Category Archives: family

Marie Marfia, Joe with a Baby, 8x10in., soft pastel on textured gator board

Joe with a Baby

Click to bid or buy • 8x10in. • soft pastel on textured gator board • starts at $100

We had company over Thanksgiving, hurray!


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Marie Marfia, Maeve on the Beach, study, soft pastel on sanded paper, 5 in x 7 in.

Maeve on the Beach, study

I was looking at a cheat sheet that I got a number of years ago when I attended a Margaret Dyer workshop and I thought, I would like to do a pastel with a person in it, so I searched my photos for people and this picture of my granddaughter showed up.

The reference photo I used.

I wondered about the cropping on the photo, whether it would work as a painting or not and then I thought, who cares? and just dived in.

Here’s the time lapse video:

Maeve on the Beach, study.

I’ve been using an underpainting method that Lana Ballot teaches that’s mostly purples and I adapted it to the method that Margaret Dyer taught in her figure study class. I like the richness of color that the purple gives to the successive layers of pastel. I have another picture that shows more of the hat Maeve was wearing and I may combine the two in another, larger, version of this piece.

For now, it’s just fun to walk into the studio in the morning and paint whatever I want without thinking too hard about my choices.

Here’s the result of about a half hour session:

Maeve on the Beach, study, soft pastel on sanded paper, 5 in x 7 in.

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The twins are here!

I’m over the moon! My newest grand babies, Niall and Ronin, have arrived. They’re some of my favorite fish!

My sister and I are doing double baby duty this spring!

Maybe the best part of having new grand babies to care for is having my sister in town to help! So much love in just one house!

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final stickers for my rebus letter to my granddaughter

Making a little something

My granddaughter Maeve is a source of joy in my life. I love making things for and with her. I decided recently that I wanted to be her penpal but wondered how I could do it. She’s just three years old, after all. I didn’t want to overwhelm her with a lot of words.

After thinking about it for a bit I made a rebus letter to send to her. A rebus is a mixture of letters and pictures that contain a message. Remember the old Concentration game show? That’s what I had in mind. Here’s how I did it:

Step 1, pencil a letter on a piece of paper, using as many pictures for words as you can. You can see I changed my find a few times about how and where to use pictures for words. No worries! It’s only pencil, at this point.
Step 2, ink pen over the pencil, then stick onto a window. The window is a light box! Now I can put sticker paper over it and trace my drawings so that Maeve will have stickers to put on my letter. It makes it interactive and a fun game for her.
I trace the pictures from the rebus letter onto a sheet of sticker paper (large shipping label paper) with a pencil.
Here are all the pictures from my rebus letter to Maeve, in pencil on sticker paper.
I trace the pencil drawings in ink using water proof ink pen.
Then I used my watercolors to add some color to my pictures.
Here are the final colored stickers.
I cut out the stickers and put them along with the rebus letter into an envelope and mail to my granddaughter.

This is a fun way to stay in touch with my granddaughter between visits. My daughter sent me a video of Maeve putting the stickers over the pictures in the letter and she looked like she enjoyed the process very much. Me, too!


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Pastel Portrait Class January 26

Hey, y’all. I’m planning to teach a pastel portrait class from 6-9pm on Wednesday, January 26, 2022 at the Ludington Area Center for the Arts, 107 S. Harrison St., Ludington, Michigan.

I will provide everything you need to make an 8×10″ pastel portrait on sanded paper. There will be paper already mounted on a board, there will be a large selection of pastels to choose from, although you can certainly bring your own (not oil pastels, though, cuz that’s a different can of worms). All you need to do is bring a reference photo of either an animal face or a human face.

Please note: the reference photo should be 8×10″ with the size of the head measuring at least 7″ from top of the brow to the chin. There’s some leeway here, but basically, I want you to be able to draw a face that’s large enough to easily put some details in.

We’re going to be using the grid method of making a portrait. So you’ll draw a 1 inch grid on your reference and then a 1 inch grid on your sanded paper. This will let you get a pretty good likeness right from the get go.

If you want to participate, you should go to LACA’s website, and register for the pastel portrait workshop. Cost is $25 for members and $30 for non-members. There is a limit of 6 people.

Here are a couple of time lapse videos showing the process.

Maeve Speaks Out, soft pastel on sanded paper, 10×8″. NFS.
Roger Dodger You Old Codger, soft pastel on sanded paper, 8×10″. NFS.

Hope to see you there!


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You can buy my art imprinted on all kinds of cool stuff in my Fine Art America Shop. You can purchase my original art on Daily Paint Works.

