Elizabeth Gunter ART

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers, grandmothers, stepmothers, chosen mothers, and women who have spent their lives loving, protecting, sacrificing, worrying, nurturing, guiding, and somehow still holding everything together even when nobody notices.

Mother’s Day actually has roots in mothers advocating for peace, care, and the protection of children and families before it eventually became the national holiday we know today. Somewhere along the way, it became more about flowers, brunch reservations, and greeting cards, but at its core, it’s really about gratitude.

Because mothers rarely get enough credit for everything they carry. The emotional labor. The invisible work. The sleepless nights. The worrying that never really ends, even when their children are grown. There’s no clock-out time for being a mom.

My own mother passed away on September 8, a date that coincidentally is also recognized in parts of Cuba in honor of Mary Magdalene, a woman remembered for her devotion, strength, and unwavering love. Since losing my mom, I’ve realized how many ordinary moments were actually sacred all along. The phone calls. The advice. The meals. The way they ask if you got home safe. The little things quietly become the biggest things once they’re gone.

And I also know Mother’s Day can be complicated. Some people are grieving their mothers. Some never had the kind of mother they deserved. Some became their own source of nurturing far too early in life. Some are mothers carrying invisible heartbreak of their own.

So today, if you are lucky enough to still have your mom and have a relationship worth nurturing, call her. Sit a little longer. Listen a little deeper. Ask another question. Hug her tighter. One day you may wish you had one more conversation.

And for those carrying grief, distance, or complicated emotions today, I see you too.

Happy Mother’s Day.

There’s something beautifully humbling about street painting. Unlike a canvas in the studio, chalk art lives in the open, with people walking by, asking questions, and watching the piece unfold in real time. Kids peek over your shoulder. Someone stops and says they’ve never seen anything like it. The whole process becomes part performance, part conversation.

My piece for the Zion Earth Day Chalk & Earth Fest became two lovebirds nestled in a flowering tree, surrounded by bright, colorful blooms. I was inspired by the idea that looking at art can actually change how we feel. Color and beauty trigger endorphins in the brain, so when we see something filled with love and joy, we feel a little of that too.

One of the most rewarding parts of the weekend was seeing the reactions, the smiles, and people stopping to take photos. Those moments of shared joy are a big part of why we create in such a temporary medium. And another reason is the chalk art family itself, the artists who gather year after year, supporting one another and bringing these streets to life together.

Thank you to Aimee for curating and bringing together such a wonderful group of artists, to the festival volunteers and sponsors who make this event possible, and to the Town of Springdale for supporting art in such a beautiful setting. For a little while, these two lovebirds and their colorful tree got to live on the pavement, sharing a small moment of color and love with everyone who passed by.

Last April, my dear artist friend suggested something unexpected. Instead of me finally buying the original portrait of her in this archetype, a painting that had hung in my gallery for years and been loved by many, she proposed that it should be a portrait of me. I hesitated for weeks... Then I said yes.

The timing of her today was quietly perfect.

The painting is an homage to Rosie the Riveter. Megan came over and turned my space into a temporary studio, setting up lights, wrapping my hair, tying a red scarf I already had tucked away in my closet. We chose my favorite brushes to hold in a close-up, echoing Rosie’s iconic strength, but translated through the language I know best.

My left hand pulls up the sleeve of my right arm, revealing part of a tattoo of art supplies, a steampunk paintbrush, a yellow pencil, and a red rose. The brushes I’m holding mirror the tattoo almost exactly, same arm, same tools, a visual loop between what I make and what I’m made of.

The last five years were full. Running a physical space meant carrying a lot, people, programs, momentum. The gallery doors closed last February, almost exactly a year ago, marking the end of one chapter of creative labor.
provides continues now as a mobile space, which has allowed me to work from home, return to my studio, and set a different intention for the year ahead, to keep creating, while also taking better care of the person doing the creating.

This portrait feels less like a likeness and more like a marker. Of creative endurance, yes, but also of choice. Of standing in the light, not to prove strength, but to sustain it.

Thank you, Meagan. The experience of this portrait alone was everything. They say in order to make real change in your life that you should tie that decision to change with a unforgettable experience, and this is it.

From now on, I choose her, from now, and I am her.

Belief Beyond the Clouds

As a child, I was filled with wonder and a love for the ordinary turned magical. My dad had a way of turning small moments into adventures — bike rides, washing cars, raking leaves, or reading the paper on the steps.

One sunny afternoon, he said, “Let’s fly a kite.” We launched it high, laughing, until a gust of wind snapped the string. Undeterred, he borrowed my mom’s nylon roll, and together we found a way to keep it flying.

The kite soared higher than we ever imagined, past the low-flying clouds until it disappeared completely. Yet I could still feel it — somewhere beyond sight, still connected.
That day, I learned the difference between belief and knowing.

Belief is when the kite vanishes beyond the clouds, and you hope it’s still there.

Knowing is when you feel its pull even when you can’t see it.
Here’s to all the dads who teach us to look up, to find a way, and to believe — even when the kite is out of view.

It’s been one of those weeks with little room to pause — but the moment I sit down, this little one curls up beside me. Taking a minute to decompress and make space for some much-needed painting this weekend.

Today I had the joy of participating in Career Day at my kids’ school. By the time the day rolled around, they’d totally forgotten I was coming — which made their surprise even better. Seeing their faces light up, along with all those curious kids who dream of being artists, completely overflowed my cup.

As a Gen X mom raising Alpha kids, I’m reminded how important it is to cultivate appreciation for art — not just the making of it, but the slowing down, the observing, the noticing. In a world that moves fast, art teaches us to pause, to feel, and to see.

Before I ever called myself an artist, I was a kid with scissors, scraps, and a wild imagination. This little figure—made from yarn, paper, and bits from my mother’s sewing room—was one of my first creations, and a portrait of my mom. I remember getting myself in trouble more than once for cutting into the ‘wrong’ fabric (even my bedsheets) in search of the perfect material. The impulse was the same then as it is now: searching for the right texture, the right pattern, the right feeling.

work in progress…

Catching a Break
The sky loosens its grip—
light slipping through
where the weight once gathered.
For a moment, everything holds still,
the hush between what was
and what might begin again.
Something rises there, unseen—
grace without announcement,
motion without noise—
reminding me that the world
keeps turning in small mercies.
Maybe the break itself
is the gift—
the quiet proof
that even in the heaviest sky,
there’s room for light to find a way.

St. George Plein Air Festival + Pre-Festival Workshop

Registration is open for a week of painting from life in Southern Utah’s red rock country, April 6–11, 2026. Warm-ups start with a small, focused class, “Painting the Desert Light” with Steve Stauffer, April 3–4, where you will dial in value, temperature, and an efficient outdoor workflow before the festival begins.

Ready to join us? Follow the link in bio.

• Sign up for the festival:

www.artprovides.org/pages/st-george-plein-air-festival

• Save your seat in the workshop:

www.artprovides.org/pages/st-george-plein-air-workshop-with-steve-staufer

Bring your pochade, your curiosity, and your love of light. We cannot wait to paint with you.