Melinda Sheehan Art

Melinda Sheehan Art Canadian Painter

Atlantic Ocean Shore30” x 24”Oil on canvasWhen I graduated high school, my neighbour Donna Gorham gave me a copy of Gift...
04/09/2026

Atlantic Ocean Shore
30” x 24”
Oil on canvas
When I graduated high school, my neighbour Donna Gorham gave me a copy of Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. I never read it at the time, but I kept it, quietly believing it would find me again when I needed it. Yesterday, I realized that time has come.
The ocean is bigger than any one story. It restores, it steadies, it holds us.
Now, with both my girls living in different provinces, I find myself returning to the shore in a quieter way. I will find another copy of Gift from the Sea. I will take the dog down to Bayshore, Little Lepreau or New River when the weather warms.
For now, that will be enough.

Forget-me-nots 24” x 24” Oil on CanvasThis painting is not really about forget-me-nots or birch trees. I can still see h...
04/06/2026

Forget-me-nots
24” x 24” Oil on Canvas

This painting is not really about forget-me-nots or birch trees. I can still see her the way I always have, slipping on her clogs, cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other, heading out to the garden as if she were only going to take a quick look. But my mother never really did anything halfway. She would get out there and before long she would be kneeling in the soil, her bare hands right in the earth, pulling out the forget-me-nots that had gone a bit wild between the flagstones, as if they had decided they were in charge.
And maybe, of course, they were.
Those little blue flowers were never just flowers to her. They were memory. They were the people she had lost. They were love and grief and all the things we do not always know how to say out loud. She wrote poems about them, though the poems were really about her people. That is how she was. She would take something as simple as a flower and somehow turn it into a way of remembering someone she could not bear to forget.
I remember her sitting at the kitchen table, stretching watercolour paper onto a board, painting birch trees with that careful hand of hers. She loved those trees. I think she loved the way they stood there quietly, without asking for much, just doing what birch trees do.
And now Mom lives at Rocmaura, where she still loves flowers, and she especially loves visitors. That part has never changed. She still lights up when someone comes by. She still wants to talk about what is blooming, who is growing well, and what needs watering. Some things, thankfully, remain exactly like themselves.
I remember our graduation day too, when she stood us in the garden while my father took the photographs. The old family home is still there, though different people live in it now, and a gate keeps the garden hidden from view. I wonder about that garden sometimes. I wonder if the flowers still come back the way they used to. I wonder if anyone notices them. I wonder if anyone loves that place with anything close to the devotion my mother gave it.
I do not think they could.

Eagle Lake Oil on Canvas 16” x 20” I met Susan when we were two, and like Anne and Diana, we never quite stopped being g...
03/18/2026

Eagle Lake
Oil on Canvas 16” x 20”
I met Susan when we were two, and like Anne and Diana, we never quite stopped being girls together, even now, with quiet houses and calendars that finally belong to us. We met in Toronto, then took the train, then a car, all the way to her cottage on Eagle Lake, where the road bends under a canopy of trees and opens onto water that feels both wide and familiar.
In the painting, the lake holds the sky the way memory holds a moment. The sun leans low and generous, spilling gold across the water, while the trees gather close at the edges as if they are listening in. There are streaks of lavender and rose in the clouds, the kind of colours that do not ask permission, just arrive and stay a while. Near the shore, a small stand of reeds rises out of the water, slender and steady, catching the light as though they have been waiting all day for this one quiet hour.
We talk about the old days when we ran wild through the woods, searching for our apple tree, gathering p***y willows in the spring, keeping one eye out for the motorcycle gang, just in case. There were blueberries and backyard games and long afternoons spent on our backs, watching clouds drift into shapes we were sure we recognized.
Time feels different now. Shorter, somehow, and more precious. But here, in this light, with the water reflecting everything back to us, it feels like nothing has really gone anywhere at all.

