When Home is an Old, Old Faith - Thoughts and Thinkers for Heavy Times

As I explore the concept of home in my current body of work, Hello From Home, I’d be missing a big part of my own journey of contemplating home, if I didn’t include the home, anchor, and journey, that is faith. 

I’m a Christian, which can mean a LOT of things today. Religious trauma is real, and if this post is not for you, please feel free to skip past it, or read it, and then unpack with a trained therapist.

For those curious, also walking in faith or questioning the validity of it, this is for you.

I see Christianity as a kind of home. Just like an old, lived in home, there are broken pipes, sometimes the basement floods, but it is a shelter from the wind, and most importantly — my family lives here. My sisters and brothers, my heavenly father/mother, and my most cherished invisible friend.

Not everyone gets along. There are many rooms, and they are decorated differently. With human eyes, it resembles a loose, imperfect structure holding all of us who say we want to be more like Jesus. 

I’d like to invite you to visit this home, if you are curious. Maybe you don’t know what is true anymore; You feel like you can no longer in good conscience remain affiliated with Christianity. Or, maybe you consider yourself a Christian, and feel alone in this world of cultural divides. Maybe you feel caught in a culture war, and you can’t find your way forward. Or, maybe you’ve left the Church and are wondering why anyone would ever associate with Christianity. 

If it helps, here are some writers, thinkers and faith leaders who’ve encouraged me, and helped to frame my perspectives. They express views that draw from both progressive and conservative learnings — this might feel hard, and yes — it is hard. It’s a big exercise to reach across a political divide and try to understand what informs such a wide range of beliefs. But I believe it’s integral to coexisting in that big old house I was talking about earlier.

Some books I read a long time ago, but they impacted me so much that I wanted to share them, even if not all the views of the writers are ones I hold. Other books in this collection, I have read over and over and still am reading (or listening to) now. 

If I’m correct, they are dialoging about a broken home, one that is in a two thousand year process of renovation, damage, repair, and remediation. In the words here, you’d notice the acknowledgement of this, and the hard work, of working out our faith.

In this wind-blown shelter, we come together, and try to hold some understanding of God through our faulty senses. We believe this understanding was most clearly shown in Christ. I hope we are learning his way of being. I hope we are leaning on His supernatural grace.

Anthony Ray Hinton - The Sun Does Shine

Kathleen Norris - Amazing Grace, a Vocabulary of Faith

Dorothy Day - the Long Loneliness

Shane Claiborne - the Irresistible Revolution

Serene Jones - Call it Grace

Savannah Guthrie - Mostly What God Does

Bryan Stevenson - Just Mercy

Brother William Short - The Franciscan Intellectual Tradition 

Dallas Willard - Life Without Lack

Madeline L’Engle - The Rock that is Higher: Story as Truth

Howard Thurman - Jesus and the Disinherited

Donald Miller - Blue Like Jazz

Anne Morrow Lindbergh - Gift from the Sea 

Nicole Unice - the Struggle is Real

CS Lewis - the Great Divorce

Dallas Willard - Renewing the Christian Mind

Peter Scazzero - Emotionally Healthy Spirituality

Tish Harrison Warren - Liturgy of the Ordinary 

Timothy Keller - the Reason for God

Grace Hammon - Ask of Old Paths, Medieval Virtues and Vices for a Whole and Holy Life

Thomas a’ Kempis - The Imitation of Christ

Anne Lamott - Help, Thanks, Wow

Kate Bowler - Everything Happens for a Reason and other Lies I’ve Loved

Honorable mention —

Andy Squyres is not an author that I know of, but he should write a book, and you should check out his music.

I’d be remiss not to talk about Scripture. I believe God’s nature and heart is expressed throughout history and the world — a heart that is love, justice, working for peace, and working to bring people to a place of self awareness and humility — this is demonstrated clearly in the Bible, and so it is the perspective by which I read the Bible. I read every day with awareness of passages that almost never get talked about in Churches. 

Many faith teachers will emphasize what they are drawn to the most, and I think it’s best to read the Bible to know what it says — and what it doesn’t say. The Bible is made up of sixty six books. Needless to say, there is a lot going on in there.

If the passage seems to challenge these tenements that I know to be true about God, I look for further commentaries, ask hard questions, and wrestle with it. There are passages in scripture that make me weep with sadness. I believe this wrestling is part of the faith building process. I often find myself grappling and praying “God I know that you are good — help me to see your good purpose, your character and nature, in this situation.” And while I don’t always see the resolved picture I hope for, I find that if I hold this posture while reading scripture, it strengthens me to hold that same posture as I grapple with the overwhelmingly sad world we have inherited, believing in God’s goodness, grace and love, despite the brokenness of the world around me. The Bible doesn’t give me all the answers I need, and I believe this is on purpose. Rather, it prepares me for a confusing and uncertain world by orienting me towards a good God, despite all the confusion. And in a way — that is the only answer I need — in the end, I don’t understand, but I believe God is still with us. 

You might be wondering, what does any of this have to do with art? 

I think the reason Christianity can feel ridiculous is the assertion that we are all children in need of love from a Father and a Mother.  The Bible says that Jesus who is both human and God, is one we can call “friend.” So, as Christians, we go about life dependent on an unseen parent and an unseen friend. Imagine being very committed to an imaginary friend; how silly that does seem? Like I said, I often laugh at myself, just thinking about how it might seem to someone who is not a Christian. 

And being an artist is often about suspending disbelief, letting go of what other people think, and following my heart. It’s about engaging in an honest inner dialogue. When I paint, I’m by myself a lot, and I think I can ruminate on past hurts. These kind of thoughts can really impact my creative process and the work in the end. While in my life, I’ve gone through many beliefs and perspective shifts, I find that belief in a creative God, postures me to create. As I understand both God’s, and my own, inherent nature, I am pulled away from the noise, and into awareness of endless creativity and fascination.

I’ve also found that leaning into my faith gives my mind and heart a place to rest.

Artmaking is not just a thing to do, it is a way to think, and see the world. Without an orientation towards a loving, creative God, it is easier for me to get lost in an emotional state that can weight me down. Instead of revisiting past hurts while making art, I pray, worship, and ask God/Jesus (my dear invisible friend) to help me. I feel a lot of peace doing this. As Brother William Short says in his book, Franciscan Intellectual Tradition, there are times when we can tell the mind to go to sleep — that it has done enough thinking. And to let the heart find it’s way to God, through a kind of warmth, and that warmth is love. When I am in that mode of being, I am in the best position to receive the love from an unseen being that I believe loves me, the artwork is part of my experience. 

