Some projects begin with a blank canvas. This one began with a very large blank wall—and an idea.

When I was asked to create a custom mural for a new home in Bella Vista, Arkansas, the builder, Jackie Haefner of IMHOME LLC, knew she wanted the mural to connect to the area's mountain biking culture. The house at 48 Chatburn Drive sits along Tunnel Vision , one of Bella Vista's mountain biking trails, and she suggested incorporating a tunnel into the design.

That became the spark for everything that followed.

One of my favorite things about commissioned work is collaboration. I love when someone brings me an idea and gives me the freedom to interpret it—to take the seed of what they're imagining and transform it into something neither of us could have completely envisioned at the beginning.

For this project, the question became: What could Tunnel Vision look like as an entire visual experience?

Designing Something That Belongs Here

Bella Vista gave me plenty to work with. The area is surrounded by woods, rocky terrain, waterfalls and miles of mountain biking and walking trails. Rather than paint a literal landscape, I wanted to pull pieces of that environment apart and rebuild them into something more abstract and energetic.

The tunnel became the visual anchor, with a mountain bike climbing uphill toward it. From there, the design expanded across the wall through tree silhouettes, tire tracks, gears, splashes, lines and geometric terrain.

Some of those geometric forms were also influenced by visits to Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in nearby Bentonville. I'm always interested in how geometric shapes can interrupt more organic forms, and that contrast felt especially appropriate here—hard-edged shapes moving through trees, trails and natural terrain. The mural gradually became a combination of the place itself and different ways of seeing it.

Making It Personal to the Property

I wanted the mural to contain details that couldn't simply be picked up and reproduced in another location. Because the house sits on Tunnel Vision, I incorporated a trail map into the design along with the home's latitude and longitude. The words Tunnel Vision became part of the mural itself rather than simply its title.  Those details are subtle, but they're some of my favorites. They turn what could have been a general mountain biking mural into something connected to this particular house, this trail and this part of Bella Vista.

Starting With the Space

Murals are interesting because the wall isn't just a surface to paint on. It's part of the composition.

This mural occupies a large lower level wall, complete with doors, corners, lighting and architectural elements that couldn't simply be ignored. Before painting began, I worked through different ideas for how the design could move across the wall and interact with the space.  Rather than trying to disguise the scale of the wall, I wanted to use it—to create something that felt as though it continued beyond what you could see.  I planned many of the major elements before ever putting paint on the wall. But planning a mural and actually standing in front of one are two very different things.

When the Wall Starts Talking Back

This is probably my favorite part of making art. No matter how much I plan, at some point the work itself starts telling me what it needs. For Tunnel Vision, that happened most dramatically with the tunnel. 

The first version worked, but something about the opening felt too large. It didn't have enough depth. I wanted the tunnel to feel as though it actually continued back into the wall, pulling your eye toward a distant opening.

So I changed it. And then changed it again. I extended the interior rings, narrowed the opening and kept adjusting the perspective until the tunnel finally felt deep enough. The bright opening at the end became much smaller, which completely changed the sense of distance.

It was a good reminder that a basic design, sketches and measurements can get you started—but sometimes you still have to stand back, look at the whole thing and trust your eye.

Painting at Mural Scale

Working this large is physical.

There were ladders, virtual goggles, stencils, acrylic paint, spray paint, brushes, paint pens, Caran D'Ache crayons and plenty of trips backward across the space just to see whether something I'd changed actually worked from a distance. And unlike a canvas, I couldn't pick the mural up, rotate it or move it to another wall to see it differently.

Instead, I was constantly moving. Up the ladder. Down the ladder. Paint. Back up. Walk across the space. Stare at it. Decide something is three inches too wide. Climb back up. Repeat. It's a very different rhythm from working in the studio, but I discovered that my underlying process is remarkably similar.

I build in layers. I make marks. I cover some things and emphasize others. I respond to what is already there. And perhaps most importantly, I try to recognize the moment when adding more would stop helping.

Knowing When to Stop

Large work creates a particular temptation: there is always more wall. Another mark could go here. Another splash could go there. Another detail could fill that empty area.

But empty space has a job too.

As the mural neared completion, I became increasingly careful about what I added. I wanted it energetic and layered without becoming chaotic or overworked. Eventually I reached the point every painting has to reach, regardless of whether it's on a canvas or an entire wall:

It was done. Once the tape comes down, the ladders disappear and the room around it is finished, the mural becomes part of the architecture. That's one of the things I love about this kind of work. A painting lives on a wall. A mural gets to become part of the place itself.

And maybe that's also what I enjoy most about collaboration.

Someone brings me an idea—in this case, a house on a mountain biking trail called Tunnel Vision and the thought of a tunnel on a wall. I get to listen, experiment, interpret and build on that idea until it becomes something much bigger.

Tunnel Vision began as the builder's idea. The finished mural became our collaboration—and something that could only belong exactly where it does.