An Exploration of the Self: A Partnership with Dave and Matt Vans

Expanding within ourselves and out in the world

For those of you who have been requesting our itinerary, I’ve done my best to link it below using my journal entries.

On April 1st, Bri and I landed in Gypsum, Colorado to start our van life adventure for the next thirty days. This residency was formulated in partnership with Dave and Matt Vans to bring our creative practice on the road— while pushing our limits on space, innovation, and minimalism.

What lies beneath when we strip back the layers and are left with essentials? What emerges at the surface when we exhaust our mind and bodies with the bold curiosity and awe that grandiose spaces bring? What happens when we mirror this space in our lives?

Though both of us consider ourselves to be avid campers and travelers, neither of us had ever traveled through this medium. Staying in tents, hostels, car camping or even hotels can all hold such different encounters, and the van is no exception. We underestimated how lovely it would be to have both the magnificence of the world at your door each morning, alongside the mobility and ease of heading to a new location so swiftly. We had the freedom of the open night sky above our heads for evening campfires and day hike exploration, and the comfort of crawling into a warm, secure bed when our bodies grew eager for rest. 

As two women who enjoy a vacation of investigation, we want to encourage others to find ways of travel that empower, challenge and excite them. While both Bri and I feel pretty comfortable traveling at this point in our lives, we are also not naive to the fact that women should be aware and work towards preventive safety measures while entering any new environment. One of the most common questions other women asked us during the trip was, “Aren’t you ever scared out there all alone?” Empowering women to take up their space in this world is something we are both passionate about, and it goes for travel as well. The more you push yourself into discomfort, the more you begin to trust your ability to keep yourself safe.

8 Miles in at the Colorado River overlook, Grand Canyon. A storm was moving in as we watched it color the sky purple. Had to get moving quickly though, because we had a strenuous 7 mile climb back out of the canyon

The last two years of my life have been dedicated to taking control of my mental and emotional health. Many of us ignore our mind-health for many reasons; the stigma surrounding it, shame, fear, lack of support or resources. When quarantine began, I was at a breaking point. I recognized that I needed to finally come face to face with my challenges and seek the support I so deeply needed. I no longer wanted to be defined by the anxiety and depression that seemed to rule my life. Self examination and investigation came to the forefront. This van trip was a remarkable opportunity for my career and time adventuring with someone I cherish, but also a bit more. Time to step away, peel back the layers, and put all of my healing work to the test. This would be the first time out of my heavy lockdown environment in nearly a year and a half…with my routines off, challenges thrown in, and others to consider. How will I show up each day? How does dropping in to the present moment change my thought process and innovation?

Have you ever read, ‘The Power of Now’?

It emphasizes the mind being a survival machine which obsessively stores, gathers and analyzes information. This becomes a problem when we are spending time waiting, analyzing, worrying, and anxiously obsessing over the past or future. It robs us of the one and only important experience of our lifetime: the Now. Travel is essentially the ideal experiment for this.

Camping on BLM outside of Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado. Linds, Bri and I made a curry dinner and watched the most beautiful sunset

Here’s the thing about wide open spaces: They’ll always welcome you. But you have to be willing to take it.

Chronic anxiety will accompany you everywhere; whether you’re on a road trip of a lifetime with your best friend, or home alone in your bed. Acceptance is first, working through it comes next. One of the most liberating realizations of this trip was observing my healing growth play out in real-time. Meeting the new parts of myself I hadn’t quite recognized yet. You can do the yoga, you can commit to the meditation and breath work practice….you can journal, and do therapy and read the self-discovery books. But what matters is the intentional implementation of them, consistently-no matter where you are. And what’s more important…. is not using them as a tool to outrun. Without the numbing sensations of overworking, social media connection, or just downright distraction…this experience forced us to sit and have a good hard look at the things we had been running from. Wide open spaces say, ‘stop and sit with me. revel in the moment.’

Charcoal studies at our BLM campsite in Colorado, on day 28 of the trip. We were in a completely secluded area, next to the most beautiful stream. It was a full moon that night, and we stayed up for a end-of-trip fire ceremony, where we tossed written narratives that were holding us back into the campfire.

Camping and backpacking can be a great check-in that forces us to consider how we are operating in our daily lives. How capable are we with rooting through discomfort? Of new patterns, experiences, people and thought processes? How adaptable are we when things arise and plans change? Where do our thoughts go when we are immersed with no distraction? And perhaps most of all, I believe travel brings to the surface all that we struggle with in terms of being one with the present. Are you here in your body paying attention? Or are you somewhere else?

“I’m here, with the charcoal between my fingers. Leaves crunch beneath my bare feet and I tune in to the running water in front of me. The sensations in my body mirror the world around me, if I’m just willing to sit and observe.”