If I could totally explain it, it wouldn’t be a mystery, and it wouldn’t be faith.

Right now I am listening to/reading the book called “Miracles” by CS Lewis, a difficult but worthwhile read on the nature of reality. This quote is giving me something to meditate on recently.

“An ‘impersonal God’—well and good. A subjective God of beauty, truth and goodness, inside our own heads—better still. A formless life-force surging through us, a vast power which we can tap—best of all. But God Himself, alive, pulling at the other end of the cord, perhaps approaching at an infinite speed, the hunter, king, husband—that is quite another matter. There comes a moment when the children who have been playing at burglars hush suddenly: was that a real footstep in the hall? There comes a moment when people who have been dabbling in religion (‘Man’s search for God!’) suddenly draw back. Supposing we really found Him? We never meant it to come to that! Worse still, supposing He had found us?”

― C.S. Lewis, Miracles 

Hey — this was a long one. Thanks for staying with me. If you want to talk about reading any of these books, or being a creative artist who walks in faith, please reach out. I’d love to connect.

Taking Them to Heart

“You’ll never be at home anywhere in this world unless you are at home within yourself”

-scar_poetry

Content Warning: this blog contains information about child sex abuse and human trafficking.

This is a different kind of blog.

My goal here is to share stories of survivors through their own words, as well as share artists and activists who are working to raise awareness in the area of child abuse and sex trafficking. Scroll down to the end to see the list. My hope is that you will take some time to sit with these stories, and process in your own way.

Thanks in advance for leaning in, and taking these stories to your heart.

As the magnitude of Epstein Files emerges from decades of secrecy, I, like you, am reading about it, feeling awful, and trying to practice extra self care this week. That’s a new approach for me, because sometimes, to be honest, self care is code for “I’ll sit this one out.”

As an empath, the emotional fatigue is real. Tears flow easily down my face. I find it hard to concentrate on the basics. The more I learn about what happened, the more I want to close that box and move on to something light. I do that — often. But here’s the thing I’ve been learning from the stories I’ve heard. Abusers desperately want the individuals who suffered, to suffer in silence. I can’t be part of furthering the isolation, because of my own discomfort.

In the end, nothing is truly more exhausting than trying to avoid living well. For me, living well includes practicing empathy, feeling things deeply, and making art. It’s hard, but the alternative of checking out, numbing feelings, and distracting myself with trivial escapes does not sit right. I might not make any change in the greater world, but I’ve learned to ignore that thought— because change starts with changing that belief. If everyone shut out heavy stories, what kind of world would we be making for survivors?

As survivor and activist Grace Tame so eloquently puts it, “As uncomfortable as it all is to talk about and hear about, nothing is more uncomfortable than the abuse itself.”

I believe it is important to acknowledge the heavy costs of leaning in. The shift — the brain fog, tears and sleepless nights — I used to see those as a signal to back away from the journey of understanding. Lately, I’ve been seeing them as an act of solidarity and love. “Weeping with those who weep” is not a cute idea, it is a powerful life practice. Through the rock in my gut and the tears pouring down my cheeks as I move through the day, I feel such a heaviness, and I know it is important to maintain acts of self care so that I can be strong enough to stand in advocacy for the long term. And so, the delicate dance of learning to absorb someone else’s heavy story, while continuing self care, begins. 

I’ve had seasons of limited capacity for this practice, and those were the very seasons when I learned that listening, holding, and sharing are not optional for me. These practices form a foundation for my life that is crucial to my experience of being in this world. To engage with stories, I lean in and learn more, take a nap, or go to the studio and express the feelings that surface. Then, I pick up another story, and learn more. After that, I try to engage a conversation, and ask myself, what is the next right step? 

I don’t know any of the Epstein file survivors, and I don’t pretend to speak for them, but I believe they want us to know what happened, care for ourselves while we learn, and deepen our understanding of the pervasive, highly lucrative, and disturbingly common practice of child sex abuse and sex trafficking. 

Many people in the Epstein files are around the same age as me. I lived a safe, sheltered life. I never had to face the situations they did. I can’t imagine what they went through, the mind games played, the harm and the trauma that remains in their minds and hearts today.

This week, I’ve explored some stories of survivors I want to share with you. Some are from the Epstein files, and others are contributions by artists and activists who want to shed light on the horrors they themselves have seen or faced. Lifting off the heavy weight covering this subject, I know you will see the illuminating light within each of these strong and radiant humans. 

I’m listing these as an outline for your practice of building awareness and self care. 

Do you also make art? Get out a sketchbook and some pencil crayons, a crochet project in process, or something you can do to physically engage creatively as you take in the stories here. I invite you to set aside an hour or two, maybe even three, if you can. Give the storytellers space to share their experience with you. Give yourself time to absorb, and weep. Then, think of a grounding activity to follow. and gather strength.

Finally, I invite you to share what you’ve learned — share it through your own way. Conversations, social media. Pass these important messages along. The survivors who have been through the horrors of abuse have incredible wisdom to offer, and a deep desire to see the world become a more safe and caring place for children.

Here are some stories to take to heart. Click on each name for the link to their story.

Virginia Giuffre - After sexual abuse in her early childhood, she had dreams of becoming a massage therapist, when she met a friendly and very posh lady named Ghislaine, who assured her that her dream would one day come true.

Scar_Poetry “I Own My Body” shares a poignant spoken word poem about the power of her body, and self love.

Marina Lacerda - An Epstein and Maxwell abuse survivor who was trying to make it through life as a recent immigrant to America with her single mom and sister, and did anything she could to help make ends meet.

Grace Tame - A child abuse survivor and activist who is educating the public about the psychological abuse that goes with child sex abuse.

Courtney Wild - Was fourteen and experiencing unstable housing, when she was approached with an opportunity to have support, and feel significant.

Luzene Hill - An artist and activist who seeks to raise awareness about the disproportionate number of indigenous women and girls who experience sex abuse in America every day.

Leena Kejriwal - Speaks about her art practice, and how she raises awareness about sex trafficking through guerrilla art in India.

Annie Farmer - A survivor of abuse by Epstein and Maxwell, is now a psychologist, and offers resources to help combat global and national exploitation around the world.

Why not the right time is actually the perfect time

I get it, it’s not the right time to buy art. Really — there is so much else to buy, like electricity bills, groceries, or that holiday you’ve been saving up for.