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Marie Marfia, Mary Feeding the Chickens, soft pastel on textured gator board, 16x20"

Painting to remember

I’ve been painting to remember lately. It’s partly because of the pandemic. I’m realizing that I need to pay more attention to the people that I care about and to make it a priority to spend time with them. Before Covid, there was all the time in the world. Now, not so much maybe. Another reason is painting the stories I want to keep helps solidify them in my brain for later. I’m aware of memory slippage happening as I get older. Details fade and sometimes whole stories. I wonder, was I really there when that happened? Why don’t I remember it if I was? 

My father’s side of the family suffered from dementia at the ends of their lives, all except Frank, who was killed during WWII, Marianne, who committed suicide, and Ben, who died of a coronary. Six siblings out of nine. So odds are that I and some of my siblings will go the same way. It’s like a cloud that hovers over you, not quite solid but never quite going away, either. Every failure to come up with a name or word that I know that I know prompts the inevitable moment of panic and a rush of internal questioning. Is this the beginning of my decline? Am I going to go down the same path as my dad? Is there anything I can do to stop this?

I spend a lot of time researching how to make my brain do its job for as long as it can. I solve a crossword puzzle and a sudoku puzzle every day, read a lot, and push myself to learn new things. Mostly I try to remain hopeful.

So I’ve started painting memories of days spent with my family. One, it gives me an excuse to paint people, which I like, and two, it helps cement memories of a particular occasion in my head.

First I look at my photos and decide on a story to tell. Then I try to distill my feelings about the story into a painting. Here are three from my last trip to see my sister and her extended family out in New York state. 

Mary Feeding the Chickens

Marie Marfia, Mary Feeding the Chickens, soft pastel on textured gator board, 16x20"
Mary Feeding the Chickens, soft pastel on textured gator board, 16×20″

This one is of my sister Mary and her original flock of chickens, now a few years old. She’s got a colander on her hip with red grapes in it. We had decided earlier that grapes, and specifically red grapes, weren’t very good. They tasted too sweet and not enough like the grapes we remembered as children. So these grapes became chicken treats.

Mary, me, my daughter Alice and her wife Sandra, and their daughter Maeve, had walked down the hill to feed grapes to the chickens. Since they were being cautious around all the new people, Mary leaned over the fence, hand full of grapes, to coax them closer. In my painting I removed the fence and the extra figures behind Mary. But I kept the house up on the hill and our trailer parked next to it. Also there’s the hint of the barn behind the trees on the left, which I may remove. I haven’t quite decided, yet. Mary’s jeans have grass stains on the knees because you spend an awful lot of time on your knees when you are working an organic farm. The weeds don’t pull themselves, you know.

Come out, chickens!

Marie Marfia, Come out, chickens, soft pastel on toned sanded paper, 9x12".
Come out, chickens! soft pastel on toned sanded paper, 9×12″. Sold.

In this painting, I wanted to capture Mary’s step-granddaughter, Alice, trying to convince a flock of young chickens to come out from under their coop. Alice is fairy-like in her demeanor. She has long blonde hair falling over her shoulders and a joyful look in her eye. She refers to people as “humans,” and she is perfectly happy playing with whoever is available, including two-year-old Maeve. I wanted to remember her optimism concerning timid pullets and whether or not they could be tempted out of hiding by a handful of dirt, a stick or one of their own feathers. She tried all of those things without success and never noticed the one watching her from the other side of the coop.

Time lapse for Come Out, Chickens!

Walking to the Barn

Marie Marfia, Walking to the Barn, soft pastel on sanded paper, 10x8"
Walking to the Barn study, soft pastel on sanded paper, 10×8″.

In this final painting, I took a photo of Mary as she was on her way back to the barn. I liked her upright form against the barn and the sunlit green grass. It’s a reminder to me of how her days begin. Up before the sun, out to feed the chickens, providing sustenance, and warm regards (“Good morning, sunshine!”). When I miss her most, I imagine myself walking in the dewy grass with her, and I feel better.

So much of how I remember is visual as well as emotional. Photos can be painful to look at sometimes, because so many feelings well up from them. I often put pictures away and close photo apps because it seems as though I might never stop crying once I start. I’m not sure why I want to cry but I’ll continue to explore it. I think it makes for better paintings. And paintings may soon be the only way I can share what I am feeling if or when the day comes that I no longer have the words.


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Marie Marfia, This Family, soft pastel on gessoed gator board, 12x12"

Old Bones

Recently I spent a day visiting the family cemeteries with my brother and his wife. It’s traditional to plant fresh flowers, wipe off the headstones, pull weeds and just spruce the plots up a bit before Memorial Day. I used to go with my mother.

