I've been an artist my entire life.

 

In the beginning, I made paintings that anyone could appreciate: solemn nudes, bonsai trees, Paris in the rain. Every day, I sat hunched over my easel, gripping a tiny brush, agonizing over every stroke. People called me expressive. A free spirit. I was glad they thought so.

 

I was a work horse in a beret.

 

Then, in 2020, I moved to a little cabin in the woods. The earth worked on me, sloughing off my plastic coating, revealing the rough, wet stone beneath. My mind quieted. I stopped wanting admiration. I began to crave oneness.

 

My paintings began to shake themselves loose, to show signs of life, to breathe. Then, all at once, they began to speak.

 

Whether I'm painting one-on-one with a collector, telling their story in color, or leading a mural with hundreds of people, or illustrating a book cover, the thread is the same: I bring people into the studio with me, and what we make together is something neither of us could have made alone.

 

Life is relatively simple today.

 

I live in the mountains of Mendocino County, in the California redwoods. I have a small business called Artisanna Farms. I write a Substack newsletter called Feral But Friendly.

 

I have a dog named Scooter and a husband named Matt and a deep love for strong coffee with heavy cream.

 

My mind is like ten thousand colorful balloons swirling fiercely in a tornado. But every so often, I am able to pick one out from the mess and hand it to you.

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