But when it comes to buying original art, the wrong time might actually be the perfect time, and here’s why.

Art speaks to the soul, and the soul needs care and nourishment during the harder moments in life. When life is taking unexpected turns, art can provide comfort, peace, and inspiration.

It is with the eyes of grief that the soul sometimes sees the most clearly, what really matters. And what makes sense on our worst days, is what speaks to the soul.

I’ve sure lived this. When my sister passed away, I had no attention span to read for one year — and for one full year, I only read poetry. Poetry did not make sense to me, until she passed away.

Some of the people who have spoken to me, who’ve been impacted by artwork, were experiencing complex grief. One grew up in a war zone, and lives every day with PTSD. Some have lived with the loss of a spouse or a sibling.

When everything is upside down, art makes the most sense. You may be there right now, experiencing something really unexpected. You might be trying to numb the most unimaginable feelings even just while reading this post. Can I encourage you? Look at art. Take this time to find out what fills your cup. Feast your eyes. Nourish your soul. Art doesn’t let you numb your feelings — it helps you understand them.

It might not be visual art — you might want to pick up a poetry book, or check out what theatre productions are happening near you. Have you ever been to the symphony? Now might be the best time to give yourself the gift to experience a new art form.

But, maybe visual art is something to check out, if you’ve never taken the time to simply just browse the incredible array of talent that is out there in the world, here is a place to start— check out these artists on Saatchi. That’s what I do sometimes. You can use the search tool to look up themes and colours that light you up.

Has an impulse buy ever changed your life?

I once bought an original artwork while laying on the couch, during the pandemic, when I didn’t have stable hours at work. I was browsing the website of the artist Sarah Delaney. She spoke of life as a non linear series of lines — and her connection between meaning, moving through time, and the linear composition of the artwork spoke so deeply to me, I bought the work, then and there. I never once regretted this decision. The work symbolizes that tough season of overlapping griefs, and every time I look at it —which is often — it reminds me of what it means to move forward,  when it feels like I am walking in circles.

I find that many people who stop at art fairs to take in my work have a wistful look on their face. They are interested in buying an original work, but something is stopping them. Probably, that something is valid.

Life is expensive.

And that’s why I’m not here to tell you to spend money you don’t have.

I try not to do that too.

I would however, encourage you to think about your life, and the things you own. What in your home, do you love? What, as Marie Kondo would put it, sparks joy?

Original art can encourage you to follow your dreams. It can symbolize a family value. It can take you back to a beloved spot. It can remind you of what lights you up.

Original art can give you a sense that you are connected to a greater movement, as original artwork from serious artists can gain value over time. But financial value is just one small part of its value.

If the work inspires and encourages you, I’ll stop playing the role of the artist here, and I’ll be your bestie instead, just for the moment. I want to say this loud and clear — you are worth the price. Your home is worth being a space that is comforting and inspiring for you, with an original painting hanging on the wall.

It’s not that the work is expensive — it’s that you are worth the price.

If you absolutely love original art and really wish you could purchase a piece, but feel conflicted because you are on a budget, here are some tips. They might not be appropriate for every artist, but they are worth a try.

1. Ask the artist about a payment plan (yes, I do have that! :))

2. Let the artist know your budget, and ask about archival, or smaller works (older works that are not currently part of the artist’s feature collections)

3. Consider suggesting a trade. What skill might you have that the artist could benefit from?  Artists tend to think outside the box. A fair trade of labour, or another handmade product, might be something we’d be up for.

4. Start saving — make an intention that in a certain timeframe, you want to buy an original artwork. Is it three years from now? Five years from now? Is it for a milestone birthday that is a few years away? Consider how much money you’d have to put away each month, and do it. Once again, you are worth it! After this, make a payment plan with yourself, and stick to it. You might even consider asking your favourite artist for a commission, after all the time and energy you put into saving up.

5. If you have a supportive community, consider asking for original art as a group gift for an important celebration.

Maybe you are at the end of this blog, and you still wish you could tell me that you don’t get art. You don’t get why original art is generally more expensive than you think it should be.

For one thing, you are right, you don’t get art — because to “get” something requires thinking.

You feel art.

We “get” art the most when we don’t get life.

When life makes no sense, art makes sense.

The value we put on what inspires us, and speaks to our soul, that’s really subjective. So is the price of art. The art that takes several months of layering to make, not to mention the materials, is worth the cost. Not only is it the hours of work that went into the painting, but hours, and hours of practice to get to that point to make the work. Finally, the work’s original quality, the fact that there is only one of it in the world, adds to its value. In a world of things made for the masses, it is really special to know something you have is the only one of its kind.

So, when it’s not the right time —

—when it feels like everything is going wrong, and life is upside down, think about art as a possible way — not as a shortcut to sidestep the wild path that life has handed you — but as a way to see the world differently, while walking in circles.

When life doesn’t make sense, art makes sense.

And honestly? People do far worse things with finances during these times.

Art is an acknowledgement of our inner, emotional landscape. And during the hardest times, it’s a beautiful thing to honour them.

Don't Panic - Finding Beauty in an Age of Anxiety

It feels embarrassing to be terrified of something that doesn’t exist.

The storm of emotions, that cocktail of the fear, and panic is bad — but knowing that thing happening is based on potential fears, and future worries — not an immediate threat — that makes the anxiety even more confounding.

Anxiety feels so pointless, and when I experience panic, it’s not that I don’t recognize the futility of it — the unfounded nature of my panic is never more clear.

I sit there, feeling broken, often over how senseless my tears really seem in that moment. I try to pull myself out, and it feels like a five hundred pound invisible weight is preventing that.

Thankfully, there are a few tricks I’ve learned that help me.

As simple as it sounds, humming is good, it signals the parasympathetic nervous system to kick in.

A mindfulness practice is great on a day to day basis, because it keeps me exercising that awareness that I need when the storm of panic sets in.

Exercising physically has helped me a lot.

“New Mercy”

Marcie Rohr, 2024

Remembering and reframing my life with a perspective of the big picture (and in my experience, that picture is really, really big — as in, eternal) — that also continues to ground and nurture me immensely.

Recently, I took a class to remember the way my brain works. I can now name anxiety for what it is: the limbic system (the emotional centre of the brain) going rogue and disconnecting from the cerebral cortex, or my brain’s reasoning centre. Read: raw, primal fear existing, apart from reasoning and context.

What has been helpful for me: learning to think of limbic system as my own inner child.

