Den of the Wild Human During COVID-19

As a visual artist, I want to honor the places providing us shelter right now.

The premise of my postponed solo ‘Den of the Wild Human’ came from my challenging transition to working from home when I started painting — on top of feeling half-crazed taking on this new life path, I had to create the physical space that gave me the mental space to nurture this change.

Now the COVID-19 pandemic has made domestic spaces our sole and often solitary place to live all parts of our lives. Stay-at-home scenes now conjure a collective awareness of this time in our history. From shelters against the elements to sacred places for dreaming up future realities, for many, our homes have become our central place of being during lockdowns. Since my city’s stay-at-home announcement, I have been painting submissions of stay-at-home scenes and sharing the stories of the people living in them. Beginning with a monochrome palette, I gradually include additional colors to draw attention to an overly familiar space. The vibrancy of the paintings celebrate how the same four walls we’ve been looking at are sheltering us.

As this daily series continues, the unfolding of our collective coping reveals a reckoning of emotions - from spiraling anxiety to bashful gratitude. During this time when we can’t be together physically, I hope these glimpses at lives simultaneously lived alongside our own grant us kinship.

Much health and safety to everyone.

xo Diana

(Excerpts below. View the entire series, Shelter Me Shelter You, here.)

Day 4 | “Before the pandemic, living alone offered a great respite from society. Now it’s threatening to become a personal hell of loneliness. But on the bright side my apartment has never been cleaner, and I’ve gotten pretty good at making homemade pasta! Next step: bread.”

— Sam in Seattle, Washington

Day 7 | “I’ve been ringing press secretaries and politicians in my tiny shoebox and watching live-streams of the Director General of Health report increasing cases of the pandemic, though only 6 in hospitals. The guy I’m seeing w a long three musketeers goatee came over for a final snug and sadly this is how I will remember him for the next month. I’ve bought a stick blender and a snorkeling kit and am gonna wiz some frozen bananas and go peruse the shallow parts of the deep blue sea when this lockdown is over and I can again trapeze around this pacific island in said muskateer’s van.”

— Julie in Wellington, New Zealand

Day 13 | “If everything had gone on as planned, I’d be in the UK right now where I had planned to hunker down for a few weeks to do some research, studio visits, and sort of do a self-imposed residency—mostly in Scotland this time around. I’ve leaned into the nomadic lifestyle over the last year especially. Normally my apartment, a two-bedroom upper in a little blue collar Wisconsin town, is let out to AirBnb tenants while I’m away. Now I find myself back here and utilizing a space I’ve hardly been in over the past year, and remembering how much I love the light in here…”

— Kate in Outagamie County, Wisconsin

Day 15 | “My kids know there’s a new illness and that since it’s so new there’s no medicine for it yet. They know we’re staying away from family and friends to give the doctors and scientists time to make that medicine…Those we know who have contracted COVID-19 so far appear to be recovering. But I know not everyone is so fortunate. And without widespread testing and with PPE and other medical equipment in very short supply, I’m concerned about what comes next.”

— Sarah in St. Louis, Missouri

Day 24 | “Honestly my personal experience changes everyday. I waver between gratitude, grief, anger and guilt. The end of 2019 was a strange one, I was in a really toxic working environment and when I became unemployed...I was focused on making 2020 a better year. I was so excited about my new job, my upcoming wedding, the election…I hope that in the rush back to ‘normalcy’ we remember that some things desperately need to be revisited…”

— Masha in San Francisco, California

Day 38 | “I find it hard these days to stay focused for long periods of any consequence. At first it was easier to just put my head down, seclude myself, and work. I think I had a false sense that it would either be over sooner and some normality would return. Or perhaps I just didn’t understand how much of my life was a simple routine, and how that routine really masked a real understanding of time. The length of a day is different now. These days, I need to break up the work, and break up my day into clear segments. Everything is uncertain, nothing is a given. I guess it’s always like that. I just am realizing it more frequently. Week 6 begins.”

— MJ in St. Louis, Missouri

Day 51 | “When the pandemic began in China and the lockdown happened in January, I was starting to worry about my family. For years we have had a weekly video call so they kept me updated as things progressed. We stayed cautious here in the United States too, and I began limiting our outings in January. I desperately want everything to go back to normal soon…”

— Wendy in Westborough, Massachusetts

Follow along to this daily series on Instagram.

Diana Zeng: Outside In, A Solo Exhibition Presented by the Bonsack Gallery

DIANA ZENG: OUTSIDE IN

August 23 – October 1, 2019

The Bonsack Gallery presents Outside In, a solo exhibition by Diana Zeng, featuring new works that explore the different elements we welcome in from the outside world. Zeng probes the extent to which what is foreign becomes familiar, from nature to unknown cultures. The selection of works brings together vibrant large-scale oil paintings on canvas, gestural expressions on paper, and a gathering space centered around a reimagined fire pit infused with the cultural motifs of her interracial family. Zeng employs this spectrum of approaches, from the concrete to the abstract, mirroring ways in which what is found outside becomes taken in, changed, and reconstructed. Unifying her lived experiences between the American Midwest and her ancestral home in China, Zeng confronts innate reactions toward the Other, not as stranger, but as kin. 

