For artist and designer Dane Howard, painting is less about creating images and more about preserving memory. Based in Tennessee and founder of Dane Howard Studio, Howard's work explores heritage, identity, and the emotional threads that connect people to place. His paintings—often featuring expansive skies, rolling fields, riders, and rural landscapes—capture the enduring spirit of America while inviting viewers into deeply personal narratives.
Before returning to painting full time, Howard spent more than two decades leading design and innovation for global brands including Microsoft, BMW, eBay, and Amazon. That experience sharpened his skills as a storyteller, helping shape the cinematic quality that now defines much of his artistic work.
His latest exhibition, TN COWBOY, reflects both a historical appreciation for Tennessee's cowboy heritage and a broader meditation on resilience, unity, and hope. Through atmospheric light, layered textures, and carefully crafted narratives, Howard continues to explore how art can connect us to one another—and to the landscapes that shape our lives.
On his artistic journey…
I've been painting for as long as I can remember. I actually painted with the California Impressionist Society before I had children, back in 1990. While I stepped away from painting as a daily practice for many years, I never stepped away from creativity. My career became one of design, technology, and innovation, where I spent decades building products and leading design teams.
In many ways, those years weren't a departure from art. Design taught me how to observe, tell stories, and find meaning in details.
When my family moved to Tennessee, something shifted. I found myself drawn back to painting in a way that felt undeniable. The landscape here has a spirit to it. The rolling hills, open pastures, and especially the skies captured my attention. They seemed to carry stories.
Light has become one of the central subjects in my work. I'm fascinated by how it breaks through clouds, transforms a landscape, and creates tension between darkness and hope. Some of the most beautiful skies appear before or after a storm.
I don't know that there was a single moment when art became a calling. It felt more like a return to something that had been patiently waiting for me all along.
On his approach to a new painting…
I rarely begin with a truly blank canvas because I'm constantly collecting inspiration, especially skies. Most of us carry a remarkable camera in our pocket every day, and I find myself stopping often to capture moments of light, weather, and cloud formations.
I've spent years painting the Tennessee sky because I'm fascinated by the relationship between what is temporary and what endures. A sky can change in minutes, while the land beneath it may remain largely unchanged for generations. The sky is ephemeral. The land is timeless. Together, they tell the story of a place.
Much of my work is rooted in preservation—not just of landscapes, but of memory, feeling, and heritage. I want viewers to recognize something familiar, even if they've never stood in that exact field.
As my work has evolved, storytelling has become increasingly important. In the TN Cowboy series and my broader American Heritage Collection, I think about the people who inhabited these landscapes—the riders, ranchers, and families who worked the land. I often imagine their perspectives and create written narratives that accompany the paintings.
That process brings me tremendous joy because the painting becomes more than a landscape. It becomes a window into a moment or a shared piece of history.
On the role of original artwork…
I believe one of the most important roles handcrafted artwork plays today is that it changes the tempo of how we experience something.
Most of the images we encounter are viewed through a screen for only a few seconds. Digital content is designed for speed. We scroll, swipe, consume, and move on. Art asks something different of us.
When you stand in front of an original painting, especially a large one, the experience slows down. You're no longer viewing an image; you're experiencing an object. You notice texture, color shifts, and the evidence of the artist's hand. The relationship changes depending on where you stand.
I also love seeing artwork in the context of how people live. A painting hanging in a home becomes part of a family's story. It catches different light throughout the day and reveals new details over time.
For me, the value of original art is connected to dwell time. It invites us to linger. It creates a moment of reflection in a world designed to keep us moving. In that sense, art offers something increasingly rare: permission to slow down and reconnect with beauty, memory, and emotion.
On finding a balance between meaningful work and business…
When I launched my studio in 2023, I gave myself a ten-year plan. I wanted enough time and space to discover the work I was truly meant to make. My goal was to find the intersection between the work I love creating and the collectors who genuinely connect with it.
Over the past few years, I've begun to find both. Certain themes and stories continue to pull me forward, and it's been encouraging to see those same things resonate with others.
One of the most important lessons I've learned is the value of saying no. Every yes carries a cost. The more intentional I am about what I decline, the more energy I have for the work that matters most.
I don't spend much time chasing trends or trying to predict what the market wants. Instead, I focus on creating work that feels meaningful and honest to me. My belief is that authenticity has a way of finding its audience over time.
I'm only in year three of what I hope will be a long journey, but if I can continue deepening the connection between the stories I want to tell and the people who connect with them, then the creative and business sides begin to work together rather than compete.
On connecting people and stories…
People often ask how long it took me to paint a particular piece. I usually answer, "Somewhere between ten hours and twenty-five years."
Every painting carries decades of observation, practice, mistakes, experimentation, and growth. As artists, we spend a lifetime learning how to see.
When someone encounters my work, I don't necessarily hope they understand my process. What I hope is that something in the piece connects with their own story.
The most meaningful conversations I have with collectors rarely begin with technique. They begin with a memory. Someone tells me about a ranch they visited as a child, a place they grew up, or a sunset that the painting reminds them of.
Those moments are incredibly rewarding because the artwork stops being about me and starts becoming about them.
If my work can create that kind of connection, then I feel I've succeeded.
On what’s missing from the current American art conversation…
One story I often return to is the introduction of blind auditions in major symphonies. Once musicians performed behind a screen, it became clear how many unconscious biases had been influencing selections.
I sometimes wonder what the equivalent conversation might be in the art world.
The most important biases are often the ones we don't immediately recognize. They can be shaped by institutions, markets, geography, education, or access. Whatever form they take, I believe they deserve continual examination.
What concerns me less is whether an artist fits into a particular category and more whether we are creating enough opportunities for remarkable work to be seen on its own merits.
If there is something I'd like to see more of in American art, it is openness, curiosity, and equal opportunity. Not equality of outcome, but equality of access to be seen, heard, and considered.
Great art can emerge from anywhere. Sometimes it comes from the most unexpected places and voices.
On lessons from life in the arts…
One thing I've been told throughout my career is that I tend to see things differently. Whether I'm painting, designing a product, or building a business, I often approach problems from unexpected angles.
At my core, I'm a storyteller.
That realization has become one of the most valuable lessons I've carried from the arts into every other area of life. A painting tells a story. A business tells a story. A brand tells a story. Even a product succeeds or fails based on how clearly it communicates its purpose.
Craftsmanship is the commitment to doing something well. Discipline is showing up consistently, even when inspiration is absent. Patience is understanding that meaningful work often takes longer than we'd like.
I think many entrepreneurs believe they're selling a product when they're actually inviting people into a story. The same is true for artists. People connect emotionally long before they connect intellectually.
If I could offer one piece of advice, it would be this: become the best storyteller you can be. Learn how to communicate your vision and connect your work to something larger than yourself.
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