She is wonderful, and she is part of what makes me who I am, but if I’m in a situation that calls for context and reasoning, she is not the one to help me. She simply was not built for that purpose. That would be my prefrontal cortex, who I like to think of as the parent part of my brain.

When anxiety kicks in — the fears don’t need to be minimized, but the prefrontal cortex needs to make sense of them. I have to find ways to calm down myself, reduce the impression of an immediate threat, and let the prefrontal cortex do what she was built to do.

“Now, sweetie,” prefrontal cortex says to limbic system—

“It looks like you are very sad. Let’s take deep breaths.”

“I know you don’t feel like it, but you need to try.”

“Yes, you can”.

So.

I’m often anxious. I don’t try to be. It drives me crazy that I would be so afraid over something intangible on the outside.

One thing I’ve had to remember, over and over, is that

perfect love drives out fear.

“Pressed but not Crushed”

Marcie Rohr, 2024

Perfect Love is rooted in visibility.

Fear is rooted in invisibility

In my experience, there is nothing —

— and  I mean nothing more powerful than making eye contact with someone

and hearing them say, “I see you.”

There is honestly nothing more calming to hear from another human being.

The fear? It’s stupid —yes —

—stupid simple.

It’s part of my physiology, and now that I understand it,

I’m less afraid— maybe not of the moments, but less afraid of myself. I feel less powerless.

I’ve learned to understand the parts of me that feel unseen,

and I’m learning to see.

For my whole life learning to see the world creatively has been a way of combatting anxiety.

It seems it’s easier to know about feeling seen, when I am learning to see.

It’s part of giving limbic system a break from her own constructed, often distorted, reality.

It’s part of letting the prefrontal cortex have a moment in the sun —when she steps back to consider the simple beauty of the world around her.

Creativity helps me see deeper meaning in the emotions and fears. Along the way, I’ve learned that creativity,  especially viewing visual art,  helps engage the pathway towards a calm nervous system.

Viewing art triggers the parasympathetic nervous system, signalling to my whole body that I am safe, and I can rest.

I’ve learned recently that making visual art for as little as forty five minutes can start the process of relaxing.

The meditative practice, especially one that is familiar, has a grounding, anchoring effect. Which is why I know it’s great to make time and space for creativity on the emotionally easier days — because when the hard ones come, the outlet is established and there is already a plan in place.

“All the Gifts that Still Remain”

Marcie Rohr, 2024

There have been many days that I’m convinced making art has saved my life, because making art has has salvaged my life force. It’s redirected my brain, and given me a peaceful outlet.

I’ve had the honour of engaging with viewers who have said that just stopping and looking at the paintings was the best part of their day.

How amazing is that?

Considering, some of my art was made on days when it felt hard to get out of bed that morning, after a restless night’s sleep. The art I made was like a medicine for my soul, and to see that look on someone else’s face knowing that in that moment, it became medicine for them too. It almost makes all those super hard moments worth it.

If you are on a journey with anxiety, and need support, never be afraid to reach out to supportive and caring people around you. If this is you today, and the struggle is real, and your prefrontal cortex is not rested enough to be fully present,

I’ll say it to you now:

Beauty is waiting for you, just around the corner. This too shall pass.

I encourage you to try to take a walk, sing a little song, find some flowers to look at —even if just on calendars at the dollar store.

Take a breath — a deep, intentional one.

And never hesitate to reach out to mental health support services if you need — if you need to reach someone where you live — check out this website :

https://findahelpline.com/

Always remember, you are not alone, even when it seems that way.

You are seen.

How Was Paris?

I’ve been trying to answer to the question I’ve been asked a lot recently, which is, 

How was Paris?

How is Paris? As in, how is Paris even real? 

Paris is itself, a work of art. 

Paris is being inside of a choose your own adventure novel. 

Paris is a box of chocolates, every chocolate uniquely delicious — the best one you’ve ever had —- and the next one even better than the last. 

If you know what is good for you —

 You should really go to Paris. 

To experience the city is to walk in something brimming with thought, symbol, iconography, history, and romance. From the locks on the bridges where lovers have thrown keys into the Seine, to delicate details of each carefully created pastry, to the sparking Eiffel Tower at night, the city is a warm embrace between delight and elegance.

From November 4to to 10th 2025, my teenage daughter and I spent five days in this enchanting place.

While life throws its unfair share of curveballs, some things seem to fall together at the right time. This trip was one of those experiences. Brimming with excitement as the days of departure drew near, I wondered if Paris would not live up to the expectations that were building with each encounter I had with friends who have visited. 

Whether it was fifteen years ago, or two weeks ago, they all seemed to say the same thing: 

“Go! You will absolutely love it.” 

A common tip they all gave was not to overbook timed visits at museums. They all told me to make room for the whimsical surprises that Paris would hold around every one of her corners.

We landed with heads full of dreams. Full of plans and directions, glued to my phone wanting to make sure we navigated the city and used our short time there well, it was my thirteen year old daughter that had her head up and eyes open, and many times, led us into the world of contemporary art.

This was such a delightful surprise to experience - being led by her into the world I love and am endlessly inspired by. 

The first gallery experience was an exhibition at the Grand Palace. Setting off to Musee Orangerie in hopes of showing her the Water Lilies by Monet, we encountered the usual long line outside the museum.  Off in the distance,  the striking glass ceiling of the Grand Palais caught her eye. We decided to forget the line for the time being, and head towards the glass ceiling with the French flag beckoning us from a distance. 

The Grand Palais was built in 1900 for an international expo, welcoming inventors and artists from around the world.

As we walked, the Eiffel Tower loomed large to our left, and a grand traffic circle with statues all around us seemed to suggest we were  continuing into a historic area of the city (then again, what area of the city is not historic?)

Since the time when it was used to welcome inventors, artists, and spectators from around the world, the Grand Palais has been repurposed into a welcoming space for anyone, and given the grey skies and rain that day, it was the perfect spot for us to explore indoors, away from the steady November drizzle. 

