The Art House is an art form. Not metaphorically. Literally. It’s a hand-crafted artifact, an artistic vision precisely executed by an artist, a nesting ground for inspired ideas that became a body of work itself.

I didn't just showcase other artist’s work here. I created some of my best work here.

Here, I completed my Advanced Spiritual Psychology certificate from the University of Santa Monica. I gave birth to Heartivism. I developed multimillion dollar ad campaigns. I launched The Art Bus, The Art Guide, and Cult of Happy on the Square – just 1,200 steps from the front door. Hundreds, if not thousands, of ideas were received in this house. Not generated. Received. There is a difference, and this house understood it. This was my happy place before Cult of Happy had a name.

The quiet here is a peace I had been craving without knowing its exact shape. Deep, structural, reliable. The kind you can think inside of, the kind that lets ideas arrive rather than forcing them out. I am a nester by nature, and this house let me build the most functional, beautiful nest I've ever known. A warm place to dream and make and meet and share, with a different room for every mood and a different vibe waiting through every door.

Before anyone let me in, I peered through the big windows. (Not the smartest thing to do in Texas.) The house was empty, abandoned. My brain didn't say house. It said canvas. It said connection. It said yes. 

Inside, the house told a different story. Worn out. Tired wallpaper. Carpet that had given up. Every surface begging for rescue. But the U-shaped bones whispered home, studio, rental income, community events, and something I didn't quite have a word for yet. I went home and sketched out my vision for every room. I still have that piece of paper. And, today, that vision is nearly 100% realized.

It was my first major remodel. Sixteen months. Every wall stripped, every ceiling scraped, fresh museum white paint, new floors and lighting throughout, four bathrooms gutted to the studs and rebuilt from scratch, kitchenettes built into the Airbnb units, a screened porch, native landscaping, and more trips to the tile shop than I will ever confess to making. I picked every single material myself, room by room, obsessing over every detail, making it up as I went along. It wasn't without its challenges. From living in a toxic paint-fumed tent to learning on the fly what it means to be your own contractor and designer. A local contractor ghosted me after the bathrooms were already gutted and communicated that we were three times over budget. A tile guy made me return four bathrooms worth of high-end material claiming it wasn't up to his standards, then walked off the site after I made a suggestion.

Through it all, I kept painting (This is not true. I focused on the home, mostly focusing the house as my art project) — on furniture, on canvas, anywhere there was a surface willing. Artists painted murals on the walls. And somewhere in the process, the entity that had been living in the closet got the message and moved on. The house became a collaboration before it ever hosted one. I wasn't renovating a building, I was making a piece of art you could walk inside and call home.

The Art House didn't earn its name because I hung some art. It earned it because for years this place was a living, breathing gallery. Opening nights, closing weekends, food and drinks and the pool, artists from across Texas bringing their work to a home that was ready to receive it. I tried to buy a piece from every artist I showed.

The first show was called The Flower Show, and the turnout was everything. Albert Gonzalez came up from San Antonio and gave an artist talk that nearly made me cry, then painted the mural on the garage door that still brightens people's day. Matt Schoen showed augmented reality paintings that came to life when you held your phone up to the canvas. A real magic trick. Matt died from cancer weeks after. One of his pieces hangs over my bed, a daily reminder of the show and of what a genuinely special person he was.

There were themed group shows. MEAT, timed to BBQ Fest, because of course — and All In The Family, which paired parent artists with their children and let the kids be treated like full collaborators, which they were. Watching a child stand next to their parent's work and understand for the first time what their parent actually does. That was something. And then there was SILOED: eleven artists, five abandoned grain silos, a place called Tank Town, nearly three thousand people from all over, and one of my favorite curatorial projects and personal art pieces of my life. The kind of thing that only happens when a city is ready and the people around you are willing to be unreasonable in the best possible way.

The Art House has been on three official artist studio tours. It has its own merchandise because I can't help but build a brand when I see one. It inspired other home galleries and maker spaces around Texas, and while they'd never say so, it's worth noting that The Art House preceded an Art Loft, and The Art Guide preceded Lockhart's online tourism guide. I'm not keeping score. I'm just giving credit where credit is due. And I credit these same entrepreneurs with inspiring me to move here.

I'm ready for a bigger stage and a new chapter of my artistic life somewhere new. In many ways, I'm looking forward to liquidating everything and starting fresh, like beginning a new painting, a blank canvas, no history yet, only possibility. This one has served its purpose, and I am grateful.

Lockhart was my incubator. This house was my residency. Together they gave me more than I built inside them. I learned more here than anywhere. And some of those lessons were pretty hard when you take up more space than some people would like. I made more and shared more here than anywhere. I still have the sketch, the one I drew the week I found this place, the one that predicted almost exactly what it became. I'll take that with me, and the memories, and the art I collected off these walls.

I'll miss everything about this home. The open spaces, the high ceilings, the natural light in every room at every hour, the sound of birds in the courtyard at dawn, walking to the square, meeting people from all over the world at the front door, hosting, supporting artists, being surrounded by collected art everywhere always, having a home studio with real scale, sharing and connecting with others, what this place did to people the first time they walked in. Everything else, I hope finds a new story.

To whoever walks through that door next, the creative energy in these walls is real. I cultivated it for years. It's yours now. Make something beautiful for yourself, for this community, and for the world. That's what I leave behind to Lockhart.

— Chad Rea, LockhART House · June 2021 —