A rare photo of Bri and I together on a trail! 7 miles in on the Fairyland Loop in Bryce Canyon

“My need for control began to thin the more space I had”

By day ten of the trip, we were finally able to adjust fully. This, in turn, allowed us both to wake up each day with a fresh start. Some days we hiked 13 miles and sketched until we couldn’t anymore-- others we slept in and allowed our bodies to rest from the day before. We witnessed the diversity in landscape with each new place we drove, and were given the gift of time to process it. We took time to journal, to reflect, to paint. We had life realizations on cliffsides and held each other’s hands when we needed reassurance. We laughed when getting a bit lost rather than uptight. We communicated when we felt uneasy or frustrated. We committed to being aware...of both one another and ourselves.

The daily encounters of the van allowed me to practice what I preach. To live what I already know. I worked incredibly hard to absorb; to not let this trip become just another task on a list.

Bri against a stunning backdrop of the Fairyland Trail, 8 miles deep in Bryce Canyon National Park

With no service most nights, we unplugged with board games, sketchbooks, journaling…and reading aloud to one another

I will never forget feeling the cool air rushing to my face as I open the sliding door at sunrise, the way the world welcomes my arrival. I re-learned the beauty of surrender within my anxiety. To be one with it all and not constantly search for a way out, even when it is excruciating. With anxiety, most of your life can be spent plotting escape routes. The fastest and safest way out the door. Who am I without them? Who am I when I’m finally able to plant my feet firmly on the ground rather than run? Space. I meet myself there.

We ended up driving back to Lake Powell to stay at this campsite again, because it was too damn dreamy. 3 nights wasn’t enough!

Van moments in the desert outside of Zion.

Down into the canyon we go! The start of our 14 mile hike to the Colorado River overlook in the Grand Canyon. It was cold on the rim that day, around 25 degrees. and near 75 in the Canyon!

When was the last time you climbed a tree?

During the start of COVID-19 lockdown, I was walking one day in the woods behind my apartment when I had this overwhelming urge -- insisting I climb a tree. Just do it Sam. Climb the damn tree. My legs swinging from the branches was a special kind of weightlessness I hadn’t felt in years. How much of my life has been spent ruminating on the next step, or even the obsession of self-excavation? I want to occupy my own life. The way a child unapologetically shows up for their own curiosity in genuine form.

This trip was very similar, in an extended sense. Being immersed into childhood for a month where I am able to strip back all of the roles I’ve taken in my life; all of the expectations and responsibilities-- and trade them in for childlike curiosities. Wandering staring up at the sky, wide-eyed, bare feet in the soil, dirty hair wrapped in braids for days, no mirror reflections with the exceptions of streams, curling up with a book to nap when I’m exhausted, and not need to justify it. Soul medicine. We’re all deserving of that.

Enjoying the dissonance of my studies against the desert climate. 6 Miles deep at Canyonlands National Park, the Needles District

Sitting on the edge of Bryce Canyon at sunrise, I want to remember the understanding of impermanence. I want to remember the way the canyon winds sound like a roaring ocean- how they were once filled with miles of endless water and how the change still leaves remnants of it’s ghosts. How the Earth’s systems welcome the shift of plates and pattern of the winds; to know its meant for it. The way the tree clings to the canyon edge; roots clinging to life. Standing tall just the same.

The resilience and surrender in nature can be found in us all. The ability to lean into change holds us through the weight of loneliness, grief, and all that comes after. The world is always teaching. It’s our job to actually listen.

Linds grabbing a shot of Bri and I on day 6 of the trip….just outside of Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado

Quick charcoal tree studies at our campsite in Black Canyon of the Gunnison, Colorado. It snowed this night and it was the first bit of snow on the trip!

5 Miles deep on the Fairyland Trail, Bryce Canyon National Park

So, what is my main takeaway from this trip?

…Open Spaces.

Take wide open spaces back into your structured life. You are fluid, like water. Not everything has to be so controlled. Take wide open spaces back into the studio with you. You are allowed to play, like a child. Not everything has to be taken so seriously. Take wide open spaces back to your relationships and the way you walk through the world. You are worthy of receiving, like the love that you give. You’ve forgotten that you are that love. Take wide open spaces back into your mind’s eye. You are not ill, but attentive. You are a reminder of a human collectiveness.

Film from our time out west:

open spaces don’t always equal freedom. you give that to yourself

Basic Itinerary:

Land in Gypsum, CO

Denver

Garden of the Gods

Sand Dunes National Park

Black Canyon of the Gunnison (South Rim)

Over to UT...

