He’s not sure why, but there was something strange about the father-son Aruba trip.

How random, Remington Robinson thought, for his dad to suggest the vacation. It was also random that Robinson brought along a plein air, or open air, painting kit, which he had picked up on a whim at a Salida shop. The Boulder resident wanted to try that type of art again, so why not do so in Aruba?

Looking back, Robinson remembers his dad looking “off.”

“I wonder if he knew he was going downhill,” he said. “Maybe he secretly knew.”

Six months after the trip, Robinson left Boulder for his hometown, Chagrin Falls, Ohio. He wanted to be around family while his dad stayed in the hospital. They were told his father would stay there for two weeks.

Then they were told something worse. His 60-year-old had hours to live. He died of organ failure on July 2, 2017.

“I was kind of in a state of shock,” Robinson, who is 35 now, said. “Everything was a blur.”

Two days later, all he knew was that he wanted to paint. Because no matter where he is, in Ohio or Colorado or Europe or if he’s happy or sad, he wants to paint.

For whatever reason, that was the first day Robinson created art in the way that he’s now known for.

He got a container of Altoids and emptied the mints inside, replacing them with a small piece of paper and paint. He got into view of the popcorn shop, the only other landmark in Chagrin Falls other than the waterfall, and sketched the sight. He positioned the tin upright as if it was a laptop, using the top as an easel.

Robinson isn’t sure how much, but his dad’s death had something to do with why he was doing this.

“You don’t have forever to live,” he thought at the time. “I’ve been wanting to try it.”

He and his dad could talk for hours about philosophy. They could joke a lot. Robinson could tell his dad wanted him to keep painting.

“My dad was the biggest supporter of my artwork,” he said. “He was always like, ‘Go for it.’”

He was trying to go for it. He wanted to be an artist. There were signs along the way. As a little boy, those paintings by his great-grandfather hanging around caught his eye.

A high school art teacher also left an impression. Then Robinson left Ohio in some ways for the sake of getting out of Ohio. In 2002, he declared an art major at University of Colorado at Boulder and, six years later, graduated from Rocky Mountain College of Art + Design.

Jobs at a coffee shop and art stores followed. Robinson joined up with some friends to make murals that made them money.

Soon, painting ads for beer or football games didn’t feel right. Robinson didn’t like either of those.

He liked the artists he followed on social media, especially one living in Denver named Heidi Annalise. She was painting mini-landscapes inside mint tins.

“It’s unique because it’s so small and tiny cute,” Robinson said. “It’s not what you’d normally see.”

In 2016, the two met up to talk about art. Robinson wondered about her method.

“I just asked her,” he said. “How’d you get into that?”

She said she’d seen somebody else do it. So they agreed it was fair game for Robinson to get into the mini-plein air painting game. It would take months before he did.

The pair join a game that’s been practiced by few for decades.

Robinson’s former high school teacher told him about something called the Whiskey Painters of America, described online as “the most unique and exclusive miniature painting society in the world.”

The Ohio-based group started in the 1950s by one traveling businessman and painter who fashioned a palette out of an aspirin box. It was small so that it could fit in his shirt pocket. At the end of his work day, he’d go to a local bar and paint, dipping his brush into a glass of booze instead of water. This tradition continues today with the Whiskey Painters of America, which is capped at 150 members whose pieces must be no larger than 4 by 5 inches.

Robinson and Annaise, who now lives in Crested Butte, would fit in with their 2-by-3-inch pieces. So would Matthew Betancourt, a California native who lives in Norway and cleverly calls his creations “Mintins.”

Other artists in this field are not easily found.

Robinson’s work is primarily of scenes in Boulder, like the Flatirons, his neighborhood and a bookstore. His pieces show closer Colorado sights, like Garden of the Gods. They show faraway places like palm trees in Hawaii, the Rockefeller Center at Christmas in New York City or the streets of Greece.

He’s painted so many things in miniature since that trip to Ohio in 2017. Robinson counts more than 600 pieces so far. He easily sells each of them and there’s usually a waiting list. He’s able to count himself as a full-time painter. He also counts more than 400,000 followers on social media.

There was a moment before all of this, though, that Robinson must count. A gift from a loss.

“Every artist has a story about how they’re able to live off their art,” Robinson said.

His story comes from his father’s death. Robinson was making money at the time, but not from the kind of art he believed in.

“I wasn’t expecting to get money from my dad, but I did,” Robinson said.

There was money from the estate. He made a decision: “I’m just going to use the money as a cushion to venture out in the art I want to do,” Robinson said. “I think that’s what he would’ve wanted me to do, anyway.”

So that’s what one reason he’s where he is. One reason why he does his.

There are others. When he’s painting, he has to sit still and turn his mind off.

“You’re looking at the world around you and how it’s put together,” he said. “It’s all a form of meditation. It’s cathartic.”

He’s found healing from painting this way before. Maybe that’s why he never stopped.

