Brush and Memory: Rosemary Vasquez Tuthill and the Mural’s Visual Voice

When I first put brush to canvas for the 250th Anniversary Mural, I wasn’t just thinking about how to represent history – I was thinking about how to let it speak. I’ve always believed that the past doesn’t just sit quietly in textbooks. It hums. It rustles like paper, it echoes in old symbols, and sometimes, if you listen closely, it shouts. My job as the artist was to give those sounds a visual voice. From the beginning, I knew I didn’t want this mural to simply show events. I wanted it to feel like memory – layered, imperfect, moving. That’s why so much of my painting leans into texture. You’ll notice that not every handbill is fully legible, not every sign is cleanly rendered. Some posters are half-torn. Some words blur at the edges. That’s on purpose. History isn’t always clear. And neither is the art that carries it. One of my guiding ideas was this: the Revolution wasn’t neat, and the mural shouldn’t be either. Much of the art from that time – woodcuts, handbills, pamphlets – was raw, immediate, and urgent. I wanted to echo that. So I gave some parts of the mural a roughness. The edges of the pages curl. The ink looks like it’s still drying. There’s motion in the paper, as if someone just let go of it. Because in many ways, they did. When I painted the Freedom section, I found myself thinking not only about the people who fought – but about the artists and printers who shaped the public’s imagination. These were people working with limited tools – cheap paper, dull blades, whatever ink they could find. And yet, what they produced helped turn scattered protests into a shared vision. That’s powerful. I tried to honor that by making their work part of mine. If you see a flyer floating near a soldier’s foot or pinned to a tavern wall, that’s a nod to them. My process involves a lot of layering – glazes, washes, careful blending. I like to let parts of the underpainting show through. It gives the figures a sense of time, of having lived through something. I didn’t want the mural to feel frozen. I wanted it to breathe. There are silences, too. I intentionally left quiet spaces – an empty chair, a paused gesture, a gap in a line of marchers. These are the moments where I invite the viewer in. To reflect. To wonder. To imagine what came just before – or what might come after. Working on this mural has reminded me how much art can do. A simple fold in a pamphlet can carry an entire mood. A barely visible print can suggest risk, urgency, or hope. I wasn’t trying to tell every part of the story. I was trying to let the story tell itself, through brush and memory. Every time I step back from the mural, I’m reminded of the people who never saw their work as art – just as action. Printers. Carvers. Sign-painters. Women who sewed flags. Children who passed out handbills. They were all part of the visual revolution. In many ways, I’m just continuing their work. This mural is made of paint, yes – but also of ink, and paper, and shadows, and wind. And I hope, when people see it, they don’t just look. I hope they listen. Because the Revolution still has things to say. Meta Description: Artist Rosemary Vasquez Tuthill shares how she approached the 250th Anniversary Mural – using brush, texture, and memory to bring the American Revolution’s visual voice to life. Estimated Read Time: 6–7 minutes Author/Attribution: Rosemary Vasquez Tuthill Publication Date: May 15, 2025 When I first put brush to canvas for the 250th Anniversary Mural, I wasn’t just thinking about how to represent history – I was thinking about how to let it speak. I’ve always believed that the past doesn’t just sit quietly in textbooks. It hums. It rustles like paper, it echoes in old symbols, and sometimes, if you listen closely, it shouts. My job as the artist was to give those sounds a visual voice. From the beginning, I knew I didn’t want this mural to simply show events. I wanted it to feel like memory – layered, imperfect, moving. That’s why so much of my painting leans into texture. You’ll notice that not every handbill is fully legible, not every sign is cleanly rendered. Some posters are half-torn. Some words blur at the edges. That’s on purpose. History isn’t always clear. And neither is the art that carries it. One of my guiding ideas was this: the Revolution wasn’t neat, and the mural shouldn’t be either. Much of the art from that time – woodcuts, handbills, pamphlets – was raw, immediate, and urgent. I wanted to echo that. So I gave some parts of the mural a roughness. The edges of the pages curl. The ink looks like it’s still drying. There’s motion in the paper, as if someone just let go of it. Because in many ways, they did. When I painted the Freedom section, I found myself thinking not only about the people who fought – but about the artists and printers who shaped the public’s imagination. These were people working with limited tools – cheap paper, dull blades, whatever ink they could find. And yet, what they produced helped turn scattered protests into a shared vision. That’s powerful. I tried to honor that by making their work part of mine. If you see a flyer floating near a soldier’s foot or pinned to a tavern wall, that’s a nod to them. My process involves a lot of layering – glazes, washes, careful blending. I like to let parts of the underpainting show through. It gives the figures a sense of time, of having lived through something. I didn’t want the mural to feel frozen. I wanted it to breathe. There are silences, too. I intentionally left quiet spaces – an empty chair, a paused gesture, a gap in a line of marchers. These are the moments where I invite the viewer in. To reflect. To wonder. To imagine what came just before – or what might come after. Working on this mural has reminded me how much art can do. A simple fold in a pamphlet can carry an entire mood. A barely visible print can suggest risk, urgency, or hope. I wasn’t trying to tell every part of the story. I was trying to let the story tell itself, through brush and memory. Every time I step back from the mural, I’m reminded of the people who never saw their work as art – just as action. Printers. Carvers. Sign-painters. Women who sewed flags. Children who passed out handbills. They were all part of the visual revolution. In many ways, I’m just continuing their work. This mural is made of paint, yes – but also of ink, and paper, and shadows, and wind. And I hope, when people see it, they don’t just look. I hope they listen. Because the Revolution still has things to say.