Another Legend

Pat Green and his band performing be the premiere of Window to the West: Live from Billy Bob’s Texas

A week ago, I found myself standing in the middle of something special—my painting, right there front and center, behind country music legend Pat Green as he performed at the premiere of a short film about Billy Bob’s Texas.

I’m not sure anything prepares you for that moment—seeing your art take up space like that, quietly speaking while someone else sings. It felt humbling, a little surreal, and honestly, kind of emotional.

But what truly stopped me in my tracks was Pat himself. He sang his heart out, knowing full well that the very next morning he’d be attending the funeral of his brother, sister-in-law, and two nephews, all lost in the recent flooding in Central Texas. I can’t even imagine the weight of that grief. And yet, he showed up. He sang. He gave the room his voice.

And I couldn’t help but think—we artists, in whatever form we create, really do have a voice. Whether it’s a song, a painting, or a story, our work can speak when words might fail. It can comfort, connect, and remind people that beauty still exists even in hard moments.

That trip home for the event? Completely worth it. Not just for the honor of having my work included, but for the reminder that art matters. It shows up when we need it. Just like Pat did.

Lynn

Two Legends

“Two Legends,” ©Lynn Samis

I painted Two Legends a few months ago to include in my Open Studio this past May. If you’ve spent any time poking around my website or following me on social media, you’ve probably noticed I have a deep love for painting Native Americans and cowboys—especially when the reference photos are vintage, from the late 1800s and early 1900s. There’s just something about those faces, the stories behind them, and the quiet strength they carry. This particular image stopped me in my tracks. It shows Chief Sitting Bull and Buffalo Bill Cody together—posing side by side, even though history tells us they weren’t exactly best buddies. Buffalo Bill had quite the resume: he rode for the Pony Express, served in the Civil War, and later became a scout for the U.S. Army. Then, of course, he created his Wild West show, which toured all across the U.S. and Europe. (Seriously, can you imagine seeing that in person?! I would’ve loved it.) In 1885, Sitting Bull—legendary Lakota leader and warrior—actually joined the show for about four months. It was a strange pairing, and yet… it sparked something like a friendship. Or at least a mutual understanding. Either way, it’s real, and that alone is fascinating to me.

What I love most about this image—and what inspired me to paint it—is the reminder that connection can show up in the most unlikely places. That even across big divides, a thread of friendship can still form, if we let it. It makes me think of the friendships in my own life. I feel incredibly lucky to still be close to a few friends I’ve had since I was a little girl growing up in Edmond, Oklahoma. That kind of lasting connection feels like a treasure these days. But I’ve also seen how some friendships drift quietly out of the frame—people I thought would always be part of the picture, suddenly not there anymore. It’s bittersweet. But I think it’s part of the ride.

When I painted Two Legends, I wasn’t just trying to capture a historical moment—I wanted to honor that layered complexity. The tension. The respect. The quiet sense that even brief connections can leave an imprint.

Technically, it was a challenge. I worked to preserve the weathered look of the original photo, but also breathe new life into it through color and brushwork. I spent a lot of time with their faces—every crease and shadow felt like a conversation. Sitting Bull's gaze is steady, proud, unwavering. Buffalo Bill’s expression reads a bit more performative, but not without sincerity. It was important to me that both men be portrayed with dignity—aware of their legacies, and maybe, in some unspoken way, aware of each other.

People sometimes ask if it’s hard to “let go” of a painting once it’s finished, especially after spending so many hours with it. And the answer is yes—sometimes it really is. But Two Legends felt different. It felt like I was just borrowing that moment for a little while. Just long enough to sit with it, honor it, and pass it along.

If you saw Two Legends during my Open Studio this May, thank you for pausing with it. For standing in front of those two legendary figures and feeling, like I did, the strange and beautiful echo of connection—across time, across cultures, across everything.

Two Legends is still available, and you can view it on my website—or feel free to reach out to me directly if you’d like more information. I’d be happy to share more about the piece.

The Blank Canvas

God’s incredible canvas out my window!

We arrived in Santa Fe about ten days ago. The air feels different here—drier, thinner, expansive in a way that invites both deep breathing and deep thinking. It’s always a bit of a reset coming back. As usual, one of my first priorities was getting the studio set up.

The paints are out.
The palette is ready.
The easel stands tall, and the canvases lean against the wall, white and waiting.

And yet… nothing.

No spark. No vision. No clear direction for what comes next.

It’s not that I’m uninspired. If anything, Santa Fe is brimming with visual poetry. Outside my windows are soft golden hills, long shadows, the hush of desert light. This place is a living canvas. But as beautiful as it is, my heart doesn’t leap to capture it with paint. Not right now.

My mind keeps drifting—always—back to the figure. To faces, expressions, the soft weight of a shoulder turned slightly inward. I’m endlessly drawn to the silent stories that live inside a person’s gaze. That’s where I feel most at home as a painter.

But I’ve been wondering:
Can there be a story in a landscape, too?
Can a still-life hold emotion?

Of course they can. I believe that. I’ve seen that. But telling those stories in a way that still feels like me—that’s the part I’m turning over right now. The challenge isn’t just painting what I see; it’s painting what I feel, and somehow finding a way to translate that through light and texture and shape—whether I’m working with a human form or a pine tree bathed in late-afternoon glow.

I think this is the part of the creative process that often gets left out when we talk about “inspiration.” The quiet hovering before the first mark is made. The restlessness. The doubt. The push and pull between curiosity and uncertainty. The question of: what am I trying to say, and why now?

There’s no tidy answer yet. Just the gentle discipline of showing up. Looking. Listening. Trusting that something will come. That something always comes.

So for now, I sit with my blank canvas and ask it questions.
And I let it ask some of me in return.

Whether you're an artist, a collector, a dreamer, or someone figuring things out in your own quiet way—I'm glad you're here. If this resonates, I’d love to hear from you.

Let’s keep unfolding this together.

— Lynn