Moab

Canyonlands National Park (Needles District)

Arches National Park

Dead Horse State Park

Capitol Reef National Park

Grand Staircase Escalante

Bryce Canyon National Park

Zion National Park

Grand Canyon National Park

Lake Powell/ Paige

Mesa Verde National Park

Telluride, CO

Back to Black Canyon of the Gunnison (This time North Rim)

Back to Gypsum

Taking in the view at Canyonlands National Park

Day 7 of the trip: Linds at the start of our hike of the dunes at Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado

Bri and I found this random slot canyon on a sunset drive in Grand Staircase Escalante

8 Miles deep on the Fairyland Trail, Bryce Canyon National Park

Waking up to breakfast views on the side of the road in Arches National Park

Day 25 of the trip, nearing the end. Camping on the North Rim of Black Canyon of the Gunnison, the first day of the year the campground was opened.

The fascinating trees clinging to life on the edge of Bryce Canyon

6 Miles deep on the Fairyland Trail, Bryce Canyon National Park. The most unreal landscapes Ive ever seen

Dead Horse State Park, Utah

Camping on BLM out in the desert just outside of Zion National Park

10 Miles out in the desert in Canyonlands. Rock formations lead the way of the trail

Bri enjoying the change of Desert scenery back in Colorado— In Telluride. Day 23 of the trip

Splurging on a glamping site outside of Zion for a clean shower (after hitting day 6 of none)

Colorado State Monument Views just outside of our campground. Thanks Linds for the shot!

The Isolation Portraits

It’s been awhile.

It’s been a long year. Yet time is moving quickly.

Six new originals are available today; as part of the Isolation Portrait Collection.

Read more about the process & these new pieces below

For many artists who tend to be introverted, the start of quarantine in 2020 may not have felt very different. The experience transformed into a dance between what we often long for and everything we tend to avoid.

I became curious with my process; what happens when the idea of isolation is no longer romanticized? I began painting to record and formulate a peak into the diversity in experiencing isolation. What emotions come up? How does each day differ from the next? How are we all dealing with suffering, loss, joy, and acceptance in our own ways? What have we been running from?

In our ever-expanding world, we are rarely forced to stand still. With so much instruction and distraction, we become acclimated to constant noise at an early age. What are we when it all goes silent? Even when we may not be fully aware, we live with the compulsive need for diversion. We shape shift each day to match the reality of our outer world. The lines we cross and use to box ourselves in often stem from everything we've been hiding from.

For me, this time alone sways somewhere between a sanctuary and a prison. Reading back on my journals in March; I described how the country, and even the world, would be stepping into quarantine for two weeks. Weeks turned to months, and now months have taken half our year. What have we learned? Have we even attempted to step back in order to acknowledge others' experiences-- let alone our own?

Each day in quarantine, my experience shifted. What felt sorrowful and impossible to escape can suddenly transform to acceptance, joy and gratitude. Curiosity and introspection can spiral into a deep anxiety that keeps me bedridden. But as time at home continues, awareness heightens. When new cycles emerge, I notice. I sit. I cry. I listen. 

and I paint.

Though these pieces are not considered some of my more experimental or challenging work in terms of composition; the process was more the journey here. These portraits represent a choosing. To surrender, to embrace-- to fully accept ourselves as we are. The whole experience of isolation can rarely be pinned down to one emotive quality. There are stages of emotion. Each piece in this collection represents the thought of remaining open to whatever comes up. A reminder for exploration; that everything we long for meets us at our center. Each piece is a transformation of the overall experience. And it isn't always beautiful. Even in our darkest corners, we can scoop out the dust to see what we've been hiding from. When we're alone, we can become hyper-focused on our own experience of self. We can either numb it; push it back down into our vacuum-- or sit with it. Turn it inside out. Look to see what's calling to us. Like refining our edges.

These pieces showcase our power of observing; only to recognize there is not all darkness, even in the midst of deep turmoil. That our own darkness invites us to grow. To remember what the light feels like; the way it dances on our skin. The touch of a loved one's hand or a moment of connection with a stranger across the room; suddenly become staples to our human experience. Perhaps the best way to depict love and gratitude is by living, experiencing and noticing the absence of it.

Quarantine, however, teaches us that we, ourselves— have been love all along.

Featured: A Women's Thing

“It’s much easier to hide away behind the work. I’ve had some really wonderful connections with artists who have taught me to break free of that— that my voice and story matter”

this past week, I (virtually) sat down with the editors of a women’s thing to discuss the purpose of my process, work, and the effect of COVID-19 on the arts community. you can read the full interview here

COVID-19: An Artists' Diary and Rambling Thoughts

2010, Where this starts.

The following entry was transcribed from my journal a few years ago, we can start this attempted effort of organized ramblings here:

“ I wasn’t scared. Not until the night before. As I laid in the hotel bed that night, staring at the ceiling, I realized the terrifying possibility that this could really be it. This could be my last day alive. 

I kept my whimpers low, tossing the sheets over my head— eventually drifting off to sleep. I didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that it could all be gone. Would my last day on earth really consist of sleeping in a double bed hotel room where I had to watch my family eat dinner in near tears; all because my stomach had to be empty for surgery? What a bummer.

