Cecelia Comito Art

05/14/2026

I am thrilled to be part of this exhibit at Pearson Lakes Art Center. The link to bid on all of the paintings is below. This is a great opportunity to start your art collection.

05/14/2026

My newsletter subscribers are getting something this morning that nobody else will see for 48 hours.

If you are already on the list — check your inbox.

If you are not on the list yet — link in bio. There is still time.

05/13/2026

Some mornings the only thing that needs to happen is this.

Fifteen miles, one beaver, approximately forty geese, and the particular sound of an Iowa spring morning that I cannot paint but keep trying to.

If you want more of this kind of thing in your inbox — the paintings, the trails, the mornings worth getting up for — 278 people get my weekly letter every Thursday.
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05/12/2026

My mother did not sew. We had the machine anyway. Decades later, sewing patterns started showing up in my paintings — and somehow that felt exactly right. New blog post up today.

I know this because when my Girl Scout leader told us to have our mothers help us finish our aprons at home, I told her mine couldn't. She looked at me with complete confidence and said: "Of course she sews. You've just never seen her sew."

05/11/2026

You can also follow on Instagram to see more.

05/11/2026

I took my first bike ride of the year yesterday. Fifteen miles on the Sauk Rail Trail in Lake View, Iowa. Perfect spring morning — no wind, baby geese trailing their mothers along the water, a beaver making his way across the lake like he owned the place.

Right before we turned back, the wind picked up. The clouds rolled in. And we rode the whole way home fighting a headwind in the cold.

Here is the thing. I did not regret a single mile of it.

The beautiful morning was worth the hard ride home. It almost always is.

I have been thinking lately about how many mornings like that are out there waiting — within thirty minutes of where most of us live — and how easy it is to stay inside instead.

I make art about this. About the beauty that is already close. About giving yourself permission to go find it even when the forecast looks uncertain.

My weekly letter is about the same thing — every Thursday, your inbox, 278 people who are practicing the art of slowing down and noticing. Link in bio if you want in.

What is your version of a fifteen mile bike ride? The thing you keep almost doing?

05/08/2026

This is what a zinnia field looks like when it becomes a painting.

Butterfly Ballet started in a field at Deal's Orchard in Jefferson, Iowa last September. I stood there long enough to let the color sink all the way in — the orange, the magenta, the particular gold of an Iowa afternoon — and then I came home and painted this.

If you missed Wednesday's post you can still see the field that started it all. Link in bio.

And if you want to be first to know when paintings like this one are available — before they go public — my weekly letter is where that happens. 276 people. Every Thursday. Here's the link: https://www.ceceliacomitoart.com/page/49656/email-newsletter

Happy Friday. Go find something beautiful this weekend.

05/07/2026

I spent thirty years practicing law at full speed and called it living. Then I came home to Carroll, Iowa, walked into a studio, and learned the difference between being busy and being alive.

The world will tell you that rest is a reward for finishing everything on your list. Your list will never be finished.

My weekly letter goes out every Thursday to 276 people who are figuring out the same thing — one quiet morning at a time. Link in comments if you want in.

What is one thing you could do slower today — on purpose?

05/06/2026

Last September I finally did something I had been putting off for years.

Deal's Orchard in Jefferson, Iowa — less than thirty minutes from my front door — has a zinnia and sunflower field that I had wanted to visit forever. And every September it would come and go and I would think: next year.

Last fall I stopped doing that. I called a friend, we drove over, and we spent a morning walking among zinnias and sunflowers so spectacular I could not stop filming.

This is twenty seconds of that day.

Here is what I keep thinking about: why do we put off doing the things that are practically in our own backyard? The orchard down the road. The walk we keep meaning to take. The friend we keep meaning to call. The museum an hour away we have never visited. The studio we drive past every day without stopping.

It is not distance that stops us. It is the quiet assumption that there is more time than there is.

This field became a painting — Butterfly Ballet. But it also became a reminder that the beautiful things are often already close. We just have to stop driving past them.

What is something in your own backyard you have been meaning to do?

05/05/2026

I want to show you something.

These are replies I have received from people on my newsletter list. Real emails. Real people. Not comments on a post — actual replies sent directly to my inbox.

Emily identifying with her mother. Rachel buying bird feeders at 69 and laughing about it. Maggie and her mom debating whether Verdant Glow shows morning or evening light. Ann giving herself permission to say no. Lee writing to say warmth and clarity sums up my writing — which I will be thinking about for a long time.

I started this newsletter in July 2025 because I wanted to write letters, not broadcasts. I wanted to talk to people, not at them.

Turns out when you write like a person, people write back like people.

If you have been thinking about joining — this is what it looks like on the inside. 276 active subscribers, open rates above 50%, and replies like these in my inbox every Thursday.

Link below. I would love to have you.

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