“Don’t go over there… she’s painting a nipple!”

December in Jefferson City means Christmas is closing in on all sides. Everywhere you go is either holly or jolly. Even the air carries a certain crispness that seems to sing, “Sweet silver bells.” It’s unusual for such an angry proclamation about nipples to punctuate the air and disturb the happy holiday glee overwhelming the senses this time of year. Unusual, but not completely unexpected. I was, after all, painting an eight-foot-tall canvas depicting a nude woman. And yes, front and center: one giant nipple. I swear it was a quiet nipple, though…lurking silently between the serene expression of the woman’s face and the gnarled roots which had sprung forth from where her lower legs once grew.

I was part of an event called “Living Windows,” organized by the Downtown Business Association. Downtown businesses would pair up with artists, who set up live demonstrations while shoppers wandered, sipping complimentary cocoa and admiring the displays. I had chosen to set up at the boxing club where my son trained. We had started going there in 2020, and though the place was a hole-in-the-wall establishment–dirty, stinky, run by a rough LA native with a drinking problem–it was real. He was trying to give troubled youth a place to belong, and I respected that. I often tried to pull him into community events, even though his club sat on the outskirts of the main strip.

That bitter shout cut across the club’s parking lot, sharper than any spotlight could, and it highlighted the great shame this angry onlooker had honed in on. The exclamation did not frighten me too much, though admittedly, I jolted when she yelled it. The drips of color I had been mindlessly applying moments before echoed my start of confusion. The once straight pathways of paint, leading the eye from the top to the bottom, now zigged and zagged, each one its own little jolt of surprise. Later, I would appreciate the honesty in those drips. Looking back, I can see how I was keeping the chaos outside the figure, circling around her instead of admitting it belonged inside. At the moment, however, I wasn’t considering the reasons behind my artistic expression; I was searching for the source of indignation that had found its way into my solitude.

I spotted her. And as I am prone to do, I took in all of the apparent details: the particular haircut, the particular gender, the particular disapproving expression, the particular demographic. I knew her name was Karen, and no amount of persuasion could make me think otherwise. She stood about fifty feet from me in the furthest corner of the parking area. 

Trying to refocus, I looked around my space, taking in the setting where this confrontation was unfolding. The little covered parking lot held four cars side by side before reaching the front of the building, with a couple more spots tucked into the back corner. On this night, though, the owner instructed everyone to park elsewhere, and the entire lot was mine. I arrived early and put up Christmas decorations to give the space a little festive pizzazz.

As I worked, I could hear the timer the boxing club used for rounds, always three beeps between sets. And when I say rounds, I don’t mean only in the ring; most of boxing involves cardio and other workouts. I could hear the rhythmic thump thump thump of gloves hitting the bags, the shouts from the coaches, the faint grunts of exertion, and the clicking of the jump ropes hitting the worn, padded floor mats. These workout rhythms found their way through the single door that led inside the club. On two other sides of the parking lot, the corner of the intersecting streets stretched, where the occasional car passed and the voices of people drifted as they traveled up and down the sidewalks. And of course, that left one more side of the square lot: the brick wall of the neighboring building from which my large canvas hung.

It was a still night…no breeze, no wind. I could smell asphalt, dirt, and the wet, grimy basement odor of the boxing club wafting through the open door, cut with pungent incense to mask it. The sharp tang of paint and artist’s chemicals filled my own space. Faintly, a couple of blocks away, I could hear what I assumed was a local school group playing brass instruments: “Silent Night,” “Jingle Bells,” all the familiar carols. We were on the very outskirts of the festivities, but close enough to feel their echo.

As my senses took in the familiar sounds and smells surrounding me, I contemplated why I was painting roots at all, and how that imagery had begun years earlier. When I first started depicting roots sprouting from people’s bodies, I knew I was timidly exploring myself. The very first image was a charcoal drawing of a woman in mid-scream, grabbing her face as roots emitted from her mouth. It looked painful. It was me, there was no doubt. I never denied it, though I never showed it to anyone. It stayed in the sketchbook. It’s faded now, but it’s still there. And while those charcoal marks may have worn with time, the depth of its meaning has only deepened and darkened.