During the time of this emergency surgery, I was 19. I felt I had the world figured out— I was heading into my sophomore year in college and had little time for reflection. I was young and reckless. I hadn’t felt healthy in a few years, but left it up to the lack of sleep, extreme alcohol intake, and stress levels of the college atmosphere. Once I could no longer keep down food or water that summer, things progressed quickly. I remember sitting in the ultrasound room and the tech asking, “have you had something to eat before this?”— her head tilting strangely at the screen. Painful, prolonged silence. I could tell by the way she left the room to bring back two other radiologists that something, in some way, was off. Three days later I was in a surgery consultation with the doctors at Westchester Medical. I had a rare tumor the size of a softball wrapped around most of abdominal my insides. 

As we moved quickly with doctors to prep for surgery within the week, I had felt little to nothing. I remember the call my mom got from the doctors after they had just confirmed the tumor— they way she walked out of the house slowly and gently closed the door behind her. Watching her walk down the drive away, whispering with a quiver in her voice I had only heard a few times in my life. I knew it wasn’t good news. But I wasn’t worried. I didn’t have a relationship with death then. I was young.

Young in the sense that your experience lacks your own interpretation of meaning yet. The pursuit of fun. The lack of comprehension. Young enough to pretend that fear doesn’t yet have grip on you; though subconsciously it controls your every move. You’re naive enough to believe you’re far off from death— but just old enough to sign the pre-op paperwork that explains, in great detail, just how close you are to not coming back. What’s the percentage of not waking up from a 12 hour surgery? Bleeding out on the table? My mom rushes me through the percentages and tells me all I need to do is sign. So you slip on the gown in pre-op, ignore the look on your parents faces that linger just a bit too long. 

At 19, I laid on the operation table and held onto my mom as they prepped to put me under for the 13 hr surgery. It was unbelievably so cold in there. “Okay samantha, We’re going to count back from 10...” 

I thought about my younger brother and sister and how cruel I had been to them for most of my life. How I wished I could change it. Did I hug them enough? “9....”

I thought about the feeling of laugher and how the air escapes your lungs and brings a feeling of joy like no other. How I hadn’t heard the sound of it in a few weeks. Sterile and somber, much like this operation room.

“8....” I can feel my eyes filling with tears. The disconnection within my life. How I wanted so much more time. To live with a sense of direction. How could this possibly be it? I squeezed my eyes closed and begged some higher power to give me another shot, ‘I’ll never take life for granted again.’ That if given the chance to open my eyes after all of this, I would fight like hell to make a journey I’m proud of. To be more awake.

Memories of my grandmother came into vision. She had passed away years before. Was there some other side, filled with ambient white light and lost loved ones, where she stood patiently waiting for me? If she was, I suddenly worried, I wouldn’t be able to pass through. I hadn’t prayed in years. 

I was under before they ever got to 7.”

And now, here we are. 28 days into isolation from COVID-19

Like so many of us, I grew up dedicating most of my time setting up the boxes to check; attempting to adhere to a game plan. A way to measure time and goals, but in a way that was reasonable, responsible, and thorough. I was on path to hit those markers. 

I remember opening my eyes for the first time in ICU, the pain so bad I could barely speak. I was incapable of turning on my side unless the nurses physically moved me; the cries coming from my body unrecognizable to my own ears. Two weeks later, I was finally capable of getting on my feet just long enough to stand in front of the hospital bathroom mirror;  pulling up my gown to see the incision. It was the first time I had seen it. I was too afraid to look. The way my fingers ran along the stitches and staples, the swelling so invasive I hardly recognized my own body. Who am I? Who do I choose to walk out of here as? I didn't want any of those things anymore. I had stared death in the face. Everything that seemed terrifying was no longer relevant. 

I've spent an obsessive amount of time since 2011 attempting to create a life that ensures fulfillment. I became hyper-aware of the impermanence of life. I obsessed over it. But also swore I was accepting of it. Life and death were no longer separate in my mind. I vowed to surrender to the concept of connection. Of meaning. Of curiosity. I dove head first into my own psyche— beginning a deep internal analysis of my life, my emotions, my headspace. Suddenly life was an expansive, never ending horizon. I couldn't stop running. I couldn’t stop wanting. I couldn't get enough. I wanted to know that when that day did come for me; when Death showed up again, that I wouldn't be begging for another chance. I wanted to be right there, with it. Ready. Accepting.

There are many ways we can numb the fear of death. Substance abuse, overexertion of our bodies and minds, working careers we hate, obsessive materialism-- we're born into a culture that quite literally runs on distracting our minds from remaining curious. We develop a knee-jerk instinct to pull away from delving into our intuitive urgings. From pushing the limits. If we stay subdued long enough, we remain in our boxes. We’re raised to gradually stop thinking for ourselves; longing for the ultimate goal of what we believe to be in control. We stop taking risks. We stop wondering. We do this because it feels safe. . We trade truth for safety. All to avoid the unknown. We spend our lives in denial that death even exists. We become a subordinate to our own lives. Where is the shift?