In her life size oil paintings, Zeng juxtaposes her familial experiences, depicting her husband in a courtyard in her father’s hometown of Linxia in the Gansu province of China, and herself in the backyard of her fathers-in-law’s home in Grinnell, Iowa in the United States. The flat figures in her paintings sit centered and surrounded by their lush and intricate environments, casting the focus away from the individuals and onto the complexities around them. Rendered through their contours, the identity of the figures are discernible only to those who know them intimately. This anonymity creates space for the viewer to inhabit the scene, mirroring how Zeng and her husband have traded places and turning a personal history into one that is universally accessible.

Influenced by Chinese calligraphy and ink-wash painting, Zeng distills nature onto paper in her Seasons of Change series combining acrylic with charcoal, china maker, and soft pastel. The abstraction of nature through instinctual gesture captures a moment in the changing of seasons, creating a new depiction from this cyclical process. Zeng worked in a fast and intuitive manner in this series, whereas a slow and deliberate process was used in rendering her oil paintings. Her practice is a physical embodiment of how certain aspects of the outside world are readily accepted, whereas the integration of other differences requires time and consideration.

In the center of the gallery, Zeng reimagines the fire pit — a gathering place initially used for human survival and one her husband introduced as a family tradition. This installation, The Kindling, is composed of a Chinese porcelain fish bowl planter, wood vase stand, concrete garden benches, semi-gloss exterior paint, paper, and pen. The porcelain vase standing in the center, procured and haggled for from a Chinese vendor at a local Asian supermarket, is reminiscent of the various oriental planters in Zeng’s childhood home. The concrete benches, while found at local garden stores and backyards, harken back to the traditional folk art of brick carving Zeng discovered in her father’s hometown of Linxia in the Gansu province of China. The entire fire pit is painted red ‒ the color of fire, an auspicious color in Chinese culture, and the color of blood, which is reverently shared in a family lineage and violently spilled between humans.

Around this fire pit, Zeng encourages visitors to sit and add in their own kindling in the form of regrettable inflammatory actions or remarks to be burned away.

Dear Gatherer, 

Write down a time when you treated someone as an Outsider. Throw it in the fire pit to be burned away as kindling. Let’s create a warm place for gathering.

The artist invites viewers to work through the tension between belonging and alienation that defines identity. Zeng questions the arbitrary boundary we set up between ourselves and everything outside ourselves, examining the different degrees to which certain elements become welcomed or Othered.

Thank you to Donya Allison and Jessica Hunt for making this exhibition possible.

Images provided by the artist and Jennifer Korman Photography.

New Painting: The Impact of Entrepreneurship

I’m honored to share this commission from Washington University in St. Louis, my alma mater, for Professor Cliff Holekamp to celebrate his retirement and impact in launching the university’s entrepreneurship program. His commitment to entrepreneurs went beyond the university. In fact, Professor Holekamp’s unyielding support in building the St. Louis startup community directly led me to becoming an artist.

Photo provided by Washington University in St. Louis - Olin Alumni and Development

Right before I began painting full-time, I worked at a nonprofit supporting entrepreneurs through grants and services. Experiencing the potential to truly create something from nothing gave rise to my belief that I could pursue art seriously. While I was studying business in school, I could not have imagined that I would be asked to contribute my work as an artist when I became an alum. The impact that so many people have had on me is immense, and I just want to give my heartfelt thanks to Cliff for his role in shaping the environment and energy that gave birth to this new life I’m living.

Experiencing a Moment: Reflections on Work + Group Show

Thoughts leading up to my upcoming group show at Houska Gallery ‒ Dec. 14th opening reception from 5-8pm. Show will be up until mid-Feb. 2019.

We live a fragile and finite existence. That truth has guided my leap into painting since the beginning. My past year and a half of painting has been an exploration of the fleeting nature of life. In many ways, a life is a collection of moments that flow unmercifully from the present and into memory. This recognition shapes the way I live in and out of the studio, revealing itself in my practice of focusing all attention on an experience not only when in the moment but also on the canvas after its occurrence.

From my first panoramic view of Teton mountain range to a man’s quiet deliberation of flowers in a nursery, these moments are extraordinary in their ephemeral nature. I suppose this is what moved me early on to paint bouquets of flowers, radiant in their short-lived beauty.

In the studio, I give myself over to a single mindedness that refocuses time. Away from physical distractions, I exist with my thoughts and reflect on the intricacies that make an everyday moment profound or a rare experience universal. This reflection of the past helps make me more aware of the present.

The following five paintings, part of my upcoming group show at Houska Gallery, reveal moments that have deepened my understanding of myself and my relationship with the world. From grand vantage points to mundane scenes, the works focus on the essence of a moment with vibrant clarity and the stillness of introspection.

I Shouldn’t Be Here

72 x 60 in., oil on stretched canvas
2018

This work captures a candid moment observed by the artist of her husband contemplating choices at a plant nursery for their garden. In his gentle touch, the reality of what strength and masculinity can look like becomes vividly clear. The scene exists in opposition not only to strict ideas of gender but also to the figure’s own personal struggle with his ongoing existence as a cancer survivor. The marital relationship between the artist and her husband is shown through the notion of shared assets ‒ the figure’s yellow skin is the color typically cast onto the artist’s Asian identity.