During our visit, there was a contemporary art show of three experimental artists. Seeing the poster for the show, my daughter pleaded to check it out. Niki de Saint Phalle, Jean Tinguely, and Pontus Hulten used found objects to make sculptural works, and often works that move and make delightful, quirky noises. (My daughter said the sculptures/inventions reminded her of Wallace and Gromit). Niki de Saint Phalle was an experimental artist who filled the world with immensely bright sculptures of people, often female forms, and animals. Her bold colours and creative interpretations of form remind me a lot of Neck Chand’s masterful sculptural works. 

paper mache sculpture by Nikke De Saint Phalle

Other artists’ works we were delighted to encounter were at the Tokyo Palace, a hub for contemporary art that we found by complete mistake. Having spent hours navigating the metro system to Versailles (a feat that is not for the faint of heart), we took the bus back to a neighbourhood near the Eiffel Tower in anticipation of an intimate classical music experience scheduled for 8 pm. We experienced some metro system interruptions, and thought it would be better to head to the venue and find something to do nearby for a while. Well, find something to do, we did! 

We got off the bus around six thirty pm, knowing we were a three minute walk from our eight pm venue. A large building with the name “Tokyo Palace” was the first that came into sight.

“Mom, this is a museum of contemporary art!” My daughter observed while enthusiastically heading towards the doors.

We walked into the large black building to find the place full with people enjoying tasty dinner at the lobby cafe. After scarfing down our own meal — delicious mushroom risotto for me, and impeccably crafted lasagna for her, one large show invitation in particular was calling to us. 

“Echo, Delay, Reverb” American Art, Francophone Thought 

Curated by Naomi Beckworth, with works by Amy Sillman, Julie Mehretu, Felix Gonzalez- Torres, among a host of other artists* 

 “Heavier than Air (written form)” Julie Meheretu

This immensely dense show in both thought and works was overwhelming to try to take in within a short amount of time. Seeing an original piece by Julie Meheretu was such an incredible surprise. One of my favourite artists living and working in our era, I find her works and her art practice very compelling. 

The building was vast, the works intricate, soulful, and engaging. As the name of the show suggests, the installations seemed to express a wide array of thoughts and ideas. A true representation of thinking out loud, the works were poignantly executed, provocative and intimate, like wandering through a large, complex mind made up of well formed thoughts about justice, visibility, and hope. 

As we continued on our trip, more surprises did, indeed await us. Walking towards a bus stop, my daughter looked over and noticed a pop up contemporary art show including engaging, interactive works by a host of artists inspired by urban aesthetics. Included were largescale paper works by the illustrator collective Icinori. In all exhibitions we saw, I was struck by the unique ways art was being displayed. The creativity was not just in the making, but in the work’s unique interaction with the space. The work wasn’t on the wall, it was a wall to walk through. It was a house filled with swirling feathers. It was a tide of canvas in the shape of a wave rolling towards me.

Largescale drawings by Icinori

Throughout all of Paris, I was touched by how engaging the art galleries were for people of all ages, abilities, and walks of life. To be honest, I expected such a famous art hub to be more pretentious, and I subconsciously avoided this thinking the contemporary would be intimidating. Every time we visited these galleries, it was my daughter leading us, asking me to go inside. To my surprise, the spaces were engaging, inspiring, and welcoming. Not intimidating in the least. I’m a big believer that the coolest people are actually warm, and while I can’t say this of every experience we had in Paris, I definitely found this to be true in the authenticity radiating through the contemporary works I encountered from artists all around the world. 

“Zone of Nonbeing” by Char Jere´

Since returning to Canada, I’ve spent time reflecting on our experiences with a few friends. With one friend, we observed that Paris is a city that defines blink and you’ll miss it. When you go to Paris, (and you will go to Paris, because you must go to Paris), all these shows I’ve described will no longer be there. The artists will be showing their works in another city that will no doubt be grateful to have them. Sure, the mainstay art museums will be there, and they are wonderful in their own right. 

But if I, and my friends are right (and trust me, we generally are) — something is there, waiting for you. 

I can’t tell you what it is, but I have no doubt it will fill you with delight, giving you the most creative responses to one of the very best questions—

“How was Paris?” 

With works by Allora & Calzadilla, Laurie Anderson, Siah *Artists in Echo, Delay, Reverb include Armajani, Firelei Báez, Lynda Benglis, Tom Burr, Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, Paul Chan, Jimmy DeSana, Vivienne Dick, Mark Dion, Torkwase Dyson, Hal Fischer, Andrea Fraser, Coco Fusco, Charles Gaines, Ellen Gallagher, Andrea Geyer, Felix Gonzalez-Torres, Dan Graham, Renée Green, Adler Guerrier, Hans Haacke, David Hammons, K8 Hardy, Hock E Aye Vi Edgar Heap of Birds, Sky Hopinka, Juliana Huxtable, Char Jeré, Joan Jonas, Mike Kelley, Mary Kelly, Caroline Kent, Glenn Ligon, James Luna, Tala Madani, Tiona Nekkia McClodden, Julie Mehretu, Meleko Mokgosi, Wangechi Mutu, Lorraine O’Grady, Pope.L, Walid Raad, Kameelah Janan Rasheed, Martha Rosler, Cameron Rowland, Beatriz Santiago Muñoz, Allan Sekula, Paul Mpagi Sepuya, Cindy Sherman, Amy Sillman, Lorna Simpson, Kiki Smith, Oscar Tuazon, Fred Wilson, Cici Wu and Anicka Yi.

Exercises for the heart -- five books that spark compassion

If you’re like me, you reach for books that stretch your perspective and leave you thinking long after you’ve closed the cover. Stories can give us a tiny window into lives impacted by war, poverty, and injustice. They challenge how we see the world and ourselves, sparking compassion and a desire for enduring advocacy. I’m sharing a few gems here in case you’re looking for something that will birth reflection, stir empathy, and inspire your own journey of art or activism as you seek to respond to the narratives that are rendered below. If you’ve read any of these, I’d love to hear your reflections!

1. Long Walk to Freedom by Nelson Mandela

Mandela’s autobiography traces his life from rural childhood to political activism, twenty-seven year long imprisonment, in which he missed his children growing up as well as so many other life events. Through this entire experience, he works in a political capacity, eventually leading South Africa out of apartheid. It’s both a personal narrative and a national history of struggle, resilience, and transformation.

As Mandela was a Lawyer, his wording is often very technical. He’s not out to entertain his readers — he’s sharing the story of his life from the voice and perspective that is true to him. I found this both a challenge, but an honour to read the narrative that was so clearly meant to be expressed according to his personality, and not necessarily the preferences of the reader. 

Why I think every artist should read this book - Mandela’s persistence in holding to vision despite oppression teaches about the art of resistance, about patience with long processes, and about the power of personal narrative to become collective memory.

