Palette & Play Art Studio

Imperfectly perfect. every single one

Created in a little corner studio in Kansas, where the imperfect marks are always welcome to stay.

Every piece here is a Wendy Jacobs original 16x20, acrylic on canvas. One of a kind.

There is no set price. Pay whatever you can, whatever feels right. I believe everyone deserves to have things in their life that bring them joy, art included.

Ancient Light

This light has been here longer than any of us.A massive sun rises behind a range of dark, gold-edged mountains, its warm amber and orange glow radiating outward in long dramatic strokes against a deep black sky. The peaks are layered and angular, catching just enough light at their edges to remind you they are still there, still standing, as they have always been. And at the base of it all, barely visible but absolutely present, a small waterfall finds its way through: quiet, persistent, unstoppable.The sun does not rise for an audience. It simply rises. As it has every single day, long before anyone was watching, and long after we are gone.Some things do not need our attention to be magnificent.

Another World's Forest

This forest did not grow here.A towering central tree commands the entire canvas, its dark branches reaching outward in every direction with the quiet authority of something very old and completely unbothered by the laws of this world. Electric teal foliage crowns its limbs while the forest below blazes in deep reds and crimsons, and the sky behind it shifts from gold to pink to blue in a gradient that no earthly sunset has ever quite managed. Birds drift through the upper atmosphere. A burst of white light pulses from somewhere in the middle distance.Everything about this place feels familiar and completely impossible at the same time.This is a forest from somewhere else entirely — another universe, another dimension, some beautiful parallel version of reality where the trees are teal and the sky does whatever it wants and nobody questions it.Honestly? It sounds like a better place.

Autumn Stream

The season does not ask permission. It simply arrives and suddenly everything is gold.A winding stream cuts quietly through the center of this landscape, threading its way between mossy boulders and beneath trees bursting with warm color. Golds, pinks, and creamy whites fill the canopy while the last light of the day settles over the hills in a soft, amber glow. Mountains wait in the distance, patient and purple against a twilight sky.There is nothing urgent here. The water moves at its own pace. The trees have already let go of what they no longer need. And the whole scene exhales in that particular way that autumn does full, generous, and completely unrushed.

Bend Into It

It does not stand rigid against the wind. It leans.A lone tree stretches and curves across a sky absolutely ablaze deep cobalt blue colliding with blazing oranges, golds, and pinks in a sunset that clearly did not come to be subtle. The tree's branches reach outward, upward, sideways, in every direction at once, silhouetted dark against all that fire. Below, the water catches the whole magnificent scene and holds it.The tree is not struggling. It is not breaking. It is simply bending into whatever the sky is doing gracefully, completely, without resistance.There is an art to that. To moving with the moment instead of against it. To letting the wind take you somewhere instead of planting your feet and fighting it.Bend into it. See where it takes you.

Big Moon Energy

It does not rise quietly. It arrives.A massive, luminous moon fills the canvas from treeline to sky textured and alive, glowing with the kind of light that makes you stop whatever you are doing and just look up. Deep blues and emerald greens swirl overhead, stars scattered everywhere, while below, the water catches the moon's reflection and holds it in long, trembling ribbons of pink and white.The trees stand in silhouette, still and patient. The sky does its magnificent thing. And the moon enormous, unhurried, completely itself simply is.This is a painting that fills a room. The kind you feel before you see it.

Campfire Night

There is a particular kind of quiet that only exists around a fire at night.Not silence, the fire crackles, the woods breathe, the sky above is doing something extraordinary. But everything slows down. The to-do list dissolves. The noise of the day burns off like kindling. And suddenly you are just here, present, warm, looking up.A small fire anchors the foreground, casting its glow across a vivid green meadow while the sky above swirls in deep blues, teals, and cosmic greens. Stars are scattered everywhere, like someone shook them loose on purpose. Silhouetted trees stand at the edges, patient and still.Under black light, this painting comes alive in a whole new way the colors deepen, the stars illuminate, and the night feels even more infinite.This is for anyone who has ever sat by a fire and felt, even just for a moment, completely at peace.

Cascading

The water does not hesitate at the edge. It simply goes.A brilliant turquoise waterfall tumbles over smooth gray boulders into a glowing pool below, cool and certain and completely unbothered by the sky burning above it. Because the sky is burning: deep reds, oranges, and golds consuming everything above the treeline while wildflowers and foliage dot the rocks in unexpected pops of teal and lavender below.Fire above. Water below. And between them, a kind of balance that shouldn't work and absolutely does.

