Dean C. Graf's Faves

A horizon of chalk—black sky heavy with silence, gold earth glowing with embered breath. Between them, a thin line of turquoise, the pause where one world ends and another begins. It is not sky, nor sea, nor sand alone. It is the threshold—a doorway, where silence teaches and light remembers. Stand here long enough, and you may hear it breathe.

Against the weight of a storm-dark sky, tender stems lean forward—some bending, some breaking, some still reaching. They hold their fire at the tips, waiting to bloom, waiting to burn, waiting to belong to light. Perhaps this is all of us: stretching through shadows, searching for the thin, golden line that divides earth from eternity.

Sometimes the quickest drawings hold the deepest truths. During an after-sermon discussion about understanding the love of God, I found myself listening with one ear and drawing with the other. Frank, seated across the room, made a natural model—relaxed posture, thoughtful presence, and a face full of character. With a pen in hand, I traced his form in a quick contour line, following the folds of his shirt, the tilt of his jaw, the stillness of his hands resting in his lap. Contour drawing asks us to see more than just the surface—it demands patience and presence, a slowing down until the line itself feels like prayer. Frank became more than a subject; he was a reminder that the love of God is often revealed in ordinary moments and everyday people.

Yoga Namaste - Acrylic and stippling on canvas.

Jellyfish in Acrylic, made this years ago after an art lesson.

Acrylic on Canvas, a gift I made many years ago.

Good day for a hike, acrylic on canvas.

This is no landscape you could ever stand in. No observational drawing, no safe horizon line. This chalk experiment is a dream unfolding in color: a golden field lit from within, a scarlet seam of fire at its edge, and a storm-heavy sky pressing down with ancient weight. It feels like a place between worlds—where the conscious and unconscious meet, where memory and imagination blur. Some might see a battlefield, others a meadow after rain, and still others a veil between life and death. That is the beauty: the painting does not tell you what it is; it invites you to confess what you see. Psychologists say we project ourselves onto images like these. So—what do you notice first? The light? The darkness? The burning red? Perhaps that is not about the drawing at all, but about you.

Two wicker chairs in the sun. One for the waiting, one for the hoped-for. The table between them holds its silence, its place set for bread or talk. I draw what is here— lines quick and unerasable— and what is not here, her presence, waits with me in the white of the page.

Imperfect Lines, Honest Presence This sketch is not perfect—and that’s exactly why it’s alive. The bold figure, the dissolving hat, the tilted chair: all of it feels unfinished, fleeting, caught in motion. It’s what the Japanese call wabi-sabi—finding beauty in the imperfect, the impermanent, the incomplete. But there’s something deeper here too. A quick sketch is not just what the eye records. It’s what the soul permits. To draw without fixing, without polishing, is to admit the world will not hold still for us. Life slips past. The lines break off. And yet, somehow, the essence remains. When you sketch this way, you are not the master of the moment—you are its guest. The pencil does not carve permanence; it pays attention. The act of drawing becomes an act of being present, of honoring what is already vanishing. So here’s a challenge: grab a pencil and sketch someone near you in sixty seconds. Do not erase. Do not perfect. Let the lines falter. When you finish, ask yourself: What truth did the imperfection reveal? Perhaps presence itself is the real art.

This portrait of Mr. Joshua Anderson—our resident Shakespeare whisperer—was drawn by student artist Covey Garrett as part of a school-wide tribute to our teachers. Students photographed, gridded, and drew 18x24” posters of their teachers, each paired with a favorite catchphrase. Mr. Anderson’s? A classic: “Hint, hint. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.” We think the Bard would approve. "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely teachers..." (okay, we may have paraphrased a bit).

Graphics on artificially aged paper Reverse side of non-woven wallpaper, ink, 50x70 cm, 2024

The tables were covered in white paper. Crayons, pastels, and smooth sticks waited quietly. Then came Lucy’s glittery purse—her 8-year-old hands had filled it with stones to pass along, one by one, to the strangers around the table. We traced them. Pushed them. Held them. Then we let the colors lead: -Red for emotion. -Yellow for curiosity. -Blue for memory. Each color came with music, with story, with space. At the Museum of Wisconsin Art, we made marks not for meaning but for presence. Thank you to Ann Marie and MOWA for the invitation and trust. And thank you to the participants—some new friends, some old students—for showing up and making lines that listened before they spoke.

