfield has witnessed incredible joy and heartbreaking tragedy. It was the site of one of the darkest moments in our city's history, the 1906 lynching of three African American men. It also held memories of the wild west with gunfighters counting their paces on those then dirt streets.  As teenagers, we knew pieces of that history. We knew old buildings carried stories. Some places simply felt heavier than others, and we'd wander through those forgotten spaces wondering if history had somehow left echoes behind.

One building I remember especially well was where my boyfriend David's band practiced. It was old, tired, and honestly a little terrifying. Standing on the third floor, you could look through holes in the floorboards all the way to the basement below. Every creak reminded you that the building had lived a long life before we ever walked through its doors. Years later it burned. Honestly, I wasn't surprised.

Then there was the Fox Theatre, where I first saw Bambi. I remember sitting there as a little girl, completely heartbroken. Children's movies didn't soften every difficult truth back then. They allowed us to experience loss alongside wonder. Looking back, I think that was one of my earliest lessons that beauty and sadness often exist together. Maybe that's one reason art has always mattered so much to me.

When I stand on that same corner today, I don't just see the buildings that are still standing. Something else happens. The present begins to blur with the past. Not all at once, but in little flashes. Tiny movies. I can almost hear conversations that ended decades ago. Music drifts from doors that no longer exist. The scent of old department stores returns without warning. For just a second, I see people crossing streets they haven't crossed in years before the image quietly slips away. The memories don't arrive in order. They simply appear... then fade. I can still see what is in front of me, but I can also see everything that once was.

That is the feeling I painted.

While talking about In My Fishbowl one day, someone asked me a question that stopped me mid-sentence (and you know when I get to talking art that can be hard to do). They said they wanted to know every version of that corner—the family version, the teenager version, the college version, the artist version, the version after people moved away, and the version after Route 66 became history. They said it felt like several different paintings were occupying the same square.

I had never thought of it that way before.

But they were right. Then they asked one more question. "Don't tell me what it means. Tell me the story that gave you the title." That question has stayed with me ever since. Because In My Fishbowl was never really about the buildings. It wasn't even about downtown Springfield. It was about standing in one place while an entire lifetime quietly swims around you. Like looking through glass, the present remains perfectly clear while the past is still moving.

Maybe that's why I paint the Ozarks the way I do. I'm not trying to preserve places exactly as they were. I'm trying to preserve what it feels like when a place has become part of who you are. Those feelings don't disappear when buildings come down or businesses close. They stay with us. Sometimes all it takes is standing on a familiar corner for them to come rushing back—the little movies, the familiar sounds, the forgotten smells, the pieces of ourselves we thought were gone.

Maybe that is what a painting really is  -- A way of holding time still for just a little while.

Till Next time friends,

Dana =)