2. Say You Are One of Them – Uwem Akpan

Say You Are One of Them is a collection of five short stories, each told from the perspective of a child in a different African country, depicting the harsh realities they face. In Kenya, a young girl is forced into prostitution to help her family survive. In Nigeria, siblings are groomed for child trafficking, and a boy disguises himself to survive religious riots. In Ethiopia, two girls—one Christian, one Muslim—are torn apart by religious conflict. In Rwanda, a child witnesses the impact of ethnic violence on her family. Across these stories, Akpan portrays the resilience, loyalty, and small acts of hope that persist amid trauma and injustice. This is one of the heaviest, most rewarding books I’ve ever read. Kleenexes are mandatory.

Why I think every artist should read this book 

For artists, this collection offers lessons in perspective, empathy, and emotional truth. By centering the stories through children’s eyes, Akpan weaves together the tragic relationship between innocence and trauma. Artists can explore contrasting tones—fragility against brutality, hope amid despair—and experiment with storytelling that captures unseen or silenced voices.

3. On the Way to Casa Lotus – Lorena Junco Margain

Summary: Written in arrestingly beautiful prose, this is a visual artist’s memoir of healing after an experience of medical malpractice leads to lifelong medical complications. This generously honest and heartfelt read explores themes of forgiveness, vulnerability, identity, and resilience.

Why I think every artist should read this book - The book models how a creative mindset and an open heart can lead to personal transformation and inner healing, despite extraordinarily difficult circumstances. For artists, it’s a reminder that a rich, poetic perspective on life can be birthed out of the deepest brokenness and despair. It’s a beautiful reminder that our bodies deserve our attention, unconditional love, and advocacy. 

4. 1000 Years of Joys and Sorrows – Ai Weiwei

Summary: Memoir of Chinese artist Ai Weiwei, intertwining his father’s persecution as a poet during China’s Cultural Revolution with his own journey as a dissident artist under surveillance and imprisonment. It’s about bravery, freedom, art, and truth in the face of authoritarianism.

Why I think every artist Should read this book: Weiwei shows how art and politics are inseparable when it comes to human rights. His story urges artists to be fearless truth-tellers, and to see their practice not just as personal expression, but as a tool for social change and legacy.

5. Ishmael’s Oranges – Claire Hajaj

Summary: A poignant novel about a love story between Jude, the daughter of a Jewish Holocaust survivor, and Salim, the son of Palestinian exiles. The book explores the impact on their children, the racial biases they face, and their struggles against inherited trauma, cultural divisions, and political realities.

Why I think every artist should read this book -  The novel wrestles with identity, belonging, and inherited conflict — themes artists often engage with. It demonstrates the complexity of love across divides and how personal and political stories are deeply entangled. For artists, it inspires ways to explore contradictions and tensions in their own work, seeding compassion for those caught in racial and political divides.

What to Make of This Artist Statement

“My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death”

-Jesus of Nazareth

This life offers no shortage of experiences with sadness, hey?

Personal encounters, stories of loved ones,

and taking in the daily news leads to appointments with grief that seem both too common, and never comfortable.

Grief can be a catalyst for despair;

leading to feelings of hopelessness,

disillusionment, and unfathomable,

emotionally excruciating pain.

Through the making of abstract large-scale tapestries, I explore how the repurposing of material — often clothing — from one form to another, applies to the nature of transformation. This creative practice involves a complete change of things I hold in my hands. Due to rips and stains, their purpose no longer applies, and I find sadness, and comfort in the cutting and re-purposing of these daily objects that at one time clung so closely to my body,

or those of my loved ones.

From my experiences, when it comes to tragedy, it seems there is a very thin, and almost invisible silver lining.

It’s almost as if you have to squint, and at times, believe, you are seeing it,

A tiny ring of light behind dark, stormy clouds:

tragedies present opportunities for personal growth.

This is not some kind of consolation prize, but rather a mandate to make meaning out of experiences appearing entirely senseless, and unjust.

Repurposed materials, like the body, like the earth, are a composition of elements and therefore a site of inevitable transformation. The collection and reworking of otherwise discarded material is linked to this idea of life as a cycle, one that inevitably involves dying and death, but also the creation of something new, and it seems, no matter how hard I try to parse the two; they are eternally, inextricably linked.

The tapestries are reminiscent of blankets, an enduring universal symbol of comfort through the ages. The paintings reference emotional landscapes, suggesting that the way through the grief processes is inevitably a journey through the terrain of the psyche, and for those who conceive of it — the soul, and the spirit. While much of the journey is overwhelming and out of control, there are some possible directions that can lead to the cultivation of interpersonal growth. As a fellow grief experiencer, I reach for a semblance of control and when it comes to the artistic process, I for once, get to be the storyteller. I transform found materials into artworks, and explore the nature of grief, creating a visual language of lamentation, and comfort, all the while taking my own time to heal, question, and process.

The textile works are both intricate and large, inviting the viewer to look closely and step back, mirroring the process of tuning into emotional needs and also reframing, or gaining perspective.

While the process of change as a result of grief is inevitable, it does seem there is one aspect of this arduous journey that remains possible to control, or at least, to hope for: that transformation leaves room for interpersonal growth, despite all the heartache, headaches, anger, rage, insomnia, and inexpressible sadness.

Growth is an open word that can mean many things for many people: For me, this has meant abandonment of fear, deepening of empathy, humility, appointments with divine love, gratitude and joy. This art is the means by which I explore the nature and outcomes of transformation, and that elusive silver lining, if I am squinting hard enough to see it.

Spirited - Artist Statement

Here is my artist statement for my recent series, Spirited

Spirit is ever the evasive word. Slipping in and out of conceptions of reality, it is the very definition of something loosely held. It’s root word being breath, describes something

of the expanse beyond, and tiny spaces within.

Her Element, Marcie Rohr, 2023

In the end, spirit may mean different things to different people, but spirited seems to be something rare in this world we can all agree on. Gritted teeth. Tenacity. Advocacy. Vibrancy. Relentless stubbornness doused in good fun. Determination. Endurance.