I Shouldn’t Be Here Ⅱ

72 x 48 in., oil on stretched canvas
2018

In this piece, the artist captures her husband’s sudden exuberance upon seeing flowers along a path. His animated display of hysterical wonder stands contrary to the idea that men shouldn’t show strong positive emotions. Placed in relation to “I Shouldn’t Be Here”, the pair of works begin to offer a broader view of masculinity. The second figure in the composition is the other person on the path, the unseen viewer. This is where the artist stands, looking beyond to the unknown path. She at once commits to the journey ahead while acknowledging the lack of Asian American women represented in her chosen life path.

From This Outlook I See My Father

36 x 48 in., oil on stretched canvas
2018

This depiction of the Snake River Outlook on U.S. Highway 89 in Grand Teton National Park represents artist’s first view of the Teton Range during a family trip in 2017. In the artist’s vantage point, her father stood looking out at the edge of the plateau in his usual stoic manner. The calm of the scene enveloped her father, erasing, for a moment, an erratic personal history.

First, Look Back

20 x 16 in., oil on canvas panel
2017

This view from the north-west side of Jenny Lake in Grand Teton National Park is seen while looking back and hiking away from the mountain range. In this easily overlooked experience, the realization of what has been traversed to reach this present moment comes into view. The title is the phrase the artist declared to the rest of the group on the trail at this time. This work, “First, Look Back” is accompanied by its immediate successor “First Look Back”.

First Look Back

24 x 18 in., oil on stretched canvas
2017

This landscape of Grand Teton National Park from the north-west side of Jenny Lake depicts the view gained from looking back at the Teton Range. This work was painted in succession to "First, Look Back". Its relationship to its predecessor emphasizes the ever-changing nature of life and perspective. The two different portrayals of the landscape reflect how subjective reality can be, changing not only from second to second but from person to person.

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Artist Collaboration: Diana Zeng x Resident Design

Originally published by Resident Design here.

This collaboration with Tristan Sopp of Resident Design brings to life Donna the Painted Turtle, a 3D DIY paper sculpture.

What made you interested in doing a collaboration with Resident?
Tristan’s been a dear friend for years, and his journey of exploration and dedication to Resident since the beginning made such an influence on me as a creative. It’s amazing seeing the people you love succeed. When I started painting full-time, Tristan was one of the first people to reach out to me with openness and support so this collaboration came about naturally. I love the tangible qualities of art ‒ the textures and feel of a surface ‒ so being able to bring in a three dimensional aspect is truly exciting.  

Walk us through your design process for this specific creation - what influenced the final work?
My current series “Seasons of Change”, which is influenced by Chinese calligraphy and the coming of Spring, was my inspiration from the start. The spirit of the work felt natural to incorporate into a design that connects flora and fauna into a Resident sculpture. The designs were painted instinctively with very little planning and without sketches, and I made one after another after another.

Did you run into any challenges when creating a design for a 3D paper product?

I was mindful that the sculpture would have hard edges and concaves so I painted the design sheets to create an allover effect without leaving too many blocks of negative space. As a three dimensional piece, the final sculpture naturally creates different perspectives that obstruct different parts of the painted design so I did not want to distract from that experience.  

If you had to choose one Resident to hangout with (or to hang in your house!) who would it be?

Tim the Mammoth has been hanging on our walls since Resident’s early days so he’s my guy! His tusks are something else.

Any podcast, album or show suggestions for our community to check out while they build their next Resident?

I listened to the podcast Dear Sugars with Cheryl Strayed and Steve Almond while working on these designs. The raw honesty and love they infuse into their advice to “the lost, lonely and heartsick” have a way of making me feel more free while creating. I switched between that podcast and Adele’s record “25”, and I was partial to side B crooning “Love in the Dark” with an extra sprinkle of vigor. I’ve always considered Janelle Monáe a powerhouse//treasure and after recently seeing her music video for “PYNK”, I know what my next record on repeat will be.

What are you working on next? Any suggestions for what we should be making next??

I'm currently working on pieces that reflect the beauty in daily moments with the people and landscapes that draw me in. Two of my large-scale works capture moments when my husband, Sam, was enthralled by the flowers and foliage surrounding him. As for the next Resident designs, I grew up in the water as a swimmer so I’d love to see more aquatic Residents ‒ an octopus or stingray or starfish or seahorse!"

See our collaboration Donna the Painted Turtle here!

Painting A Feeling: A Conversation with St. Louis-Based Artist Diana Zeng [ALIVE Magazine]

Originally published by ALIVE Magazine here.

By Lena Crown

“If you had a year to live, what would you do?” Those words altered St. Louis-based artist Diana Zeng’s path forever. Her husband had been diagnosed with cancer, and moments felt too precious to squander doing anything less than what she loved most: to paint. Now, three years after her graduation from Washington University in St. Louis, Zeng has blossomed into her identity as an artist. We sat down with Zeng over coffee to discuss her inspirations, the intimate nature of her work, and the terror—and thrill—of committing to a full-time creative career.