Maybe the roots growing out of that woman’s mouth tore open some sort of door I was finally able to step through. It may have taken seven or eight years, and art wasn’t the final push. The push came from the outside: from the breakdowns and confrontations I could not control, not from the sketches in my books.  

Roots hold so much symbolism. They mean growth. They mean stability. They mean connection. They mean origin. They mean family. And it’s funny how sometimes family can be the greatest source of pain and trauma. I suppose I identify my roots as my childhood, my parents, my siblings, and those were all good. So maybe it’s the branches off those roots: my marriage later, which broke and took me with it. But sometimes, if you look at tree stumps cut down, you’ll see new growth. The tree hasn’t given up. That’s how I know the roots I depict are not my trauma. They are the stubborn foundation allowing hope to grow again and again.

Those personal reflections were tucked away inside me, but back in that parking lot, it wasn’t my private sketchbook; it was a towering canvas open to the public. Children had wandered up, curious, asking questions, their eyes wide. People paused to watch, complimenting me: “We love seeing real art.”

And then came the disruption.

Her child had been doing what so many others had done that evening: running toward me to watch, to ask questions, to join in the curiosity. To participate in the purpose of “Living Windows”: To connect artisans with the public and celebrate creativity, and support the local arts. But when I looked at her, she had him by the collar, yanking him back with a scowl of outrage. She wanted to stop him just as badly as the stop sign behind her wanted cars to stop at the intersection of Addams Street and Capitol Avenue.

Later that night, before the end of the event, I ran home briefly. When I returned, the lights were off, and my supplies were gone. Inside, my cart of inks and paints had tipped over, bottles shattered. The painting was carefully laid out on the floor, but the rest was in disarray. The owner was sitting there, inebriated, and told me: a group of “old (insert expletive here) ladies” from the Downtown Business Association demanded the “smut” be taken down.

I don’t know what exactly happened during that exchange, though,knowing his hot-headedness, I imagine it began as a civil request and ended more dramatically. It didn’t bother me, honestly. If they had descended upon me while I was there, I would have packed up calmly. It’s just one of those things that happens in the art world. I cleaned up my art supplies, rolled up the canvas, and began packing my vehicle. I attempted to wipe the ink from the concrete floor. He said, “Don’t worry about the stain.” I wasn’t. Stains on a grimy concrete floor aren’t bothersome…but $30 per broken bottle of high-end art ink bothers me a little bit more.

The frustration lingered, but by the next day, I had already decided how I wanted to respond. In my office, I wrote a post. I shared a photo of the painting on the wall, then one of it lying on the ground. I explained the situation, the history of the female form in art. I connected this experience to my attempted live model drawing workshops for those wishing to explore the human form, as well as the utter outrage at that, too. Even still, surprise crept in because my encounters with the public that evening had all been pleasant. And again, it was a very quiet nipple! I thought of “Karen” and I mentioned her briefly in the post. Sometimes you just know a thing without evidence, and I knew she had demanded to speak to the manager. I remember inviting her to attempt a civil dialogue should she ever encounter art that made her clutch her pearls again.

The response to that post overwhelmed me. People were outraged on my behalf. Messages, calls, and apologies from the Downtown Business Association. Supportive jokes, cards, even a button with a nipple photo and an accompanying card that read “Free the Nipple!” I still have that button.

Time moved on, but that night stayed with me, shaping the direction of my work in ways I didn’t fully realize until years later. Now it’s 2025. My art has shifted. Back then, the chaos lived outside the form. Now the chaos lives within, because I’ve stopped hiding behind the pain of others and begun facing my own.

I’m still tied to Jefferson City. Recently, in a meeting, while brainstorming a fundraising event for the Boys and Girls Club, a former Downtown Business Association leader joined our table. We laughed, we planned, and then he mentioned “Living Windows.” When I reminded him I was the artist they had removed, he stared. “That was you?” He apologized all over again, swore he had opposed it from the beginning. I told him the same thing I knew that night: it’s just one of those things.

Later that evening in my studio, as if to remind me that the story was not quite finished, I was moving supplies around and accidentally knocked some items off a shelf. I heard it: the nipple button bouncing once, then skittering underneath one of the many pieces of furniture I have jammed into the closet. I got down on my hands and knees and searched, but couldn’t find it. I stood up, dusted myself off, and smiled. Oh well. That nipple will show up eventually. They always do.