I’ve spent the last several years of my life doing everything in my power to prevent this from happening again. I promised I would never, ever fall to the fear of it all. That I would do everything in my power to be present in my life. To mold a way of living that I believed to be of service to myself and others around me. I became open to new ideas. I longed for a deeper sense of self-satisfaction. I began exploring the inner worlds of myself while still accepting that I’m not always in the driver’s seat. The staples under my fingertips. They were never far behind me. 

When all of this began with COVID-19, so many of my friends and family began reaching out to me, panicking about my financial stability. 'How will you make it through this?' 'What are you going to do?' You have no stability right now. You have no stability right now. There is what again, this constant need for control. This time, though; it was blatantly out in the open for everyone to worry about as one. Our need for order. Our need to understand, analyze, and perfect an outcome. Our ability to feel competent— our hunger to survive.

I spent the first few weeks curious as to why I hadn’t worried about that aspect of it like my family had. What does it come down to? The constant uncertainty already present in my life.

I've had to accept this long ago. When I was wheeled into the hospital at 19. When we buried our friend before his 21st birthday. But for the financial aspect? When I quit my stable career.  As an emerging artist, I don't ever know what the next step is. I can plan as much as I’d like for my business, but I know the reality always is that I cannot control how it will go. I stopped planning the markers of my life years ago. It's like stepping out into thick darkness— you work so hard to squint your eyes and hope they eventually adjust so that the panicky feeling in your chest will subside as the room comes into clear view— to ensure there’s no monsters there. To ensure the path is safe and straight and narrow. To know you aren't stepping through the planks on the bridge and missing your next step. Freelance life is similar to that feeling.

And most of the time, my foot falls through the boards. I’m always free falling.

It felt like slamming into a brick wall for the first few years. Those dreams you have where you’re falling through space; grasping at thin air to do anything to avoid hitting the ground—But I've adjusted. And i've tried harder than ever to enjoy the freefall. I find myself there, floating. Because with falling comes growth. The thing is, though-- we are all here, every day. Falling into darkness. Some of us are just used to noticing it. Welcome, friends. I thought. It might feel scary at first, but it’s not all that bad. COVID-19 brings all of this fear directly to the surface. How can we possibly survive without control? With free falling?

We build our lives; our thoughts, our families, our society-- all around the fear of death. As if we compact it deep enough, dig the hole and fill it in, that we will be far enough away from it. That we can build the foundations of our lives upon it and never need to acknowledge it again. That our minds will adjust to this new world we've built; one where we're firmly regulating and untouchable. One where Everything goes accordingly to plan if we just plan hard enough. 

If COVID-19 has made one thing blatantly clear; it’s that this is a facade. The realization that we're not only not in control; but also fearful of ourselves-- is an extremely uncomfortable situation. And that's where most of us are right now. Where do we go from here? How do we submit to our habits of over-mangagment, restraint, and control? How do we choose to let go if our institutions, moral grounds and overall life characteristics are built on these foundations? We learn to walk through life with clenched fists; desperately grasping onto whatever we can. Does this need for control stem from a deep, biologically motivated system already present in us as a means for survival; or is it something we develop through societal emphasis and conditioning? Every day, we attempt to make thousands of choices in order manipulate our sense of self-autonomy. Each of these choices, no matter how small, reinforces our perception of control and self-suffiecny. Grasping tighter.

After my exhibition in London had been cancelled, I had spent too many hours watching the news. I couldn't leave my bed. Bodies piling up across the globe. Out of nowhere. The heaviness of loss filled my bedroom. Death. Taking it's swings. Showing up as it always does, reminding us that we’re not the leaders of our lives. There it was again. I had never forgotten it, after all. My commitment to purpose held my receipts. Here I am, living this life I had so carefully created. All around Death. All around the acknowledgment of it. But then came COVID. And I had a realization. 

I've spent the last several years of my life so internally infatuated with death and my relationship with it that I've forgotten what its like to be truly present. I could never turn it off. I needed constant verification that I was loyal to my outlook. So often, we wake up mid-life and realize, suddenly, out of nowhere— that we are the authors of our own stories. I’ve known that I am. I’ve placed so much unnecessary pressure upon myself, my redemption, my growth— that I tend to lose sight of the sweetness.

I've written thousands of goals, and achieved hundreds of them. I've worked longer days than ever before to hit these goals. I've done my time with forgiveness and loss and hope and love. I’ve put those experiences into my work and allowed it to transform me; but never too much. Committing myself fully to my creative expression challenges my potential. I wanted nothing more. I promised to never be out of touch with my full capacity as an artist. As a human. I've always done the work. I've always wanted everything to mean something. I'll never live a life of numbness. I'll never lose touch with my passion for life again— as long as I can find a way for it to all mean something.

