The Courtyard Canvas: Reflections on Impermanence and Art

*Completed mural, photo credit Emily O’Neal

In May 2021, I picked up my brushes and painted my first mural in the courtyard of a historic downtown Vancouver building. It all started when a local business posted on social media, looking for someone to brighten their courtyard with a mural. Something inside me responded to that call.

Even though I’d never painted anything on such a large scale, a quiet voice within urged me forward. Every stroke was done by hand. No stencils, no projectors, just paint, brushes, and a vision to transform a blank wall into a garden of golden flowers dancing against rolling hills with Wy’east (Mt. Hood) in the background.

“Kindred” drawing by Emily O’Neal

The Act of Creating

There's something special about painting a mural. Unlike a canvas which can be moved, stored, or sold, a mural is married to its place. You're not just creating art, you're also having a conversation with the architecture, the light, the weather, and everyone who will pass by. Each brushstroke becomes part of the building's story, even if it’s only temporary.

The process taught me patience in ways I hadn't expected. Working large-scale, your whole body becomes part of the painting process. My arm learned the rhythm of petals, my shoulders understood the sweep of hillsides, and my sore back reminded me that art is sometimes physical labor disguised as creativity.

As I write this, I recall how special this time in my life was. Each morning I’d drive to downtown with my materials and work the whole day through, until my arms were too tired lift above my head. As I worked, I was visited by a dark eyed junco. She was a sweet little bird who was working as hard as I was on her own creation, a nest inside a hanging basket of flowers.

As the days went on, she would get that nest built, just as I would finish the mural. To my surprise, she became an unlikely companion, at times resting on my ladder as I stretched to reach the highest parts of my painting. It wasn’t too long before she laid tiny eggs, which eventually hatched. Our creations culminated around the same time, with the baby birds awakening to a new dawn as my mural was completed.

*Pictures of the old Schoefield building at 606 Main Street in Vancouver, WA, United States, along with images of the mural in progress and completed.

Beauty in Transience

Now, looking at pictures of the mural, which I titled Kindred, I'm struck by the profound beauty of impermanence. This building, with its history, its weathered walls, and my painted flowers, may soon be nothing but memory. Because restoration is too expensive, there are plans to demolish the old Schoefield building at 606 Main Street. In a city constantly growing and changing, old buildings make way for new development, and the art that adorns them becomes part of that cycle.

Creating something beautiful knowing it won't last forever is bittersweet. The mural served its purpose - it brought color to a forgotten courtyard, maybe made someone smile, transformed bricks into something more alive. These moments of beauty matter, even when - or perhaps especially because - they're temporary.

As I wrapped up my work on the mural, the dark eyed junco flew away. Her babies left the nest and so did she. While I cleaned up my brushes, paints, and ladder I thought of her, and our time together. We both worked hard on our own projects in tandem. Side by side we sacrificed our time to something that would never last. For me it was the mural and our kinship, for her it was a nest and babies that would eventually fly from it. But I know that both she, and I, wouldn’t have it any other way.

*Look closely to see the dark eyed junco’s next at the back of the hanging flower basket. Photo credit Emily O’Neal

What Remains

While the building may be torn down, what remains is more than just this photograph. There's the memory of creation itself, the satisfaction of stepping back and seeing flowers bloom where there was once just a blank wall. There's the proof that I could do it, that the vision in my head could become reality through patient application of paint and time.

There's also the knowledge that art can transform spaces, even briefly. The courtyard became a different place because of those painted flowers. People experienced it differently, saw it differently, felt something different when they entered that space.

The Lesson in Letting Go

Perhaps the most beautiful thing about creating temporary art is how it teaches us about attachment and letting go. We pour our hearts into something, watch it weather the seasons, and then release it to whatever comes next. This is the natural cycle of creation and change that governs everything from flowers to buildings to our own lives.

The flowers I painted will never wilt, but the wall they live on might crumble. The irony is perfect and profound. In trying to capture something permanent in paint, I created something more fragile than the living flowers that inspired it. And then there's Wy'east in the background, eternal and watching, a reminder that some things endure even as others fade.

And maybe that's exactly as it should be.

Every act of creation is an act of faith - faith that beauty matters, that the temporary can touch the eternal, and that sometimes the process of making something is more important than how long it lasts.