You have a fascinating story. Tell me more about your background as an artist.
I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t creating, but it was something I did for myself. When I was young, my parents signed me up for a Chinese ink painting class during Sunday school, but it didn’t register to me as a formal art class—it was more an opportunity to understand my Chinese culture. In Chinese calligraphy, characters are designed to distill a word into an image. That’s how I got used to creating things—how do I feel something should look? I took my first formal painting class in my freshman year of college. I felt like an anomaly. I remember painting a still life, a skull, and I looked around and saw only neutral colors. Mine was purple. I’m not concerned with what my subject “is” in reality. Everyone experiences reality differently.

I received an art minor, but I never took another painting studio after that. I actually majored in marketing in the business school at Washington University.

What drew you to marketing?
Marketing is as creative as you can be on the business side. And my dad gave me some advice: in college, take classes in the major that interests you but that also allows you to explore. In school, I ended up really delving into queer theory. I could only have done that because my major allowed me to explore other interests.

When you began your artistic career, you worked under the name Zen She. Can you talk a bit about your decision to transition back to Diana Zeng?
Zen She comes from my Chinese name, just spelled slightly differently. I was never intending to transition back to Diana Zeng. But after I hit the year mark of painting full time, I felt more comfortable identifying as an artist. I no longer wanted that separation between me and my art. I realized that I didn’t need a brand—this is my identity. It has been so freeing.

Your abstract “Seasons of Change” series draws inspiration from Chinese calligraphy and ink-wash painting. Why did those forms initially intrigue you?
When I was creating that series, spring was starting to hit St. Louis. That was also the period when I was realizing I wanted to return to Diana Zeng. I felt a sense of friction between my present and future self. I was blossoming into a new identity. In that series, a lot of the forms were inspired by how I felt on a particular day. There’s one painting that represents a plateau—on that day, I felt stuck. But then I realized that growth isn’t linear. Sometimes you plateau, sometimes you even backtrack. That’s how spring felt, too. One day it was spring, one day it would be winter again; flowers would die that had just bloomed. When shoots were pushing out of the ground, I would paint as if something were shooting dynamically upward. In a way, that series was a response to the volatile state of my environment.

Left: "Twilight Settles In" from Seasons of Change series, 12" x 16" acrylic, soft-pastel, china marker, charcoal on paper, 2018
Right: "First, Look Back", 20 x 16 in., oil on canvas panel, 2017

What or who inspires you artistically?
For me, it’s the use of color and form. My inspirations aren’t limited to either abstract or representational art, or artwork that is similar to mine. Heather Day works abstractly with acrylics, which is very different, but I’m inspired by her practice. She focuses on going out into the world, spending time with nature and bringing it back into the studio. Henri Matisse was the first of the “masters” that I fell in love with. I didn’t know who he was—I think I even pronounced his name wrong. I saw a painting of his, and my jaw dropped. In terms of contemporary artists, I’m in awe of David Hockney’s use of color and the intimacy with his subjects that comes through. I only paint when I feel intimately connected to my subject.

You recently traveled to your mother’s hometown in China. How was that trip, and what did it mean to you to return there?
That trip was my first time returning to China since I moved to the United States at three years old. I had no expectations going in—a part of me thought I’d never go back. The experience was a gift I never thought I’d receive. I felt like I was back with family I’d known all my life, even though my aunts, uncles and cousins hadn’t seen me in twenty-two years.

While there, I visited both of my parents’ hometowns. We also went to the national park that inspired the floating mountains in the movie Avatar. I have definite plans to paint that particular landscape. It reminded me of the forms in traditional Chinese ink paintings whose name translates to “mountain water.” The philosophy of mountain-water paintings is not to represent an actual location, but to capture the feeling of the landscape. I plan on mixing the traditional paneled structure of mountain-water paintings with my own style.

"From Where She Stands", 9 x 36 in., oil on stretched canvas, 2018

In 2016, ALIVE wrote about your husband, Sam Coster, and his brothers’ creative work designing games at their St. Louis-based studio Butterscotch Shenanigans. You’ve spoken on your blog about your experience supporting Sam through his cancer treatment. For those unfamiliar with your story, how did Sam help influence your decision to pursue painting?
Before cancer, of the two of us, I was the more risk-averse one. Then cancer happened, and I realized that death is the only guarantee. And no amount of planning can prepare you for what life will throw at you. For a solid three years, I had no idea what I was doing. I was in limbo—I felt I couldn’t go back to following a path I didn’t want, but I couldn’t move forward either. Sam asked me, “If you had a year to live, what would you do?” And I blurted out, “I would paint.” I hadn’t painted in years. And he just said, “Then why aren’t you doing that?”

I was terrified to throw myself into something and fail at it. Financially, I had been saving up for the two years since I graduated with the idea that one day I would quit my job and do … something. Painting became that something. Sam really pushed me along and encouraged me to commit.