The problem with this thought pattern is the overlook of the most significant fact: just by existing, just by being— we all inherently hold meaning. I am inherently meaningful.

I’ve always latched onto the thought that we create meaning of our own lives. (So again, a false security of control?) However, if it is created through us and a series of actions— this becomes problematic, no? We become servants to our everyday judgement criteria.

This experience through COVID-19 has surfaced many different reactions and reflections for me. My initial reaction of the world forgetting our relationship with love and loss and death— Why have people forgotten? How can you live your life everyday so removed from death? I’m ashamed to say that at first, I was a bit annoyed. This is the issue. We’re all so busy being caught in the machine that no one cares to understand themselves. No one cares to accept that we are only here now, only once. Everyone is so disconnected. Fear controls us. Over the last month here in quarantine, I’ve realized I’ve never been above any of it. I’ve only allowed my obsession with purpose and validation of this purpose keep me from surrendering to the concept of intrinsic value.

We do not need to earn our badge of meaning.

Through art school, I had read about so many infamous artists, and even friends, describe their creative process to be aligned through some sort of divine experience. That our ideas and notions are a vehicle for expression of the actual, living creative energy of the universe. A surrendering to the fact that our creative notions do not come from us, but through us. I’ve never related to this in any way. I’ve scoffed at it. Another choice. A need for control. I am unable to surrender because I am the one in charge here. I am the one who chooses all pieces of my life. How does this new formed reality of COVID-19 alter these thought patterns?

All creativity involves the deepest form of surrender; the willingness to accept the unknown.

Accepting the unknown allows us to move closer to our deepest truth.

Moving towards this truth pushes us to accept that we are believers in our own goodness, our own power— that we are inherently meaningful and worthy.

Inherent worth creates healing within ourselves and the work around us.

Healing the world around us reintroduces the unity of us all, past the boundaries of time and space.

We come home to ourselves. We come home to one another.

As we should.

x S

Mural Project: NOSH Cafe

Several months ago, I met Madison and Ben at my Solo Exhibition here in Charleston. I had briefly met them previously since they had been collectors of my work. Madison begins to explain how they were opening an exciting new venture here in Charleston that included both of their passions; and the overall space included a vision for my work.

I have spent the last two years dedicating my life to growing my career in the Charleston area and beyond. I always dreamed of having a large-scale installation local to my workspace and home here in the South; but had also come to terms with the somewhat slow-growing aspect of the contemporary art scene here in the Low Country. (Let alone nude/figurative work!) To be given this opportunity is beyond humbling to say the least— but also an exciting step toward change and diversity within the art scene here in Charleston. Others moving to the South from all areas of the country brings forth new ideas, innovative spaces, a push for growth, and overall cultural diversity. I also love that Madison and Ben had a vision for NOSH’s space to be not only be driven by a more Scandinavian style, but a welcoming space for communal gatherings, workshops, and more. The feminine, warm feel of the mural brings a softness to this contemporary space.

We worked through initial sketches and compositions to place on the wall and were sure to incorporate NOSH’s brand colors along with some cooler tones. If you look closely in person, you’ll see the deep green added along the figure’s outline; along with fun textural details you may miss in photographs.

Unlike my usual pieces on canvas, I actually started with the background first. I had the general compositional pattern of the figure and created a soft, flowing movement to compliment her form. We wanted a minimal approach, yet powerful, so the figure itself is simplistic and relies on the brushstrokes of color to bring her to life.

NOSH’s brand colors are incorporated into the form, as seen above with their thoughtful cups! Below is the original sketch that was chosen as a final composition

Madison and Ben, The Owners and Founders of NOSH

If you are local to the Charleston area, be sure to stop in and enjoy their delicious smoothies, coffees, bowls, light bites and even organic wines! Their menu was created as thoughtfully as the space; sharing whole-food, health-conscious recipes with endless options. Be sure to check out their bathroom doors as well ;) If you do visit the space, I’d love for you to tag me in the mural and showcase the work! So excited to finally share this project with you all x

Installation: "Slash And Burn"

“In order to thrive and flourish, sometimes we must Slash and Burn…”

Our ancestors knew this, and practiced it in order to clear land, gain fertile soil, and raise communities.  A more modern definition of ‘Slash and Burn’ may contain further complexities, and we often practice a self-destructive version of this on ourselves. Is this a necessary journey to reach where we want to be? Must we destroy, or let decay, before we can grow and develop into something more meaningful and beautiful? Is it always a choice?