Coastal Glow

The ocean does not wait for a good time to be beautiful.It just is, relentlessly, dramatically, without apology. A sky ablaze with pinks, oranges, and golds sweeps across the canvas, spilling its reflection across waves that crash and foam in deep blues and purples below. A dark mountain anchors the left. An old pier reaches from the right. And in the middle of all of it, the water holds the light like it was made for exactly this.This is the kind of sunset that stops a conversation mid-sentence. The kind that makes you put your phone down. The kind you don't photograph because you already know the photo won't do it justice.

Double Drift

Two hot air balloons drift lazily across a sky ablaze with golds, oranges, and deep purples unhurried, unscheduled, going exactly where the evening takes them. Below, a mountain lake catches the last warm light of the sunset in ribbons of pink and yellow, while teal pine trees frame the edges and mountains fade softly into the horizon.This painting is not perfect, and it knows it. One balloon leans just slightly. A tree on the left reaches out in its own sparse, unconventional way. And somehow, those are the details that make it feel the most alive a little tilted, a little wild, completely itself.Some of the best adventures look exactly like that.

High Country

The mountains don't ask you to be ready. They just wait.Rolling green treelines give way to layered ridges that fade into gray and shadow, while wide open sky stretches above it all unhurried, uncluttered, completely at ease with how much space it takes up. Clouds drift through without urgency. The peaks stand exactly as they always have.There is something settling about a landscape that has absolutely no interest in your timeline. No rush, no noise, no agenda. Just altitude, and air, and the quiet reminder that some things were here long before you arrived and will be here long after you leave.High country has a way of putting everything back in its proper place.

Little Footprints

The smallest ones leave a mark too.A tiny sandpiper picks its way along the shoreline, its little footprints trailing behind it in the wet sand... a quiet, perfect record of exactly where it has been. The ocean rolls in beside it, unhurried and vast, catching the last warm glow of a sunset that has painted the entire sky in coral, gold, and deep blue. Mountains fade into the horizon. The sun sits low over the water, round and rose-colored, almost ready to let go of the day.And through all of that... all that color, all that sky, all that ocean... it is the tiny bird and its tiny footprints that stop you completely.Because it is a good reminder. That you do not have to be the biggest thing in the frame to matter. You just have to show up, walk your path, and trust that the steps you leave behind mean something.They always do.

Neon Peaks

These mountains do not exist in any atlas. They never did. They live somewhere between imagination and memory... electric, alive, refusing to be ordinary.Bold brushstrokes layer every color at once across jagged peaks that rise out of darkness like they have something to say. A crescent moon hangs in the upper left, cool and unbothered, while a spectrum of neon light ignites the sky behind it. Nothing here is muted. Nothing here apologizes for how much color it contains.And then the lights go out... and the magic begins. Under black light, this painting transforms. The peaks glow. The night comes alive. What was already vibrant becomes something else entirely... something that reminds you that there is always more than what you can see in ordinary light.

No Muted Wings

It did not emerge quietly.Every color at once... electric green, blazing orange, hot pink, violet, cobalt blue... radiates outward from the center of this butterfly like it has been holding all of that in for a very long time and finally, finally decided to let it out. Stars scatter across the dark teal sky behind it, and the whole canvas pulses with something that feels less like a painting and more like a declaration.And then the lights go out. Under black light, the wings ignite all over again ... brighter, bolder, impossibly alive.This is for anyone who has ever been told to tone it down. To be less. To take up a little less space, shine a little less bright. This butterfly did not get that memo. And honestly? Neither should you.

Nothing Is As It Seems

The ground is not where you left it.A jagged island floats in the middle of everything untethered, unhurried, completely unbothered by the fact that it has no business being airborne. Its roots dangle beneath it like it simply decided one day to let go of the earth and hasn't looked back since. A bare tree stands at its edge, reaching upward toward a massive luminous moon that fills the sky behind it, while stars scatter across deep blue and teal above and warm rust and copper burn at the edges below.Nothing here follows the rules. The island floats. The roots hang free. The moon is impossibly close. And somehow, all of it makes perfect sense.Because two things can be true at the same time. You can be unrooted and still be grounded. You can be floating and still be exactly where you are supposed to be. You can let go of the earth beneath you and discover that you were never going to fall anyway.Nothing is as it seems. And that is very good news.