As well as driving around the places where I spent my childhood, I like spending time with Joe and Anna. We tell stories to each other about the people under the headstones. There’s a lot of laughter mixed with the yarns and there’s something therapeutic about digging in the dirt. Anna always says goodbye to everyone before we head for the next stop.

I try to imagine what it would be like to be buried in one or another of the cemeteries–Fennville, South Haven or Covert. I think I’d like Covert best. It has lots of old trees, and the road that passes by there is quieter than the others. Also, Mom’s family were not given to as much drama as Dad’s and I think it would be more peaceful to spend eternity among low key folk.

In honor of Memorial Day weekend I decided to paint a picture of my father in uniform and this was the one that I chose. On the back of the original polaroid it says “This family lives in Room # 204,” and then lists the names of the men he’s standing with: Edwin Manson, Dan Mannen, Roy Mann, with my dad on the far right. This was a picture he sent home to his parents and I imagine he was trying to inject a little humor into what was otherwise an anxious time. From the letter, he was in air force training school in Miami and so these must have been some of his classmates as well as the guys closest to him alphabetically. The year is 1943, so he would have been in his twenties.

Though the original was black and white, the photo is sepia-colored now, and my memories of my father are taking on those faded overtones, too. As with any portrait, I have to decide which shapes to define, where the highlights will go, and what will stay buried in shadow.

Marie Marfia, This Family WIP, soft pastel on gessoed gator board, 12x12".
This Family, WIP.
This Family, detail.
This Family, detail.
Marie Marfia, This Family, soft pastel on gessoed gator board, 12x12"
This Family, soft pastel on gessoed gator board, 12×12″

I have always loved imagining my dad flying through the air, arms outstretched, chasing crows across the landscape. He died over twenty years ago, but I still think about him a lot. I wish that the end of his life had been easier. He had Alzheimer’s and the last seven years were spent in nursing homes. I remember laying my head on his knee once while visiting him and feeling his hand on my head, comforting me. He lost almost all of his memories but kept his ability to let me know that everything would be all right. I’m grateful for that.


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Marie Marfia, Work Crew, soft pastel on gessoed gatorboar, 8x12"

Work Crew

I got to spend a weekend at my daughter’s house recently. I was supposedly there to help build a deck in the back yard, but really, I just wanted to play with the baby.

My sister came all the way from New York state to help, as did two of my brothers, one of their wives, and also my nephew. Plus my daughter and her wife worked on it, too. Everyone was wielding power tools for almost the entire weekend. Except me! I got to babysit!

It was cool out and rained on Saturday until just about lunch time. Their neighbor brought over a tent so that at least a couple people could get out of the wet. But no one complained. It was just nice to hang out and talk like regular people for a change. We’ve all had our shots. It felt normal.

Marie Marfia, Work Crew, soft pastel on gessoed gatorboar, 8x12"
Work Crew, soft pastel study on gessoed gatorboard, 8×12″

I got a few pictures. This painting is about four people with cordless drills screwing down decking and one supervisor. As it should be.

I had a lot of fun playing with my granddaughter, who is almost 2 1/2 years old now! (How does that happen?) And I loved seeing my family. Would highly recommend.


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Back to start

two people with stars

015, The Stars Align, 6×6″ acrylic on canvas. ©2018 Marie Marfia

My son Nick and my husband Steve are on their way back from Florida.

I’ve been cleaning the camper, where Nick’s going to stay, at least for now. Steve flew into Orlando last week Sunday, but what with one thing and another, they’re only just coming home today, eight days later. It’s been an adventure, I gather.

I’m really looking forward to having Nick home again. I know I’m supposed to be all bummed about having a boomerang child living with us, but I’m not. It’s going to be a bit more crowded for sure, but I am not worried about that. I have always enjoyed Nick’s take on life, even when things aren’t going his way. He works really hard to stay upbeat. And he’s quirky and smart and fun to be around.

Bonus, built-in dog sitter! Although I haven’t actually asked him if he would do that. But it’d be sweet if he could.

I’ve been scanning the paper, looking for places where he could work while he’s here. His sister Alice has offered him a place to stay in the fall, if he wants to move down to Kalamazoo. He’d not only get the benefit of living with or near a sibling, but his cousin lives there, too, plus an uncle and aunt. So much family.

Sometimes you just need to be around people who know you inside and out. It’s easier to talk about things. Maybe it’ll be just what he needs to get back on his feet again.

I hope so.