“Annie on the Ferry”Oil on canvasThere’s a quiet wealth to living in Atlantic Canada.I once lived in Toronto—film sets, ...
02/19/2026

“Annie on the Ferry”
Oil on canvas
There’s a quiet wealth to living in Atlantic Canada.
I once lived in Toronto—film sets, streetcars, friendships that still hold. I loved the energy. But something always pulled me east, back to the salt air and the slow rhythm of the Digby Ferry cutting through the Bay.
Maybe it’s the blanket pulled tight against the wind, the hush of water, the feeling of coming home to New Brunswick.
My children have flown the nest, as they do. But they travel with me. Sometimes in the tilt of a stranger’s head, in a girl leaning into the wind, I see my Annie and other times my Molly. And I am reminded how love is a blanket—we wrap it tight around the ones we cherish, even when they are miles away.
There is something magical about a ferry crossing. The way the water carries you forward while your heart drifts home.

New River Beach Oil on canvas, 24” x 24”The water really is as cold as it looks. Most days it bites your skin and makes...
12/13/2025

New River Beach
Oil on canvas, 24” x 24”
The water really is as cold as it looks. Most days it bites your skin and makes you catch your breath. But there was one day, years ago, when I went down the big steps with my family, turned left, and walked along the sand. When I stepped in, the water was different. It was still the ocean, but kinder somehow, almost warm, like the river in July.
Every other time it has been cold, the kind of cold that wakes you up and reminds you to be here, now. That’s what I love about this place. If you ever need to feel grounded, go to the ocean. Listen to the waves. Let the wind tangle your hair. Bring your people. Bring your dog.
New River Beach is a hidden gem around a half hour past Saint John. So much open space, so much quiet. When I painted this piece, I kept thinking how the waves move like the hands of a clock, marking the moments we get to keep before they slip away.

Lupins on Bayshore. 24” x 38” There’s a path on the west side that follows the ocean, where the waves keep you company t...
10/14/2025

Lupins on Bayshore. 24” x 38”
There’s a path on the west side that follows the ocean, where the waves keep you company the whole way. In summer, lupins line both sides—lavender, white, pink, and deep purple—standing tall against the wind. The sky shifts constantly, from soft blue-purple to moody grey, and the air smells of salt and wildflowers. It’s one of those walks that reminds you how lucky we are to live here.
It’s a strange and beautiful thing in Saint John with industrial bones and working hands, wrapped in ribbons of water. Rivers, lakes, the Bay itself—all of it stitched together like one long exhale. Every year the roads get a little more complicated, the buildings a little shinier, but it’s the hidden places that keep me here.
They say walking is good for you. Walking and talking with a friend is even better when the lupins are in bloom. They are steady, generous, and quietly beautiful.

“Yellow Rain Boots” Oil on canvas, 24” x 36”There is a kind of magic to a pair of yellow rain boots, especially when yo...
09/21/2025

“Yellow Rain Boots” Oil on canvas, 24” x 36”
There is a kind of magic to a pair of yellow rain boots, especially when you are small. Instead of dreaming of sinking into the couch you yearn to pull on those boots and head outside. You climb trees, chase frogs, set rabbit traps that never catch a rabbit, and build crooked dams that send the stream in new directions. You build mud castles and keep watch for garden snakes.
You stay out so long you miss lunch and nobody minds. Back then we did not even know the phrase “helicopter parent.”
I felt that wonder again when my own two red-haired girls splashed through their childhoods. I tried to give them the same loose rein my parents gave me. Watching them haul home a bucket of toads, squeal when the mud grabbed at their ankles, and claim a patch of woods as their own, I savoured every minute.
That is the gift of living in the Maritimes. There are places here that feel like they belong only to you. A rock beside a river where you can sit in the fall dusk and tell bedtime stories while the water slides by.
Those yellow boots hold it all, the freedom and the wild joy of a childhood you hope never quite washes away.

This painting will be part of my show at the Saint John Arts Centre in January 2027.

Thank you very much much and for the new headshots! Kelly, you made this seem easy and really fun. Here are some of my...
07/29/2025

Thank you very much much and for the new headshots! Kelly, you made this seem easy and really fun. Here are some of my favourites! Thanks for working your magic!