One Balloon

Somewhere above a field of wild red poppies, above the sweep of yellow and green and teal, above the clouds and just beneath the moon, there is one balloon.Not a fleet. Not a festival. Just one, drifting quietly across a sky that can barely contain all its color. Small, unhurried, going exactly where the wind decides.At the time this painting came to life, hot air balloons held a particular kind of magic. Something about the idea of rising above it all; slowly, peacefully, with no engine and no rush felt worth chasing. Worth painting. Worth holding onto.One balloon is enough. Sometimes one of anything is exactly enough.

Open To Recieve

This being is not waiting.They are moving deliberately, purposefully, open stepping forward into whatever the universe has prepared for them. Arms are not outstretched in desperation or surrender. They are open in readiness, in trust, in the quiet confidence of someone who knows that good things are already on their way.Inside this dark and luminous form lives an entire cosmos nebula clouds of blue and violet, a galaxy of white stars, and at the center, a tender magenta heart that holds it all together. This being was never empty. Always full of universe. And still they walk forward, ready to receive more.Aqua light gathers at the hands, the heart, and the crown (the three places we receive with) while copper energy moves alongside and gold pours down from the heavens above, meeting them mid-stride.The universe is not making them wait. It is walking right beside them.This painting was created primarily with bare fingers. The artist's fingerprints are woven throughout every layer, every star, every wisp of nebula. It was felt into existence from the inside out.This is for anyone who has ever decided to stop waiting and simply start walking.

Pink Planet

This is not a place you can find on any map.Layer upon layer of sharp gray mountains rise out of a landscape bathed entirely in hot pink, geometric, almost architectural, like they were built rather than formed. Above them, the sky tears open and the Milky Way pours straight down like the universe decided to pay a visit, spilling stars and cosmic light across everything it touches.It is dramatic. It is otherworldly. It is completely, unapologetically itself.And maybe that's the real invitation here. To exist the way this planet does, without apology, without dimming, without waiting for permission to take up exactly as much space as you were meant to. Hot pink and cosmic and completely unbothered by what anyone expected the landscape to look like.You are allowed to be that too.

Solo

She is not lost. She knows exactly where she is going.A single figure moves down a rain-soaked path beneath a canopy of autumn at its most vivid. Reds, oranges, and golds arching overhead while the wet road catches the warm golden light ahead. One small teal umbrella. One unhurried pace. One person, entirely at home in their own company.Solo does not mean lonely. It means present. It means choosing your own pace, your own path, your own quiet. It means finding that the rain is actually beautiful when you stop waiting for it to end.This is for anyone who has ever taken a walk alone and felt, somewhere in the middle of it, completely free.

Still Drifting

The balloons keep coming back. And honestly, why wouldn't they?A bold purple balloon drifts close in the foreground, basket swaying gently, while a smaller pink one floats further out over rolling green hills unhurried, unscheduled, following the river wherever it decides to go. Below, wildflowers in pink, yellow, and lavender crowd the banks in cheerful abundance, and the whole scene hums with the kind of easy, uncomplicated joy that is harder to find than it looks.There is something about a hot air balloon that refuses to be rushed. No engine, no deadline, no destination that couldn't wait a little longer. Just wind, and sky, and the quiet pleasure of being exactly where you are.Still drifting. Still free. Still the best way to travel.

Swing

Some paintings hold their secrets in plain sight.A sun-drenched tree stands golden and glowing against a sky that shifts, its branches stretching wide and full like it has claimed this spot and has no intention of leaving. Light pours through the canopy in every shade of gold and orange, and the whole scene radiates the kind of warmth that makes you want to sit down and stay awhile.But look closer. There, tucked beneath the branches, almost hidden in the glow... a swing. Small, quiet, easy to miss if you're not paying attention. Most people don't see it at first. And that's exactly the point.The best things are often the ones you have to look for. The ones that don't announce themselves. The ones that wait, patient and still, for someone to slow down long enough to notice.Still swinging. Still waiting. Still there for anyone willing to look.

The Palm Knows

It has been here for every single one.Every sunrise, every storm, every spectacular ending the sky has ever put on the palm has stood through all of it, unbothered, rooted, quietly witnessing. Tonight the sky is doing something extraordinary burning through every shade of orange and gold before softening into pink and blue above, while the ocean catches the last warm light along the shoreline below.The palm does not react. It simply stands, silhouetted and certain, in the middle of all that glory.There is something worth learning in that. In being so rooted that even the most breathtaking moments don't knock you sideways you just get to be present for them, fully, without being swept away.

