Let me tell you about the painting I thought was the one.
About a decade ago, I fell completely in love with a painting from a popular home décor store. Every time I went to the mall, I’d stop and stare at it, craning my neck because it hung high above eye level. It was large, dramatic, and there was one detail that hooked me: a feathery burst of color that reminded me of a dress worn by one of my favorite dancers in a pop jazz routine I was obsessed with at the time.
And then, one day, it was gone.
I felt like I’d missed my chance. I mourned that painting longer than I probably should have, then eventually convinced myself to move on.
Until I got an email.
The company was advertising an art sale, and there it was, front and center, as if it had been waiting for me. It felt meant to be. My painting had come back.
Except it hadn’t.
When it arrived, it came in a huge box. One of countless identical copies. I hung it on my wall and immediately felt something was off. Not wrong in a subtle way. Wrong in that uncanny valley sense, like something pretending to be what it wasn’t. It looked like the painting I loved, but it didn’t feel like it. It was flat. Empty. A replica wearing the skin of the original.
That’s when it hit me. I hadn’t actually fallen in love with the artwork itself. I’d fallen in love with what it reminded me of. The dancer. The movement. The memory. And because it had been displayed so high in the store, I couldn’t really see the difference between something that had presence and something that didn’t.
Since then, I’ve understood what I want from art.
I want texture. I want layers. I want evidence of decision-making and hesitation and intuition. I want to feel that a human being stood in front of that surface and wrestled with it. I want art that carries a story, not just an image.
That’s what I create, and that’s what I want for my collectors.
When you buy a piece from Jennifer Arlene Studio, you’re buying something that passed through my hands from beginning to end. I held the paper. I studied it until the composition revealed itself. I adjusted, reworked, trusted my instincts, and committed. I put a piece of myself into that work, then let it go.
I never know who the piece is meant for when I finish it. I trust that part to happen later. Somehow, the right person always finds it.
That’s the magic of original art.
It isn’t just that no one else will ever own the same piece. It’s that the artwork and the collector complete each other. The story isn’t finished until it finds its home.
If you’re ready to find the piece that’s been waiting for you, you can explore one-of-a-kind artwork here and start your collection today!