Mom Was a Late Starter

There were always women painting in my family—my grandmother, great aunt, aunt, and cousin… and later, my mom. Brushes in jars, paint in tubes, unfinished wood and paper.


My mother watched for years. She was the jock; they were the artsy ones.


She was raising seven children, building a school, tending the cottage, and holding together a full life. Art was always nearby, but it wasn’t hers. Not yet.


She didn’t begin painting until her sixties.

There was no announcement—just a quiet turning toward something that had been there all along. And when she began, it was clear: she had a remarkable eye. Her work was thoughtful, patient, and entirely her own.



My sister and I used to say we would do the same thing someday.


That there was time. That it could wait.

Seeing It Done

By RobinAnn Bienemann • May 6, 2026
My friend Cindy has always been a builder—companies, houses, friendships. A strong entrepreneur. A marketing mind. Someone who knows how to bring things into the world and make them work. And alongside all of that—she paints. Watercolors, mostly. Quiet, detailed, and full of life. She creates individual Christmas and note cards, each one its own small piece of art. They hang on walls all over my house. They don’t feel like side projects. They feel essential. Watching her hold both things—the work of a full professional life and the work of her hands—shifted something for me. It made the idea of beginning feel possible. Not someday. Not eventually. But now. I don’t think she set out to be an example. But she was.  Sometimes it takes seeing someone else do it—clearly, fully, without apology—to realize you can step into it too.

My Coming To It

By RobinAnn Bienemann • May 6, 2026
For most of my life, I followed a different path—entrepreneur, mom, executive, stepmom, wife… But my mother’s story stayed with me. That sense that something could wait. That it might still be there later, when there was space to turn toward it. Now, I find myself making small houses. Birdhouses, really—but each one with a name, an address, and a story rooted in place and memory. No two are the same. Each one stands on its own. Sometimes I think: I’m following her model. It’s not too late. It’s that same quiet turning.  Not starting over—but coming to something that was there all along.