He’s not sure why, but there was something strange about the father-son Aruba trip.

How random, Remington Robinson thought, for his dad to suggest the vacation. It was also random that Robinson brought along a plein air, or open air, painting kit, which he had picked up on a whim at a Salida shop. The Boulder resident wanted to try that type of art again, so why not do so in Aruba?

Looking back, Robinson remembers his dad looking “off.”

“I wonder if he knew he was going downhill,” he said. “Maybe he secretly knew.”

Six months after the trip, Robinson left Boulder for his hometown, Chagrin Falls, Ohio. He wanted to be around family while his dad stayed in the hospital. They were told his father would stay there for two weeks.

Then they were told something worse. His 60-year-old had hours to live. He died of organ failure on July 2, 2017.

“I was kind of in a state of shock,” Robinson, who is 35 now, said. “Everything was a blur.”

Two days later, all he knew was that he wanted to paint. Because no matter where he is, in Ohio or Colorado or Europe or if he’s happy or sad, he wants to paint.

For whatever reason, that was the first day Robinson created art in the way that he’s now known for.

He got a container of Altoids and emptied the mints inside, replacing them with a small piece of paper and paint. He got into view of the popcorn shop, the only other landmark in Chagrin Falls other than the waterfall, and sketched the sight. He positioned the tin upright as if it was a laptop, using the top as an easel.

Robinson isn’t sure how much, but his dad’s death had something to do with why he was doing this.

“You don’t have forever to live,” he thought at the time. “I’ve been wanting to try it.”

He and his dad could talk for hours about philosophy. They could joke a lot. Robinson could tell his dad wanted him to keep painting.

“My dad was the biggest supporter of my artwork,” he said. “He was always like, ‘Go for it.’”

He was trying to go for it. He wanted to be an artist. There were signs along the way. As a little boy, those paintings by his great-grandfather hanging around caught his eye.

A high school art teacher also left an impression. Then Robinson left Ohio in some ways for the sake of getting out of Ohio. In 2002, he declared an art major at University of Colorado at Boulder and, six years later, graduated from Rocky Mountain College of Art + Design.

Jobs at a coffee shop and art stores followed. Robinson joined up with some friends to make murals that made them money.

Soon, painting ads for beer or football games didn’t feel right. Robinson didn’t like either of those.

He liked the artists he followed on social media, especially one living in Denver named Heidi Annalise. She was painting mini-landscapes inside mint tins.

“It’s unique because it’s so small and tiny cute,” Robinson said. “It’s not what you’d normally see.”

In 2016, the two met up to talk about art. Robinson wondered about her method.

“I just asked her,” he said. “How’d you get into that?”

She said she’d seen somebody else do it. So they agreed it was fair game for Robinson to get into the mini-plein air painting game. It would take months before he did.

The pair join a game that’s been practiced by few for decades.

Robinson’s former high school teacher told him about something called the Whiskey Painters of America, described online as “the most unique and exclusive miniature painting society in the world.”

The Ohio-based group started in the 1950s by one traveling businessman and painter who fashioned a palette out of an aspirin box. It was small so that it could fit in his shirt pocket. At the end of his work day, he’d go to a local bar and paint, dipping his brush into a glass of booze instead of water. This tradition continues today with the Whiskey Painters of America, which is capped at 150 members whose pieces must be no larger than 4 by 5 inches.

Robinson and Annaise, who now lives in Crested Butte, would fit in with their 2-by-3-inch pieces. So would Matthew Betancourt, a California native who lives in Norway and cleverly calls his creations “Mintins.”

Other artists in this field are not easily found.

Robinson’s work is primarily of scenes in Boulder, like the Flatirons, his neighborhood and a bookstore. His pieces show closer Colorado sights, like Garden of the Gods. They show faraway places like palm trees in Hawaii, the Rockefeller Center at Christmas in New York City or the streets of Greece.

He’s painted so many things in miniature since that trip to Ohio in 2017. Robinson counts more than 600 pieces so far. He easily sells each of them and there’s usually a waiting list. He’s able to count himself as a full-time painter. He also counts more than 400,000 followers on social media.

There was a moment before all of this, though, that Robinson must count. A gift from a loss.

“Every artist has a story about how they’re able to live off their art,” Robinson said.

His story comes from his father’s death. Robinson was making money at the time, but not from the kind of art he believed in.

“I wasn’t expecting to get money from my dad, but I did,” Robinson said.

There was money from the estate. He made a decision: “I’m just going to use the money as a cushion to venture out in the art I want to do,” Robinson said. “I think that’s what he would’ve wanted me to do, anyway.”

So that’s what one reason he’s where he is. One reason why he does his.

There are others. When he’s painting, he has to sit still and turn his mind off.

“You’re looking at the world around you and how it’s put together,” he said. “It’s all a form of meditation. It’s cathartic.”

He’s found healing from painting this way before. Maybe that’s why he never stopped.