Sometimes, a good goodbye is also a fresh hello. As we wrapped up our "Sacred Spaces" paintings, I asked our student teacher to design a one-day project—something playful, earthy, and engaging to ease the class into her care. She brought mud. Literally. Using mud and simple stencils, students pressed images—flowers, insects, wings—onto the sidewalk behind our school. There's something timeless about making marks with the ground itself. It felt ancient and immediate at the same time. These prints won’t last long, but maybe that’s the point. A fleeting image, a shared laugh, a new hand guiding the next phase of learning. Art is about making marks. Not all of them need to be permanent.

To draw is to notice. To notice is to pause. And sometimes, all it takes is a barefoot boy in a camping chair, chasing the drips of a popsicle, to remind us what it means to be here. This is Popsiclence—a sacred kind of focus. It’s where observational drawing leads us: out of the swirl, into the now. And in that now, we heal.

I'm only 14 btw

Forsythia is in full bloom, and the cherries, magnolia, and dogwoods are next. Spring is here!

While hiking, I saw a crow so I painted the crow's personality

Zaragoza, Gustave Doré

Chairs are more than wood or iron. They are metaphors, quiet keepers of what it means to be present. They wait, as Wendell Berry might say, for us to “make a place to sit down. Sit down. Be quiet.” I draw them because they embody the humblest love—affection, as Berry calls it, that “gives itself no airs.” In their stillness, chairs hold the weight of relationships, the churn of thought, the grace of silence. They are where we meet, where we linger, where we become. These three drawings are offerings—sketches of chairs that invite connection, reflection, and the slow work of being. Each is a small sacred place, as Berry reminds us, not desecrated by haste or distraction, but alive with possibility. Drawing 1: The Coffee Shop Chairs Two wooden chairs face each other across a small round table in a coffee shop, their grain worn smooth by years of elbows and whispered truths. The table is a circle, a shape that knows no hierarchy, only intimacy. These chairs are for relationships that dare to deepen—for friends who risk vulnerability, for lovers who speak in glances, for strangers who become less strange. They ask for eye contact, for mugs of coffee grown cold in the heat of conversation. Here, sentences begin, “I’ve always wanted to tell you…” or “What if we…” These chairs shun the clamor of screens, as Berry urges, and invite the “three-dimensioned life” of shared breath. They are the seats of courage, where presence weaves the delicate threads of togetherness. Drawing 2: The Sandwich Café Chairs In a sandwich café, two wooden chairs sit across a small square table, its edges sharp, its surface scarred by crumbs and time. These chairs are angled close, as if conspiring. They are for relationships of a different timbre—perhaps the quick catch-up of old friends, the tentative lunch of colleagues, or the parent and child navigating new distances. The square table speaks of structure, of boundaries, yet the chairs lean in, softening the angles. They wait for laughter that spills over plates, for silences that carry weight, for the small confessions that bind us. These are chairs for the work of relating, for the patience that “joins time to eternity,” as Berry writes. They ask us to stay, to listen, to let the ordinary become profound. Drawing 3: The Patio Chair A lone cast-iron chair rests on a patio, its arms open to the wild nearness of nature—grass creeping close, vines curling at its feet, the air heavy with dusk. This chair is not for dialogue but for solitude, for the slow processing of thought. It is the seat of the poet, the dreamer, the one who sits with what was said—or left unsaid. Here, ideas settle like sediment in a quiet stream; here, the heart sifts through joy or grief. As Berry advises, this chair accepts “what comes from silence,” offering a place to make sense of the world’s noise. Its iron roots it to the earth, unyielding yet tender, a throne for contemplation where one might “make a poem that does not disturb the silence from which it came.” This is the chair for becoming, for growing older, for meeting oneself. These three chairs—one for intimacy, one for the labor of connection, one for solitude—are a trinity of relation. They are not grand, but they are true. They hold space for the conversations that shape us, the silences that heal us, the thoughts that root us. They are, in Berry’s words, sacred places, made holy by the simple act of sitting down. My drawings are but traces of these places—postcards from moments where we might remember how to be with one another, or how to be alone. So, pull up a chair. Or three. Sit down. Be quiet. The world is waiting to soften.