The Path Through

There is always a path through.It may not be obvious at first. The trees crowd in, the branches reach, the light filters down in fragments rather than floods. But look closer there it is. A winding white path cutting through the gray, curving gently into the distance, lit from somewhere beyond what the eye can yet see.This painting lives entirely in blacks, whites, grays, and it needs nothing else. Because this was never really about color. It was about the path. About the quiet, persistent truth that no matter how dense the woods become, the way through has always been there, waiting to be noticed.You just have to keep walking.

The Sky Had Plans

Nobody told the sky to slow down. And it didn't.A full moon claims the upper left corner, cool and steady in its deep blue pocket of night, while the rest of the sky does something else entirely blazing through hot pink, magenta, violet, and gold like it had somewhere very important to be and absolutely no interest in being quiet about it. Clouds drift through the chaos unbothered. Mountains and trees stand in dark silhouette below, and the lake at their feet catches every last bit of it, reflecting the whole magnificent scene right back up at the sky that started it.Some evenings just arrive with an agenda. This is one of them.

The Way Forward

It is not complicated. There is a path. There is light. And the path leads straight to it.Tall, sparse trees stand their ground on either side, imperfect, a little angular, completely unbothered by what anyone expects a tree to look like. A massive glowing sun pulses at the center of it all, warm and certain, ringed in electric green and deep cobalt blue. The path moves forward without apology.This painting does not try to be anything other than what it is. And there is something really freeing about that, about showing up a little sparse, a little unpolished, and still pointing confidently toward the light.Perfectly imperfect. And pointing the way forward anyway.

Through The Branches

The moon does not chase attention. It simply rises and the trees make room.Warm autumn foliage in golds, oranges, and soft blush pinks spills across a deep midnight blue sky while gently curling branches reach and twist inward, naturally framing a luminous full moon at the center of it all. Stars are scattered quietly at the edges. A few small birds drift through the upper darkness, unhurried.This painting rewards stillness. The longer you look, the more it settles into something the branches reaching like arms, the moon steady and bright at the center, the whole scene feeling less like a landscape and more like an invitation.Come closer. The moon has been waiting.

Unbothered

He is not performing for anyone.A lion fills the canvas in thousands of layered brushstrokes: teal, green, yellow, coral, cobalt, burgundy. Each one deliberate, each one contributing to something that is so much more than the sum of its parts. One eye holds your gaze with the quiet, steady confidence of something that has never once questioned its place in the world. The dark background falls away completely. There is only him.He does not explain himself. He does not seek approval. He does not adjust his expression based on who is in the room.He is exactly what he is, completely, in every color at once and that is more than enough.And so are you. Every color you carry, every layer that makes you who you are all of it belongs. You are allowed to take up space with the same easy confidence this lion wears so naturally. Unbothered. Unhurried. Completely, beautifully yourself.

Watching

It sees everything.Swirling teal and cobalt surround a face that takes up the entire canvas bold, intense, completely unbothered by your presence. Fiery red eyes hold your gaze with the quiet confidence of something that has been paying attention long before you walked into the room. Layered brushstrokes of pink, yellow, white, and blue radiate outward like the owl itself is made of energy, of movement, of everything happening all at once.Look closely at the sky above there is a tiny hot air balloon drifting through the stars, small and unhurried, going exactly where it pleases. The owl sees it. The owl sees everything.There is comfort in that, if you think about it. In knowing that something ancient and wise has its eye on all of it the grand and the small, the obvious and the hidden.Nothing gets past the owl.

What Grows Here

Not everyone sees the beauty in flat land and open sky. But those who know, know.Silhouetted crops reach upward against a sunset that has absolutely no interest in being subtle sweeping strokes of coral, pink, violet, and gold tearing across a deep cobalt blue in every direction at once. The horizon burns warm and golden at the base, and the plants below stand their ground, dark and steady, unbothered by how magnificent everything around them has become.This painting was born from a deep love of Kansas of farmland and wide open spaces, of skies that remind you just how small you are and somehow make you feel more alive because of it. The crops may not be perfect. The sky more than makes up for it.There is so much beauty in what grows here. You just have to be willing to look.