Forging a career in the arts comes with its fair share of challenges. How do you navigate the difficulties that come with being a professional artist?
I need to be painting even when I don’t want to be painting. That mentality has gotten me through moments of doubt or struggle. Waiting for inspiration sends me into a funk; it will never come when I’m away from my palette. That’s why I paint every day. I’ll have a day at the canvas that started poorly and ended with various pieces suddenly coming together.

How do you juggle commissions with pursuing your own work?
When I decided to pursue art full time, I focused on doing in a way that was financially viable. A lot of artists don’t talk about the commercial aspect, because we love creating. But your work has to support your work. I gave three months of notice at my job, and in those three months, I tasked myself to build my client list.

Taking commissions was incredible in the beginning, because I knew I liked the act of painting, but I didn’t know what subjects I was drawn to. I got paid to figure out what I liked to paint, to learn. Now, my work is more evenly split between original work and commissions inspired by what I’m already producing.

I also truly love working with clients. I love getting to see their response when they pick up a piece. You have to find the institutions and the people who value your creativity.

Moving forward, how do you see your work evolving?
Before, I built intimate experiences with people and landscapes in my art. You can be intimate without being personal—I’m working on sharing more of myself through my art. Now I’m starting to draw on my intimate experiences with myself, the moments and people from my personal life.

Sam is in two of the pieces I’m working on, inspired by snapshots I took of him picking flowers for our home. He’s entranced by flowers. It shows something so mundane, almost boring—a man and flowers—but when you consider our national conversation about the scourge of masculinity, it becomes interesting. In our current climate, here are moments that are real and beautiful.

My First Year Living the Life I Never Dared

One year ago, I left my job behind with the purpose of becoming what I never thought I could be ‒ an artist.

And with a bang, that year has passed. Except there was no bang. No sudden fold of time or snap of fingers brought me to today. In the last twelve months, the grand purpose fueling that first day unfolded into a deep understanding and respect for what it takes to truly live the life you never dared. It takes destroying the self you once knew.

You must reclaim every bit of yourself from the people, expectations, and doubts that have hacked away at your life. And you must do this every single day for the rest of your days.

Because the self you once knew isn’t you; it’s a deception. It is a deception that has existed since before you were born. It convinces you to live trying to uphold everyone else’s ideals instead of discovering your own. It outlines exactly who you are allowed to be and makes you believe in nothing more. It feeds on your worst impulses, all your excuses, and every self-deprecating thought that flickers through your mind. It exploits your fear of the unknown so that you settle for what is, instead of creating what could be.

And it is a tireless deception, one rarely met with the ferocity needed to raze it to the ground. Its only weakness is you, ready every day to fight for who you never dared dream you could be.

Living the life you never dared takes stamina and patience. You will lose some battles, but this is an ever going war. You will be met unguarded and fall prey to old habits ‒ busying yourself with errands, absorbing yourself into a screen, doing everything possible except for the work. The deception is playing the long-game, so you must as well. You must grant yourself self-compassion when you stumble. You must be strict in your belief that one misstep does not define your progress. You must designate time for your work and then time for everything else. And if you’re like me, you’ll put it into your calendar. You must wake up every day and do the work so that on the days you don’t, you have faith that tomorrow you will.

But sometimes, the deception pulls its trump card ‒ the ever-present doubt that you aren’t good enough. The only way to create the work you want to be known for is to create. The only way to live the life you never dared is to dare. But without the guarantee of perfection, your past self knows you will hesitate and stall. Here is one guarantee that will baffle the self you once knew ‒ you will not live forever. You have been led astray by the illusion that you have all the time in the world to become who you want to be.

You don’t.

Fight for the one life you have. Fight for it until you weep, exhausted from dragging your demons into the light to burn.

You must fight back your old self to let a new one emerge. It will feel unfamiliar at first, but do whatever it takes to grow and nurture this fledgling self. I distanced myself from my own name, Diana Zeng, the name I have gone by for nearly all my life. That person felt like someone who couldn’t be an artist. In its place, I created Zen She as an identity to remind myself of how I want to be ‒ free from the anxieties that have gripped me. I was innately connected to this new identity because it came from my Chinese name, Zeng Xi, and still felt distinctly open to possibilities and unburdened by past restraints. Embodying Zen She gave me the space to grow confident in myself, and it has done its work. I am now reclaiming Diana Zeng as my namesake from my past self. This newfound freedom has flooded my being and my work. 

The deception is starting to burn away.

Once you begin to fight back, you realize that what could be starts to become what is. You learn that what you need is actually very little, and what you can be is boundless. This knowledge will become the fuel that ignites your will to do the work that can seem like self-destruction but is a rebirth from the ashes. You will do this every single day as I have done for a year. And we will continue forward creating the life we never dared.

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Painting Seasons of Change: New Works

I found freedom through these paintings.

The changing of the seasons has always felt like a beckoning to embrace whatever is to come, and the unpredictability of Mother Nature made itself known during these past months. The days that felt more like Winter than Spring had me aching for blooms, but what will be cannot be rushed.