Within our interactive, live installation, we visually wrestle with this concept, elegantly placing the two opposing stages side-by-side. A visual representation of rebirth.

photography by Nicole Mickle

florals and skirt design by Petaloso

This project was formulated specifically for the Entrepreneur’s Organization— becoming a main portion of the East Coast Conference opening night. When IDEvents connected with Bri and I, we were so honored to have our creative process chosen for such a meaningful event. First and foremost, our focus became the set. We wanted to create a three-dimensional, 360 degree set that pulled the viewer out of their current surroundings. A window into an elaborate world, one where they could view both a representational and metaphorical transition. The cube is 8x8 ft, designed and built as a collaborative effort by both Bri and I. Spending weeks collecting nature, bundling sticks and greens— drying out florals and and designing specific details to fill in each and every space. In planning, we knew we wanted one side to represent the ash and decay of emotional resistance, conflict, and even death. This side (shown below) was filled with barren branches— adding to the dried florals and dead plants— as well as charred wood. Everything on this side was also spray painted black and grey, seeping the lack of color onto the sides of the cube as well.

The opposite side of the set, representing rebirth, was overflowing with lush green ferns, vines, moss, and colorful florals. Rose petals scattered the ground and spilled out from the edges. The logs were set inside to act as natural seats for our models—branches, vines and roses hung from the open “ceiling” structure. You can find the original sketches for our process below.

Our models began in a state of weathered decay; covered from head to toe in a form of ashy clay. We focused on looking directly at the opposition of rebirth; visualizing a form destruction and self-destruction. The cleansing of the washcloth represents a desire to change circumstance; a transition. Emergence.

The paint applied to the skin begins the phase of rebirth. Beauty, color and cohesion begin to emerge from the uncertainty. Viewers begin to understand that a change is underway; and the building of color from dark to light on the skin confirms this. the model’s body language begins to shift- sitting more upright, more hopeful. There is a story being told—from the rubble there is life.

Special thanks to ID Events, The Entrepreneurs Organization, Our four incredible models, Florals and Skirt Design by Petaloso, and Photographer Nicole Mickle for allowing us to bring this vision to fruition.

Collaboration Project: Working with Smart&Sexy Lingerie

How can fine art and lingerie coincide?

my latest collaboration with a woman-owned fashion brand that empowers diversity and body positivity. For every Smart&Sexy garment sold, they make a donation to an organization that empowers and supports women.

“….I chose to work with Smart&Sexy because they are working to change the narrative in what is displayed as “sexy” in our culture— everyone is included and represented. That’s powerful. To formulate a body positive environment and be a voice for change is something I hope to continue working towards as a visual artist. TO celebrate all qualities of the body, femininity, and each women’s unique voice. Being able to create pieces from reference photos that are diverse, powerful and authentic is inspiring. I hope other Women can look at these pieces and see a piece of themselves; as well as acknowledge just how badass they truly are.”

CONTINue SCrolling to read more about the process

their editors sent beautiful images from the latest collection of bodywear; and it was nearly impossible to choose. Women of all sizes and shape are represented here. The photos embody diverse color tones, real-body curves- unedited- and radiate beauty. I think whats most captivating about these women, however, is their comfort in their own skin. I wanted to be sure I captured these women just as powerfully within my work.

Interested in winning one of these originals plus bodywear from Smart and Sexy Intimates? Follow along to enter @smartandsexysocial

Getaway House Residency: The Meaning of Home

Two weeks ago, I shipped some canvas and paint back to New York. In preparation for a show next month, I figured there was no better way than to unplug and re-focus in a different setting. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the course of the last two years— it’s recognizing the constant battle of creative pressure vs the need to fill. I’m still very much a work in progress in terms of nurturing my creative habits, rather than running myself into the ground. But I’ve made progress. Someone once told me inspiration doesn’t come from the inside of a studio. It comes from living and absorbing the energy of the world.

And they’re right.

So I packed my bags and decided I’d paint back home in a new environment- stimulating my brain with a little challenge- while also taking a break from all social media and other admin work. It starts with hesitation (like, wait, what am I even doing here? I have to focus now?? outside of my comfy studio? and put my phone down?) To make things even better, I was lucky enough to work with Getaway House as a sponsored Artist Fellow for a few days mid week. They offered me the most beautiful space to work & reflect. If you’re unfamiliar with Getaway House- I highly suggest you change this. (Especially if you’re in need of a quaint tiny home experience filled with incredible natural light, pour-over coffee, cherished little card games and books, a fire pit for s’mores and beautiful hiking trails) I packed my bags and drove an hour and a half north to Catskill, ready to embrace the ambiance of upstate.

I think the greatest gift of unplugging from any form of technology is the realization that you don’t really need it. After these two weeks, I almost became addicted to the feeling of not needing my phone. Not scrolling, not posting, not texting, not calling. I snapped photos of moments when I felt like it and all else went unattended to. And what else? The lack of visual verification. Not having a mirror in the cabin was another great experience that I’ve taken more time to reflect on. Not once did I have to walk by a reflection and worry about my hair being too tangled, my makeup free face- or what my baggy sweats looked like. All stressors were alleviated. Removed. All that was left felt more intense, more connected, more honest. There’s nothing left to hide behind.