I remember Nick’s sixth grade teacher telling me that someday someone was going to really connect with Nick and he was going rocket to the moon, he was just so smart and so talented. I beamed. Then with her next breath she said, “But it isn’t going to be me, because I’ve got 150 other kids to deal with every day.” And she walked out of the room.

I’ve been wanting to punch her ever since.

Not that it was her fault. I get that you’ve only got so much energy and that you’re spread pretty thin and this one kid is just not a priority. He’s not acting out, throwing things, threatening anyone. He’s keeping his head down, going along to get along, telling you what you want to hear. “Yes, I’ll take care of that. No problem. It’s fine.”

He tells you what you want to hear and then you leave him alone because you want to believe that he’s on track now, that he’s going to do all the things he needs to do, that he’s sincere about making changes. And by the time you figure out that he’s really in trouble, it’s just gotten so much worse than it was before.

This has always been Nick’s way. To divert attention from himself and his problems. To tell you what you want to hear. To say, “I’m okay. Yes, I’ve got plenty of food. There’s a job interview tomorrow. I’ll be fine.”

Steve went to get him and bring him home. Partly because I’m still working and he’s the retired one, so he’s got more time to spend on this. Partly because he and Nick have always been two peas in a pod. I knew they’d both enjoy spending time together. Nick gets his love of guns and fireworks from Steve. Also his bent for being logical and rational in his arguments. It used to routinely drive his older sibling Sam nuts. Which I’m pretty sure was the whole point.

So, I’m not really sure how this is all going to work out. If it’s a good decision to bring him home or a bad decision. No idea. Could go either way. But you know what? I’m still glad he’s going to be here, with us. We can do better. Nick can do better. Sometimes you just need a little help.

The part where he doesn’t ask for it? He gets that from me.

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Sometimes you cry

While in child’s pose this morning I was thinking about the portraits of my children, Sam and Nick, that I have hanging in my studio. (I’d have a portrait of Alice there, too, but I haven’t yet produced one that I like well enough to frame. It’s on my to-do list.)

©Marie Marfia, Nick, No. 74, 100 Portraits in 100 Days.

Hanging the portraits inside my studio was supposed to put a smile on my face every day. Nick’s because he’s grinning ear to ear. The photo reference is from a picture I took after watching him open up presents on his birthday. Sam’s portrait is not so cheerful. She’s looking off to one side and her expression is either suspicious or worried or both. This is a typical look for her. I just like it because I think she’s beautiful even when she looks like that.

©Marie Marfia, Sam, No. 75, 100 Portraits in 100 Days.

Yesterday I looked up and saw those two faces and basically fell apart. I miss them a lot.

They’re off living their own lives. Nick’s 23 and independent and looking for work in Florida. Sam is 26 and trying like hell to have a writing career out in Connecticut. I’m proud to know both of them, I just wish I heard from them more often, a common enough complaint when you’re a parent.

Yesterday’s break down is partly me being emotional at the end of a longish day and also because I recently attended a funeral for my cousin’s daughter who died at age 25.

©Marie Marfia, Alice, No. 68, 100 Portraits in 100 Days.

You know what the worst thing about young peoples’ funerals is? There aren’t that many stories to share about them. They just didn’t live long enough. There are only short vignettes about overnight trips with the track team, or a prank they pulled while they were visiting their family two weeks prior. And all their friends are there, all the same age as the dead person. They’re devastated and crying and in shock. And watching the family try to figure it all out breaks your heart.

There should be tons of stories, years’ worth of them. Not just two or three. People are supposed to live longer than 25 years. Especially people who are the children of other people.

Of course I wanted to hug my kids after that. Alice is near by so pretty easy to reach out and touch her, thankfully, but for Sam and Nick I had to be satisfied with emails. Nick doesn’t always pick up the phone when I call. He’s probably thinking I want a progress report on whether he’s found work or not. Sam doesn’t have a phone. I don’t know why, she just doesn’t. She’s an idiot that way.

In the emails I reminded them that I loved them and missed them and they didn’t have my permission to die before me. Not that I have any control over that whatsoever. I just wanted to go on the record as having an opinion about it. Honestly? I’m sure I’ve told them all this before, but funerals for other people’s kids have a way of bringing these issues to the forefront of my mind.

So now I’m debating whether to take the portraits down. I know Nick and Sam are fine and I’ll be fine, too. It’s just, right now, it’s hard. People die, some through no fault of their own. I know one thing, I’m going to hug my kids, every chance I get, even if it’s just an email hug. It’s better than no hugs at all.

I guess I’ll leave the portraits up. Try to remind myself to enjoy my kids while I’ve got them. I’m grateful for that, even if it does make me cry now and then.

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