While we weathered the whirl of sudden blizzards to days that heated up by noon, I noticed the subtle changes happening all around. Slowly, the green stems of the daffodils lining our backyard emerged, at first only to the height of the neighboring grass, but now they bloom yellow and cream. Daylight stretched into the evening, and I was no longer lulled to sleep by the darkness of the midafternoon. I painted these moments, simply responding to the expected and unexpected revealings of Spring. And whenever Winter demanded to be felt during its last few sporadic days, I noticed just how gradual the transition was.

Between what we experience as Winter and Spring is an unfolding of constant change, some obvious and others below the surface. This changing of the seasons shed light on my art practice. I let go of the desire to rush into the work that I so desperately wanted to have already created, and instead embraced the natural evolution of my work that was taking place every day. I began to trust the new direction that my work was taking me as a continual progression that would lead me to where I need to be. Working loose and gestural gave the colors and forms of my preceding works the freedom to take center stage in this new series, which emerged from my desire to explore fleeting moments and the material feel of paint. The significance of my early studies in Chinese calligraphy and ink-wash painting became apparent as I moved to distill nature onto paper, and I began to see new connections between my experiences and my work crystallize. 

As Spring takes shape, so do these new works; but what seems anew is just a moment among infinite seasons of change.

See the entire series of work here.

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Six Months of Being an Artist and Getting Out of My Own Way

Six months ago, I had just quit my job and started my first day of work at the easel. It was exhilarating. But no amount of exhilaration can go unfettered for six months. Soon though, the vast openness of my days and the years of associating work with a laptop brought on a fear that gripped me with the deepest self-doubt I have ever experienced.

I hit my lowest point at the end of June, just a month into this adventure. I watched all six seasons of Scandal in one week. Yes, yes I did. As the last episode came to a close, I was faced with the naked truth that I was getting in my own way. Defiantly choosing to pursue art had been the first time I took a hard turn off the life path that I was expected to lead, but I realized that my paralyzing fear stemmed from the anticipation of feeling wrecked and foolish if I gave art my all and failed. So I held back my all.

On the first day of July, I met up with my family for a road trip through the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone. Nature has always helped me feel renewed and grounded, and this trip reminded me that I create not for anyone or for any success, but simply because I need to. I woke up just before the sun to capture its rise above the mountains and the shadows across the tall grass. I tossed aside water and provisions (thankfully my husband, Sam, prioritized those things) to make room for pastels and notebooks as we hiked through brush and up cliffsides. I scribbled down the shapes and colors that I saw and felt as we went along. Literally scribbled! I could feel myself letting go of needing to feel like I had arrived at where I wanted to be and just take in the fact that I was always going to be moving. I captured photos of my family roaming across the land, journaled my thoughts and awe, and with my scribbles came back from the mountains knowing that this new life journey would be full of worthwhile struggles I could overcome.  

The Grand Tetons - Mountains I

The Grand Tetons - Tall Grass I

The Grand Tetons - Mountains II

Reconnecting with nature prompted me to think about other elements I need to be my best and do my best work. My parents are engineers so telling them that their business school educated firstborn was going to be an artist was a shock to the system, to say the least, but I made it clear that I needed their belief in me. It meant the world when they told me they were visiting Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts for the first time because now there was an artist in the family.

I continued my morning routine of drawing myself nude as one-line portraits as a meditative practice but I needed to give structure to the rest of my new workday. I’ve always been an early riser so I enrolled in a morning painting studio twice a week to take advantage of my best hours. After a couple of weeks, working at my easel from morning to noon became a habit. I also took a short pottery-throwing class to explore a completely new medium without any expectations, which gave me the freedom to mess up along the way to finding what works.

After a six-year hiatus from swimming, I reentered the pool for hour lap swims and was astonished. This new, yet familiar, addition to my day surprised me the most because it was as if I had never left the sport. It reminded me that at one point in my life I didn’t know how to swim at all. And now, after swimming competitively for thirteen years, being in the pool felt second-nature.

In the moments I feel like an impostor instead of an artist, I remind myself that we all start somewhere and that this is my beginning.

A critical part of my new mentality was realizing, accepting, and celebrating the fact that nobody does it alone. After I quit my job, I felt like I was on my own. No external deadlines for the first time in my life and the glorified image of the lone artistic genius kept me from reaching out. The American Dream that bolsters being an independent, self-made success has followed me since I was a child when my family immigrated here. The reality is so much more meaningful and true.

It was our family’s accountant who not only helped me get my ducks in a row as a self-employed artist but also connected me with her artist husband. He introduced me to regular gatherings and art opportunities in St. Louis. I went to the next gallery opening he suggested and the first person who approached me was a talented artist who shared with me the ways he has found success - before humbly accepting the award of the night. One of my friends who is involved with the arts has been endlessly supportive in connecting me with artists who not only made me feel understood but also expanded my relationships with clients. I didn’t grow up surrounded by many artists so getting to know this community has shown me that this impossible dream I once had is actually possible.

It has been the sheer belief in me from my family, friends, artists, patrons, and strangers that has helped me get to this point. The past six months have seen me at my most terrified and my most determined. This isn't going to be easy, but few things worth pursuing are. It's the fact that I'm choosing to give it my all that makes these struggles worthwhile. 

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A Brief History of the Small Steps That Make Up a Leap

“What would you do if you had one year to live?”