During these three days, I sketched compositions for my upcoming collection. Some I hated, some I loved. I slept in and woke up to the sound of birds singing, and stayed up too late wrapped in a blanket around the fire. When my brain felt clouded, I stepped out into the woods and walked the icy trails. I listened to the sound natural running water and embraced the cold air in my lungs. I ate delicious food from a simple stove top, savored pour-over coffee and drank too much wine. There’s questions in a book on the table; “What is your most treasured memory? Your worst"?”

The campfire crackles and the trees tower overhead. Smoke bellows around me, encompassing the smell of my hair for hours. Music echoes softly through the air and I sip wine from a coffee mug. A calmness.

It felt familiar. I’ve been here before.

I grew up a bit south of Catskill, where I sat currently in this cabin— and was raised to dream bigger than a small town girl. I never really came back after college, and moved out at seventeen. Each time I did come back, I felt the need to turn around and run back out the door. Stagnancy lived here. We grow and worry we’ll deteriorate if still for too long. Motion is natural. It’s the stillness I’ve always avoided. You can’t feel much as long as your feet are moving.

As kids we walked or rode our bikes to one another’s houses and laid in the middle of the road underneath our favorite oak tree. In the summer I didn’t own shoes, and ran through fields of tough grass to feel the sun on my skin. We spent almost every fall engulfed at little league baseball fields and parks. We lived for cliff jumping, river swimming and wandering. We hung out in abandoned houses as teens and drank liquor out of water bottles around cabin campfires. There were no streetlights— just bold darkness and the occasional flicker of fireflies. We drove our first crappy cars too fast around back country roads; making plans bigger than our small town. Life was simple then, even though it may not have felt that way at the time.

Seated around that campfire there at the cabin, I felt a familiarity I hadn’t in a long, long time. Have you ever returned to a place each year and feel completely disoriented or foreign to the person you were then? Almost as if you can't decipher where the old you ended and current you began. A disconnect. Until this moment, that’s all I had ever felt returning here. But standing still for the first time in years, I was finally able to look back and see everything with a clearer view.

I saw the night sky open up a new world above me in my backyard as a little girl, wrapped in a blanket with my dad as he pointed out the constellations above. I smell the smokiness of campfire in my hair and the hot pavement beneath my bare feet in the summertime. Friends laughter echoes beneath the bridge as the water swallows my body from the jump above. I can feel my heart racing in my chest as I climb too far up that tree to beat my brother in a game of hide and seek. Or maybe it’s the car radio blasting my favorite mix cd as the black leather sticks to my skin in the heat. I can feel my legs push through the air for the first time as a little girl on that town park swing; the same ones I sat on to hold hands and talk about life and love years later. Cicadas buzz in the night as I lay on a trampoline; face up into the night sky, friends asleep at my side. A closeness.

Not many appreciate where they grow up. I’ve noticed this in conversations with friends from all over the world; small remarks about the lack evolving cultures, over-idealized landscapes or just patterns of overall boredom. Why is the familiar so mundane?

Maybe its a narrative that begins long before we can consciously recognize it; insisting we prove that we’re capable of much more than the small communities and ideas that raise us. As if these imperfect places and imperfect people didn’t create who we are. Perhaps its the inability to accept who we’ve been; to be brave enough to bring ourselves home. Maybe some of us never have to.

Maybe life is just one constant longing for the next big move. Waiting and willing to see all that comes next; living for our greater tomorrow. Perhaps its our natural tendency to always explore and evolve past the invisible dotted lines we were raised in. Is it possible to rest here? Allowing ourselves to stand still and feel all we’re supposed to feel; without the fear of roots binding at our feet. Maybe we’re all breathlessly running and running— constantly looking over our shoulder just long enough to finally see through clear vision; that the world was really ours all along.

Love you.

S

see more of my work and experience from Getaway House below

I can’t thank them enough for this amazing opportunity xx

Group Exhibition: The Grand Bohemian Gallery Charleston

Our opening group exhibition took place this past weekend— for Charleston’s First Friday Art Walk, hosted by The Grand Bohemian Gallery. It’s always so exhilarating and humbling to meet so many of you in person. I’m truly so appreciative of your support. Big thanks to my greatest friend & exhibit partner, Bri Wenke, for another great show!

To see a list of the few works still available, please contact:

Dayna.Caldwell@kesslercollection.com

Collaboration Project: Implied Lines with Mary Beth Thomas

An “implied form” collaboration project with Mary Beth Thomas

Models:

@madisonshaffer

@ryanjd.jpg

@theguidetojaniecej