I make textiles because they connect me with a past marked by habits of work done by hand. Reminders of the endearing, enraging, monotonous grind of “women’s work” are not far off when my hands are busy. Stitching large scale tapestries, I think of old hands, maybe from one hundred years ago, chapped from washing dishes in scalding water, or arms hauling a load of wet laundry to hang on a line. I try to find the balance between bemoaning this archaic domestic work, and accepting it’s essence as a dying art form. When I’m bent over a textile, holding it in my lap, or stitching yarn as it hangs on the wall, I feel a kinship, a connection, a kind of doting tenderness flowing through me, that is, devoted attention to what I’m doing, right then and there. I’ve found that in this practice of artmaking, nothing I do can be overlooked; every square inch calls for intention. I could use a sewing machine, but I don’t. I could sit in a chair at a desk but I don’t, I sit on the floor, feet often falling asleep, surrounded by scraps of found cloth and glue and paint. The devotion to simplicity in the making is so fierce it could be called perverse, with all the ways I could make things easier for myself, but I don’t.

Hooray for Life, Marcie Rohr, 2024

There is something in the makeup of these textile pieces, and the layers of the paint, grown from all that focus; puzzles woven into their form, not unlike complex emotions colouring personalities; myself, people in my life I call family and friends, and undoubtedly you, too. The artwork, woven or painted from undivided intention, and determination, takes on its own unique vibrancy, similar to a person: unique, beautiful, obstinate, sometimes hard to love.

In short: spirited.

The textiles hanging like that, all loose on the wall, especially exude a kind of vulnerability that I’m aiming for. They are anything but performative. In this way, they remind me of a stubborn streak I have,  determination —much to my ego’s chagrin— not to make art to evoke a sense of wonder, and therefore, detachment from the grind of reality — the wet laundry, the dough, or whatever work that so far today has been left undone in my world. I want to build art for connection, a kind of embodiment of the posture that we as humans might adopt when we want to relate to each other, and not impress each other. It’s a very hard thing for an artist to do, all poised for performance, and I still don’t have it right. This series is simply another iteration of my attempt that for years I’ve been working on.

It must be true that making art is a slow, monotonous grind.

Signs of Life, Marcie Rohr, 2024

Grandmother-root-word spirit is connected to the ancient and ephemeral, but the picture we imagine in spirited is the exact opposite— to be unflappable, a stick in the mud. Is someone spirited really ephemeral? Not so much. They fill the room with themselves, in all their human imperfection, entirely unapologetic for the fire in their eyes.

Spiritual Transformation. Marcie Rohr, 2024

These pieces, I hope, exude something similar. Rooted in desire to encourage the expression of being alive, not just despite, but through the grind of monotony that is the work of my hands. (While I have skin and bones structuring my essence, what am I doing with myself)?

Spirited illustrates a desire to rise to an occasion with strength, and courage, despite a host of imperfections and obstacles — and believe me when I say in my life, there is an abundance of both. Spirited articulates a desire to say “I am here” while I am here, in the here and now. With the love and tenderness, the slow grind of cultivating many layers of these works, they feel complete when they resemble topographical landscapes, often areal views. They speak of a relentless craving to see beyond circumstantial obstacles, and to soar, weightless.

At the same time they are expressions of intent to dig inward, journeying through layers of mind and essence and finding things inside, strange and beautiful pieces of a grand puzzle that will never be quite complete, but still, I fiercely love.

She, too, is a Soft, Growing Thing. Marcie Rohr, 2023

If spirited connotes a desire to rise to an occasion, what occasions does this life relentlessly call for? Ones of connection, vulnerability, the slow grind of kindness. Relentless compassion. The granting of wisdom, the monotonous work of forgiveness.

I slog through in hopes of crafting a life that looks a little bit like art.

And about these works, I hope, if you sit long enough with them, they will begin to look a little like life.

Blossom Pressure

Blossom Pressure

Am I the only artist who feels a mixed pull to create flowers?

Symbolic beauties that they are…well

— I mean —YES,

they are beautiful.

So why do I have so many mixed feelings about painting them? Maybe just for that reason.

Part of me is contrarian by design. Growing up, art was a way to resist unspoken expectations, especially about womanhood. That could be a whole different blog post.

I remember the tension between the expectations of female loveliness, and my own awkward human experience. I was unsettled with myself. I’ve never seen myself as elegant. When I was younger, I had bad posture, awkward limbs (I was affectionately nicknamed Gumby in my pre-teen years), and I could (and still can) be seen wearing my heart on my sleeve. I was enamoured with visions of what a perfect female was, and the mythical woman of my imagination was always evading me. She was gentle, I was forceful. She was alluring, and I felt like I drove every  one away. She was cute, I was gangly.

She was, she was, she was, she was…not me.

So when it came to painting flowers, it felt disingenuous. Art was an extension of myself. Flowers didn’t seem to be. I found myself painting them here and there, while feeling heaping dose of imposter syndrome.

Over the years, as art became more and more an extension of myself, but sales and financial success evaded me, well-meaning friends and family would sometimes say, “You should paint flowers — people ALWAYS buy paintings with flowers.” And while this advice was well meaning, it did make my inner conflict worse. I know it wasn’t meant this way, but it felt like a reminder that the symbolic loveliness everyone wanted didn’t represent me.

The meaning I made up in my head was that everyone wanted something in their life.  That something wasn’t me. And still, I wanted me in my life. I really liked who I was, awkward and all.

Over time, I pushed deeper into the realm of human emotions and painted abstract pieces like Complex Notes, and In Formation, that I felt were true expressions of my inner world. They still represent the deepest, fullest extent of my artistic and emotional worldview, and for this, I will love them till the day I die.

Collectors who have purchased some of those paintings are my people.

They don’t tell me to paint flowers, just because flowers sell.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

There the flowers were, in my mind’s eye — in my eye’s eye, blooming and swaying.

And as I took them in with deeper awareness, I realized they didn’t always seem so elegant and perfect. What I began to notice was their unfathomable variety.

Long, short, big; tiny, confident, or demure.

Flowers that smell amazing, and some that don’t.

Flowers that grow in swamps, in deserts, and everywhere in between.

They aren’t objects of beauty — they are the earth’s artwork, unparalleled in variety, shape, and form. They represent the most elaborate array of colour nature offers. They are bold, bright, brave, and, yes, beautiful. Their connection to the earth’s ability to pollinate plants and trees suggests that they are a visual reminder of the health and wellbeing of our planet. Subconsciously, I think they remind us all that we as a planet are alive, and at least for today, we are, at least somewhat, okay.

While my aversion for painting them didn’t grow, my fascination with them did. One day, while contemplating my own artistic practice, I thought, again, about flowers.

This time, I thought about a single flower. Closing my eyes, I imagined a bud opening to the world. With that, I imagined a feeling of doubt. What if every flower unfolds with a mix of fear, and questioning of their own loveliness?