“I’d paint.”

My mouth fell open with these words.

Sam, my husband, and I had made it a practice to periodically ask each other that hypothetical question. January of 2017 was coming to a close, and we were touching base on our New Year’s resolutions so it seemed like an opportune time.

My answer shocked me. At first, I felt like it came out of nowhere. Then, a week of self-doubt, tears, and excuses followed as to why I couldn’t possibly paint. Not why I couldn’t be a painter, just why I couldn’t even paint: The set-up and clean-up time take too long. I’m too tired after work. The light isn’t bright enough after I get home.

My truth was out though, and it was patient but insistent. After I had exhausted all of my excuses, it was the only thing left.

“I’d paint.”

January 2012

Registering for my first studio course in the art school felt like a rebellion.

There had been little doubt that I’d go to college to study business. I grew up drawing, sketching, collaging, creating whenever a project called for it but nothing more. Being an artist was for other people, so I kept my art in the shadows.

I was nervous to tell my parents, but to my surprise, they were excited for me. As long as I continued to major in business, art could be a healthy avenue for expression. That sounded sensible so I registered for oil painting.

For most of the course, I was baffled. The brush felt clunky in my hand and my colors were murky. We painted still-lifes. Mine were murky gray bowls with murky brown fruit on murky tablecloths. Critiques are notorious for being harsh and running long, but whenever mine came up, there were a few measly comments and then we moved on. There wasn’t much to say.

April 2012

Our final was to paint a live model on our largest canvas yet. I was excited about the novelty but figured this was going to be a very big, murky painting.

But as the model lay there nude I saw colors on the skin that I had never before noticed. Deep blue dips and yellow curves of a knee. Forest green grooves and rose pink waves of a neck. It was like I was paying attention for the first time, and the body marveled me. I grew to understand the way oil carries color, moves, and layers upon itself. Through it, I felt a new way of seeing and living.

I wasn’t sure about what to do with this new outlook so my sensible self took charge. It tucked away my brushes and paints into a large brown paper sack when the course ended.

May 2012

After walking back from dinner, Sam opened his apartment door. I walked in and saw an easel.

There’s an easel in the room? Why is there an easel in the room? I’m utterly confused.

Sam’s voice answers, “Happy Birthday.”

I’m utterly silent.

Trying to fill the void, he continues, “This way, you can keep painting. I carved your initials into the top. I hope you like it.”

I loved it.

I painted every day for a week before I went back home to Massachusetts. I was in flow and the happiest I had ever been but didn’t dare jump to the conclusion that I could be an artist. Besides, I had an internship with a business startup that summer. It was going to get me one step closer to figuring out what I wanted to do with my life. My sensible self kept my easel and Sam’s belief in me in St. Louis, and I left for that internship.

October 2013

Stage 4b, t-cell rich, large b-cell lymphoma.

That’s the type of cancer Sam had. There isn’t a stage after that, and he was twenty-three years old.

Sam was barely a year out of college, and I was starting my junior year. We were both experimenting with what our futures could look like. He had just started a video game studio with his brother, and I had formally picked up art as a minor. Painting after painting hung on his apartment walls. Only a week earlier, I was sketching Sam's shoulders and getting used to charcoal for the first time. Propped open was my drawing anatomy book as I was trying to figure out the different cords of muscle beneath his skin. I didn’t know bulging against his teres major was a fist-sized tumor.

Cancer was something that happened to other people. To some extent, we considered our time infinite and our existence indestructible. And then cancer happened to us.

And yet, we were lucky. We both have loving, supportive families that provided comfort and financial help. Sam’s family of medical professionals knew when to probe for unasked answers and demystify medical jargon. We went to school and live in a city with a renowned hospital and cancer center. The Affordable Care Act was in place so we felt relieved that at least this cancer in his 20's wouldn’t mark him with a pre-existing condition and a lifetime of medical expenses.

When Sam told me I didn’t have to go through this cancer with him, that he’d understand if I left, I looked at him silly. This wasn’t unfair, this was just life, and I wasn’t going to run away from it.

We met that first round of cancer with vigorous optimism and determination. We readied ourselves for an epic onslaught of chemotherapy and biopsies by cutting away the bullshit and found a permeating happiness in living our lives to the fullest. We started asking ourselves “What would you do if you had one year to live?” and lived that way. At that time, we asked it out of honesty, not hypothetical curiosity.

After almost a year, the treatments seemed to work. We vowed to not forget what cancer had taught us and continued to ask each other that hypothetical question to keep ourselves honest.

January 2015

Just over a year later, Sam relapsed.

And that’s when I realized the only certainty in life is its unpredictability. We thought he had beaten cancer. That his story was one of triumph. That we were going to celebrate our wedding next year. That life was going to continue.

That we had sucked out all of the life-changing lessons from cancer and left the rest to die.

But it wasn’t dead. The cancer was back.

This time, the unpredictability numbed me. I had just graduated a semester early and was starting my first job as Sam was starting his first round of salvage chemotherapy. My friends were kicking off their last semester of college, and I was struggling to stay connected. I tried to sound uplifting whenever I talked about the reality, but all I could feel was doom. I wasn't running away from life, but I had stopped living it fully.