Colourful Ocean18” x 18”Oil on Canvas When I was five or six, Mom and Dad rented an A-frame cottage in St. Andrews for a...
07/19/2025

Colourful Ocean
18” x 18”
Oil on Canvas
When I was five or six, Mom and Dad rented an A-frame cottage in St. Andrews for a couple of weeks. It was one of those summers that sticks with you, not because of any big thing that happened, but because of the small things that did. In the evenings we’d walk along the shore. The tide would be out and the seaweed would squish between our toes and we’d collect shells. Beautiful ones. Just like the kind Mom and Dad used to bring home from Florida.
It took us years to figure it out. That Mom was planting them. That she’d smuggle a handful from her stash in the cottage and drop them along the beach when we weren’t looking. So we’d squeal with delight when we “discovered” them.
That’s Mom. She could upstage the ocean. She brings love, and then she sneaks in a little magic too.
Now, when I’m worn out or sad or just not quite myself, I go to the ocean. There’s something about it. The sound of it. The rhythm. It fills you up when you feel empty.
And every New Year’s Day, we go to Bayshore for the polar dip. It’s become a thing. Still half asleep, to stomp around the mud flats with our dear friends.
Six years ago I remember those early mornings when we had just brought home our first puppy, Georgia. She was a little fluffy bundle who kept us on our toes and off our sleep. And I’d sneak out early with her, hoping the ocean would wear her out a bit. She was scared of the waves at first. They came in fast and loud. But now, six years later, she’s the first one in. Splashing into the freezing water with more enthusiasm than the rest of us put together.
The ocean keeps showing up even when you feel like you can’t.

Girls Running in White Dresses Oil on Canvas 36” x 24” The thing about play is, it matters. No matter where you are in l...
07/07/2025

Girls Running in White Dresses
Oil on Canvas
36” x 24”
The thing about play is, it matters. No matter where you are in life or what’s going on in the world, play finds a way to remind us we’re alive. You just have to go looking for it. Sometimes it’s hiding, sure, but it’s there. Tucked in the corners of a busy day. Sitting quietly between the to-do lists and the dishes in the sink.
When you’ve got kids, it shows up more often. Comes bounding into the room in muddy boots or with peanut butter on its face. There’s all those little moments. Running around the yard until someone wipes out and everyone laughs. Charging into the ocean without thinking how cold it is. Making blanket forts that collapse five minutes later. Dressing Pablo Picatso, the cat, like a baby, even though the cat’s got other plans.
And sometimes it’s not loud at all. Sometimes it’s just twirling in the kitchen while the music plays, like your body knows something your brain forgot. That life is supposed to have rhythm. That it’s okay to spin.
Even in painting, that’s true. Maybe especially in painting. You need room for emotion there too. You need to let go a bit. Let your brush laugh. Play puts breath into the canvas. Without it, the colours can sit there flat like they’re waiting for permission to live.
Play is the spark. The secret ingredient. The thing that keeps the whole show from turning into a list of chores. It’s what keeps the world gentle, even when it’s upside down.

Oil on canvas, 24″ × 36″Birch TreesMom never set out to be a gardener. Then one spring afternoon Gardener Peter handed h...
06/21/2025

Oil on canvas, 24″ × 36″
Birch Trees
Mom never set out to be a gardener. Then one spring afternoon Gardener Peter handed her a single trowel and said, “Give ’er a whirl.” By suppertime she’d charted a section of the backyard.
Within a week she transformed the far-left corner, under eight clump birches, she curved a flagstone path through a sea of forget-me-nots. A birdbath waited for chickadees; just beyond it a bonsai juniper and a corkscrew hazel that leaned in to eavesdrop on her humming while she weeded.
Evenings we’d wander out the patio doors,
kids, cousins, neighbours drawn by the smell of cedar mulch and stories and watch her “moon garden” glow. She’d learned white is the last colour to fade at sunset, so the blooms held the light while the rest of the world called it a night.
The house still stands on Park Lawn Court, but I haven’t had the heart to peek at the beds. Gardens need hands, and hers were the ones that kept time with the robins and the laundry. So I painted different birch trees, their pale bark carrying every whispered bedtime secret, and dressed their feet in forget-me-nots and Shasta daisies because she never let us forget the magic we were standing in.
This painting is inspired by mom, to winding paths, and to the quiet places that still hum with her sweet voice.

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Saint John, NB

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