What if every flower that ever existed, when still a bud, worries they will never bloom?

One day I ran into an acquaintance. He was holding a SLR camera, taking photos of the blossoming cherry trees. While he adjusted the lens for another photo, we chatted about the time of year that Vancouverites converge upon cherry trees with cameras.

He said, “You know, I feel this weird blossom pressure. Like every year I feel this need to go and get that perfect shot.”

And the phrase struck me like lightning. Blossom pressure.

I immediately knew what he meant. I felt it too; I’ve been feeling it all my life.  Pressure to exude loveliness. Pressure, to bloom in my own fragrant way. Pressure to be beautiful. Pressure to capture beauty, and exude it while doing so.

And yet, truly, I’ve always identified and loved the more awkward, less conventionally appealing parts of myself. Parts that reflect my imperfection and humanity. It’s always been a hard thing to explain, but I don't say things like “I’m awkward” wanting to change that, or because I’m chronically insecure. It’s something I recognize in myself and celebrate. I just don’t know always how to express that. I honestly can’t find a better quote about this than by John Reuben, I heard as a teenager: “I’m insecure, no big deal.”

Blossom pressure.

That one flower, ever wondering if it will ever bloom.

With this phrase in my head, I went back to the (quite literal) drawing board. I decided to resist the pressure to render anything perfectly. I tried my hand at “ugly” flowers. I found inspiration in awkward, unconventional ways of rendering blossoms; in the spirit of Paul Klee’s Sky Blossoms Over Yellow House, or Flower Field by Eric Carle.

With new creative direction, I started a one hundred day drawing project. At the time of writing this, I’m on day sixty one. Each time I want to draw a flower, I remind myself to resist the pressure. I celebrate the variety of shapes, not just of the flower pedals, but of the wobbliness of my own lines. I celebrate all the variety. Some of them do end up looking elegant, some don’t. I love them all. To see updates on the project, check out updates on Instagram.

I also began exploring each flower’s unique story. I’ve learned their names, origins, and symbolic meanings. Incredibly helpful to this process  has been Flowers and Their Meaning, the Secret Language of Flowers, by Karen Azoulay.

As I become more comfortable with retelling the stories of flowers, I have a feeling this is going to lead to a spring series, to share flowers that are perfectly imperfect, a tad bit awkward, but absolutely delightful in a thousand different ways.

When the new blossoms emerge in the spring of 2025, I’ll whisper to them.

“I knew — I always knew — you were going to blossom.

You are meant to share your unique loveliness with the world around you. Don’t ever try to be something you’re not. You are perfectly imperfect, lovely and lovable just the way you are.”

YES, it’s a bit eccentric. But let’s be real. If I was a flower, I would not be a rose. Not every flower is a rose. (I would probably be more of a burdock).

In the great garden of life, there is room for unspeakable variety, and there is room for every one of us.

Sights for Sore Eyes

I’m writing an entry that I started when I was recently in Mexico. Moments of rest during my times away from home have become really important nuggets of inspiration. I’ll start with my entry written one morning in a beautiful jungle town.

Some days aren’t quite as idyllic as this one. This morning I woke up in the picturesque town of Sayulita, in a dreamy boutique hotel with a rooftop pool overlooking the town and surrounding jungle hills.

We will probably take a stroll toward the oceanfront cafes to find some breakfast, and that will be the most pressing task for this effortlessly beautiful day. Looking around, everything is a delight to admire. When it comes to finding inspiration, there are far worse places to be.

Some days are not nearly as dreamy, and I’ve found that days like these can seem so distant, that I wonder if they ever truly existed.

As an artist, I’ve realized that just having a collections of photos on my phone is not adequate. I found I don’t take the time to really look through the photos, and when I do, I focus on the look of the photo, not always connecting to the feeling of the moment as it was my experience back then.

For my series Before the Fall, I wanted to figure out how to keep a repository of positive memories handy, as nostalgia became an increasingly important element in my work. One of the ways I did this was through music. I kept a playlist of songs that took me back to certain moments, just by the feel of their tune. I kept adding songs to my “Before the Fall” playlist all throughout the year that spoke the feeling I wanted to be evident in the painting. That and I made SURE TO DANCE while painting. This was absolutely essential to the making of this work!

Another way I accessed memories, and also planned a future painting, was in taking a lot more time than usual to look at the light and shadows, and the people, and any other details that I might not have noticed even when I took the photo. In the era of constant scroll, I have found there is so much to be said about simply taking the time to look longer at my own photos.

The songs, taking the time to look, and lean into the happy feelings there, have kept me dancing while painting on many a rainy Vancouver afternoon.

Remembering the warmth of the sun on my skin, sunlit mornings, and humid jungle air in my lungs, has elevated my mood and energy levels on more than one occasion. This habit has also led to my focus on representing the uplifting essence of a memory, as I did in my painting After Spring, shown above, as opposed to the form and structure of an image, like the beautiful one below, even though I like to represent images sometimes too (I can’t wait to paint this one!).

Through my recent paintings, I feel as if I’ve started an experiment. Do the joyful, playful feelings I entertain while in the process of making the work radiate out and become obvious to viewers?

From my recent experience at the Harmony Arts Festival, the answer seems to be a resounding yes. The word that kept coming up in response to the paintings was “refreshing.” As viewers walked into my art space, I could see their eyes light up as they looked over the paintings. So many of them said, “these paintings are so refreshing!”.

It’s hard for me to find the words to describe how happy that made me to hear; because that’s exactly what I was hoping for. People felt the brightness, and the essence of what a vacation (or any moment of peace and joy) is meant for, just through viewing the works.

If you take a gander through my series, Before the Fall, and feel like you are on a sun soaked, bright and colourful adventure, I’ll be so glad to hear about it! It is yet to be determined if bright, colourful forms are what people want to collect, but I’m okay with that. I want to infuse a little brightness and joy into someone’s life, even if it’s just enjoying the work for a moment.

I’ve already selected some images from my recent trip that will be the inspiration for future paintings. But lately, I’ve also been finding lots of peace and joy in drawing flowers, and taking walks near home, and I can’t wait to take those happy feelings to the studio when the sun is a little less warm and the fall rains come.

That, and I’ll have to start working on my new playlist.

Do you have an incredible moment from a recent adventure that you want used as inspiration for a commissioned work? This fall I am taking a few commissions, and space is limited. Contact me if you are interested.

How do you hold on to your special memories? I would love to know.