“What would you do if you had one year to live?”

Survive. I just wanted us to get there.

January 2016

And we did get there. Sam survived a year of more chemotherapy, radiation, and two stem-cell transplants. But this second round of cancer had stripped us of confidence for the future. We made earnest, almost desperate, attempts to move past survival mode. Sam poured himself into their latest video game, and their studio was on the rise. I quit my job to start an organization to connect people to St. Louis. Focusing on the futures of other people and the city gave me some semblance of my own.

April 2016

We moved into our first home after a year of house-hunting, which had started shortly after Sam relapsed. We would look at a bunch of homes online, and then I’d walk through them with Sam’s parents and our realtor before bringing back my thoughts to his bedside in the hospital. A house gave us a sense of permanence like we were going to be here for a while. Like we were going to make it to the future.

May 2016

During a visit up to Iowa, we watched a mini-series called The Impressionists with Sam’s dads. It had been over a year since I had made any art, and the show gave me a jolt of life. For my birthday, Sam bought me my second easel, a portable one, just like the ones we saw in the mini-series. I took out my pastels and finished a botanical drawing and a portrait of Sam, but then I stopped. I never opened up my oil paints. I packed my portable easel away. I was afraid of asking for too much from life.

June 2016

Sam left for a week-long whitewater kayaking trip with First Descents, an organization for cancer survivors to get outside and learn a new hardcore sport. As Sam describes it, the program is designed to help re-fashion your identity into something powerful again after going through all the cancerous hullaballoo. He had gone to Mt. Hood, Oregon and came back glistening.

He recounted the whole week to me, the people he bonded with, the feeling on the water. And then he told me about his last ride down the river and his first time capsizing. In Sam’s own words, “That part of me that was stolen away in the hospital, that lens of charm, the ever smiling self that cracked jokes when the world was upside down…I found it. I found it at the bottom of a river, under a seven-foot wave, thousands of miles from where I lost it. I found that piece of myself and I locked it back into place.”

I remember feeling in awe. He was back. He was back and more alive than ever. And I desperately wanted to meet him there.

October 2016

In October, Sam and I celebrated our wedding before escaping to the Smoky Mountains, and I knew I was marrying someone who lived life the way I wanted to live. He believed in me, but I didn’t know if I felt the same way about myself. In fact, I know I didn’t.

November 2016

One month later, and I didn’t know how to feel. The night of November 8th felt like the twilight zone. I woke up the next morning panicked for what this would mean for so many people. Then the implications started to crystallize around the shock. We hadn’t dealt with cancer in a world without the Affordable Care Act, but all of a sudden, that felt like a reality. I urged Sam to think about our Plan B, C, D, and E and to put them in motion. He tried reassuring me that we could make things work, but I wasn’t having it. I was back in survival mode.

December 2016

While thinking through how to figure out health insurance with both Sam and I working on startups, my friend asked if I wanted to work at his organization. Their mission aligned with my focus on St. Louis, and I admired their leadership. My background matched their needs, and Sam and I would have health insurance. We scheduled interviews for the next couple of weeks, and I loved the team. I accepted the position at the end of the month.

Sam didn’t want me to take the job just for healthcare, but he saw it gave me a sense of security and my daily panic attacks had eased. Another friend had also asked if I could make a piece of wall art for her mom so I was at my easel again. Seeing an opening, Sam nominated me for the First Descents program for caregivers, FDrock. Unsure about the trip, I filled out my part of the application on the last day I could.

January 2017

Be more rigorous with the things I'm most afraid of succeeding in.

That was my New Year’s resolution.

At the time, I was days away from starting my new job but that wasn’t what I was afraid of. I was afraid of the life I could have if I moved past survival and into creation.

At work, I saw how others were choosing to live the life they wanted. I was reminded of that on the daily and realized I had the power to do the same.

“I’d paint.”

February 2017

New email, subject line: 2017 FDrock Nomination Acceptance.

The very next day, I had a meeting with my boss, who happened to be my friend that got me the job. I told him I was going to be a painter, and he asked how much longer the organization had me for.

Crap, he took me seriously!

“By the end of May.”

By the end of May??!

Yes, because by May 21st, I’ll be on my way back to the Smoky Mountains to go whitewater kayaking. My two annual projects at work would wrap up just before then, and I had started the Artist’s Way, a twelve-week guide for helping people unblock their artist self. I didn’t know this at the time, but week number twelve would be the week leading up to May 21st.

Today

It's my last day at work. In two days, it’ll be May 21st.

At the beginning of the week, I felt the need to write out this brief history of how I got here to remind myself that this didn't come out of nowhere. I had been moving in this direction all along. Paying tribute to those seemingly insignificant moments and decisions gave me the clarity and confidence I needed for today. It takes a lot of small steps to get to what looks like a leap.

“What would you do if you had one year to live?”

I'd do nothing different.

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All my thanks and love the people in my life, strangers included, who made me feel like I could do this.

Thank you to Jenn Korman of Jennifer Korman Photography for being an inspiring friend and jumping at the chance to take photos right when I was feeling doubtful of putting together a website.

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