What the Lake Kept

The sky is always moving. The lake is the one that remembers.A sunset that should have ended hours ago still burns across the water orange, gold, and rose rippling in long ribbons beneath a sky that has already moved on to deep blue and rising moon. Pink clouds drift overhead like afterthoughts. Silhouetted trees line the far shore, quiet witnesses to a moment the sky has already forgotten.But the lake kept it. Every last bit of warmth, every color, every final glowing second held right there at the surface, offered back to anyone willing to stop and look down.Some things are worth holding onto a little longer than necessary.

What the Woods Hold

The woods do not give everything away at once.Light filters through the canopy in fragments enough to see by, not enough to see everything. Texture moves across every surface, bark and branch and undergrowth layered so thickly it almost breathes. And still, somewhere deeper in, there is more. There is always more.This painting lives entirely in blacks, whites, and grays and it needs nothing else. Color would only be a distraction from what this forest is actually doing, which is holding its secrets close and inviting you to look harder, stay longer, go deeper.Some places reward patience. The woods are one of them.

Where Few Have Stood

Not everyone finds this place.A massive tree anchors the foreground, its bark etched and weathered, its roots sunk deep into ground that has held it for longer than anyone can remember. Beyond it, a river winds quietly through a valley flanked by lush green mountains that deepen into rich cobalt blue in the distance layered, vast, and completely indifferent to whether anyone is watching.This is the kind of place that requires something of you to reach it. Time, or effort, or a willingness to go further than the marked trail allows. Most people turn back before they get here. And those who don't, those who push past the comfortable and the familiar, are rewarded with exactly this.A view that belongs only to the ones who showed up for it.

Where It All Began

Every artist has a first painting. This is mine.The sky is on fire — deep oranges, burning pinks, and molten golds sweeping across the canvas while a cool electric blue holds the upper atmosphere in place. Silhouetted trees line the horizon as warm light catches the water below, and the whole scene glows like something that knows it matters.I didn't know, when I picked up the brush that night, that I was beginning something. I just thought it was pretty. I just thought I'd try. And somewhere between the first stroke and the last, something shifted — quietly, permanently — in the way I see the world and my place in it.This painting lives in my collection not because it is perfect, but because it is where everything started.

WhereThe Air Thins

Up here, everything gets quieter.Lush green treelines roll across the foreground in deep, textured waves before giving way to the mountain's lower slopes dark, dramatic, with a sweep of deep burgundy shadow cutting across the face like the mountain is keeping something to itself. Above it, gray peaks rise into a wide open sky scattered with billowing clouds, patient and enormous, going nowhere in particular.There is a particular kind of clarity that only exists at elevation. The noise falls away. The view demands your full attention. And somewhere between the treeline and the summit, something shifts in the air, and in you.Some places don't teach you with words. They just take your breath away and let that be the lesson.

Winter's Tree

It does not need an audience to shine.Deep in the cold blue of a winter night, a snow-laden tree stands completely illuminated white and glowing against the darkness, its warm copper light reflecting softly on the frozen ground below. Bare branches reach in from the edges, dusted and delicate. Stars are scattered across the midnight sky like they showed up just for this.Everything else is still. The tree is radiant anyway.There is something quietly powerful about that about showing up fully, glowing completely, even when the world around you has gone dark and cold and bare.

Worth The Climb

The world is gray. And then — it isn't.A bold, translucent rainbow cuts across an entire landscape rendered in silhouette and shadow, sweeping from the upper corner all the way to the valley floor like color itself decided to intervene. Mountains loom. Trees stand in quiet darkness. And the rainbow doesn't ask for permission it simply arrives, vivid and certain, changing everything it touches.Look closely at the rock face on the right. Two tiny climbers are making their way up small against the stone, moving through the gray, not yet knowing what's waiting just above them.They don't need to know. They just keep climbing. And that, it turns out, is exactly enough.

About Wendy

It started with a single brush stroke at a paint and sip class in 2022. Something clicked, and it hasn't stopped clicking since.
These days, Wendy paints from a little corner of her home she's claimed as her own — a studio where originals come to life from imagination, from photos friends have shared, from stories that stuck. She still loves the energy of a class at Pinot's Palette, where community and creativity fill the room in equal measure.
Her style has a name: imperfectly perfect. The unexpected marks, the unplanned details, the moments that didn't go quite as planned — they stay. Because she believes those imperfections are the whole point. The Universe has a way of showing up in the places we didn't plan for.
Every piece carries that truth.
Four years in. Just getting started.