Place Portraits: Honoring the Spaces that Shape Us

Every July 4th, we’re invited to reflect on the idea of home—on belonging, freedom, and the spaces that hold our stories. But this year, that reflection feels heavier and more complicated—distant, abstract, and even painful. In a country facing so much division and violence, it can be hard to muster a sense of celebration, let alone allegiance. Amidst the dichotomy of national celebration and deep national violence and unrest, I’ve instead been thinking about what it means to honor the places that personally shape us—the homes, streets, and corners of the world that feel like memory itself.

This is what my offering of Place Portraits are about. They’re not just landscapes. They’re visual love letters to the places that made us—even if those places no longer exist or no longer feel the same. In painting them, we can remember, honor, and reclaim.

Patriotism vs. Personal Place

The idea of celebrating our nation feels layered. For many of us, it's a time of gratitude and grief, for what has shaped us, failed us, and what we still hope to change. For others, it’s a time of anger, skepticism, and helplessness at the actions our country is taking. There is no doubt of the relevance of the corruption at the national level—often frightening, disturbing, and infuriating—and I often remind myself that our truest selves often lie not with borders or policies, but with the places and people that made us who we are.

This week, my friends and I are accidentally on vacation during July 4th celebrations—the timing just worked out that way. While sitting on the front porch playing Spades and listening to the distant and sometimes not-so-distant sounds of fireworks, the comment was made, “I feel like we’re just here playing Spades during a zombie apocalypse.” The comment was made in reference to our immediate vicinity (a weird alarm going off in the distance, random one-off fireworks with no laughter or voices attached to them, no people around at all), but as I am reflecting on the comment, I can see the metaphorical parallels of where we are as a nation.

That’s why I’ve been thinking about the smaller places—the bedroom shared with siblings, the sprinkler on your grandmother’s front lawn that was a special gem on those hot summer days, or the backyard treehouse where many a childhood memory was made. These are the places that raised us, and they deserve their own kind of reverence.

Patriotism, for some, has come to mean unwavering loyalty to a system. But personal place is about love earned through lived experience. It’s the home that nurtured you when the world felt too big, the kitchen where you learned to cook the old family recipes, or the obstacles that helped you grow and find your voice. These places may not be perfect, and some may even hold pain, but they are yours, and there’s a truth in that that feels more honest than a fireworks show.

The Quiet Power of Memory

There’s something special about the places that live in our memories. They don’t ask for attention or make loud declarations, but they hold us in a way that few things can: a childhood bedroom, a backyard tree, or the orange shag carpet of your grandmother’s living room. These aren’t just locations—they’re chapters. They carry echoes of laughter, of grief, of who you were before you became who you are now. In a world that moves fast and often feels uncertain, there’s a quiet power in pausing to preserve these spaces.

That’s what I aim to do through Place Portraits: not just paint what a space looked like, but capture what it felt like. The warmth, the color, the energy—the invisible threads that make it yours. When you hang a painting of a beloved place in your home, you’re not just decorating. You’re remembering, and anchoring yourself to something real and deeply personal. You’re keeping a part of your history visible, and allowing it to continue to hold space in your life.

Memory can be fleeting, but art gives it form. A Place Portrait is a way to honor not just where you’ve been, but who you were when you were there, and who you’ve become because of it.

Healing Through Art

In a time of unrest, commissioning or creating a painting of a meaningful place can be grounding—a way to say, “This is a place where I belong,” especially if we don’t feel represented by national narratives. In creating Place Portraits, I’m not just painting buildings or scenery—I’m painting memory, safety, loss, becoming, happiness. A place doesn’t have to be patriotic to be powerful. It just has to be yours—people are the magic ingredient that make something powerful and special.

Place Portraits aren't about escapism, but rather about an act of reverence, remembrance, and even resistance—a way to reclaim beauty and belonging in a world that doesn't always feel safe or united. On July 4th, when many are asked to celebrate a collective national identity, I'm instead inviting readers to reflect on your personal histories of place that give you a sense of safety or magic.