About Mary

Mary Vander Molen
June 23, 1941 - January 29, 2020

Mary was born on a farm just outside of McCook, Nebraska. In 1962, she moved to Colorado. She eventually fell in love, got married and had a child. 

Not wanting to be a stay-at-home wife & mother, Mary began taking workshops and dabbling in art when her daughter started school full-time. Little did she know that what started as a hobby to get her out of the house would become a very successful 40-year career. The change happened when she faced the hurdle of supporting herself and her young daughter on her own. Without any formal education, she would work a “regular” job during the day and then at night she would paint into the wee hours. On the weekends, she would showcase her works at mall sidewalk sales and art festivals throughout the Denver-metro area until she built a strong client base.

Mary was represented in galleries across the country, but her main gallery was Breckenridge Gallery in Colorado, where she was showcased in 34 consecutive annual one-woman shows. Her work was part of many private and corporate collections throughout the United States and globally.

She was a world traveler as reflected in the subject matter of her works. The images she captured really do exist. Since working with watercolor isn’t the easiest “en plein aire”, Mary chose to photograph (a medium she also mastered) her subject matter and paint back in her home studio - even combining some photos but always from her own work.

Her ability to capture the contrast between light and dark and intense and soft color is a technique she mastered to produce timeless works of landscape, still life and architectural detail. She evokes an emotional response in her viewer by centering her compositions on often fleeting details such as lace curtains, shadows cast through glass vases, and glints of sunlight on adobe walls.These are warm, appealing elements that people are drawn to, but often forget in their busy daily lives.

Mary’s favorite quote and personal matra:  “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!” -  Hunter S. Thompson, The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967