Article: Hidden within Layers
Hidden within Layers
You know that warm, fuzzy feeling you get when everything clicks into place? Like when the characters in your favorite book finally admit to each other, after 346 excruciating pages, that they're in love (or at least that's how long it took Elizabeth to accept Darcy - I checked). Or when the timer on the oven dings, signaling the lasagna is ready right as your friends walk in the front door, bottles of wine in hand. Or, maybe even that feeling when everyone you love is in the same room and you think to yourself, "If only this could be every day."
That's how I feel when I'm painting.
Naturally, there are messy parts. You can't spill every last emotion you have onto the canvas and expect it not to be messy. Every time someone doubted you. Every cross-country move. Every anxiety attack. Every no-turning-back life decision. It's all in there.
There's the part where you think, "Oh hell, did I completely and utterly ruin this to the point of no return?" Is it all going to spontaneously erupt into flame? No, you decide - you're not giving up, not this time. There's the part where you think perhaps you've finally broken through, but you're not entirely sure, so you go back to step one, only to repeat it six more times. And finally, there's that part where it all comes together and you stand there, staring at the finished piece, wondering if you just had an out-of-body experience. Because it's a strange feeling seeing your insides on your outsides, all those emotions alchemized and now hidden within the layers of color and texture.
My only hope when you look at my work is that some of my messy human emotions connect with some of yours. Because that emotional connection between us? That's what makes this all worthwhile.
And that's why I find myself here, writing to you about my work and my practice.
Because as we're just now starting to see signs of spring here in the Pacific Northwest, I'm also emerging from a long, dark winter of my own. We, as humans, operate cyclicly with the seasons just as plants and other animals do. Our modern society has done all it can to lessen that, with the fires of industry ceaselessly burning day and night, but I choose to follow my body's knowledge and rest when it calls for it. And with deep rest inevitably comes clarity and change.
You see, I resisted writing about my work, and writing in general, for a long time. Content to hide away behind my short Instagram captions and curated imagery, only giving the world the smallest slice of both my work and myself. And while I will continue to be a fiercely private person, I'm no longer afraid of having an open dialogue.
But why am I here, writing a blog on my website? Because it's a way for me to connect directly with you away from all the noise and chaos of social media.
I can't promise weekly essays or monthly collection releases, but I can promise that there's a shift happening, that the tide is rolling out and the things that were once hidden will become visible. And I hope you'll join me in discovering what that looks like.
—
If you'd like to come along with me on this journey, please consider subscribing if you’re not already. I'd be honored to have you in my community.
Until next time,
Sara
That's how I feel when I'm painting.
Naturally, there are messy parts. You can't spill every last emotion you have onto the canvas and expect it not to be messy. Every time someone doubted you. Every cross-country move. Every anxiety attack. Every no-turning-back life decision. It's all in there.
There's the part where you think, "Oh hell, did I completely and utterly ruin this to the point of no return?" Is it all going to spontaneously erupt into flame? No, you decide - you're not giving up, not this time. There's the part where you think perhaps you've finally broken through, but you're not entirely sure, so you go back to step one, only to repeat it six more times. And finally, there's that part where it all comes together and you stand there, staring at the finished piece, wondering if you just had an out-of-body experience. Because it's a strange feeling seeing your insides on your outsides, all those emotions alchemized and now hidden within the layers of color and texture.
My only hope when you look at my work is that some of my messy human emotions connect with some of yours. Because that emotional connection between us? That's what makes this all worthwhile.
And that's why I find myself here, writing to you about my work and my practice.
Because as we're just now starting to see signs of spring here in the Pacific Northwest, I'm also emerging from a long, dark winter of my own. We, as humans, operate cyclicly with the seasons just as plants and other animals do. Our modern society has done all it can to lessen that, with the fires of industry ceaselessly burning day and night, but I choose to follow my body's knowledge and rest when it calls for it. And with deep rest inevitably comes clarity and change.
You see, I resisted writing about my work, and writing in general, for a long time. Content to hide away behind my short Instagram captions and curated imagery, only giving the world the smallest slice of both my work and myself. And while I will continue to be a fiercely private person, I'm no longer afraid of having an open dialogue.
But why am I here, writing a blog on my website? Because it's a way for me to connect directly with you away from all the noise and chaos of social media.
I can't promise weekly essays or monthly collection releases, but I can promise that there's a shift happening, that the tide is rolling out and the things that were once hidden will become visible. And I hope you'll join me in discovering what that looks like.
—
If you'd like to come along with me on this journey, please consider subscribing if you’re not already. I'd be honored to have you in my community.
Until next time,
Sara
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