New Beginnings Collection

October 26, 2023

I started these paintings nearly five months ago when something really exciting was coming to fruition. I was elated and channeling all of the joy of new possibility, newly inspired by West Texas sunsets. 

And then, just when I thought a magic elixir had transformed my life for good, my world turned upside down. I could barely bring myself to paint or do much of anything for weeks. My long-awaited joy was nowhere to be found.

And these new paintings I had started? Well, I decided I hated them. I told a mentor that I was done with them and wanted to abandon them completely. She was taken aback.

“I’m not sure why,” she said to me. “There’s nothing wrong with them. You just need to keep going. They need more paint. You need to be okay with potentially ruining them. Right now, they feel hesitant. Just keep going.” I was probably miffed at the time, but I trusted her guidance, and her words feel so fitting and prophetic now.

I often compare the process of painting to the process of living life. (They are, in fact, so similar.) In this case, what I was doing in painting was exactly what I was doing in life—ignoring all of the positive things (because I was hurting and could hardly hold space for the idea that anything positive might be left), and, I was hesitating. That is, I was so afraid of making a wrong move that I became a shell of a person and of myself.

A series of encounters and epiphanies finally helped me crawl out of my hole, and the gist of my realization was: Only I could pull myself out. Only I could take care of me. Only I could decide that my big, important, soul-nourishing work mattered more than me wallowing in a pit of despair (which was only keeping me stuck, anyway). 

Slowly but surely, I crawled out, and I started painting again. And these are the paintings that spilled out of me—expressions of this deeply emotional and also transformative season where I learned to sit with some trying and intense emotions, while also taking my power back and giving myself permission to create some beauty among the godforsaken mess.

These paintings are still loosely inspired by the expansion and possibility of West Texas sunsets, but with latter layers recognizing that with each sunset comes a dusk—a deep, dark, shadowy part of night that can feel like it may swallow you, and yet always promises the hope and possibility of a new morning.

These paintings, like dusk, are the moments so bold and so intense that they can’t not change you. But in all of the doubt and tears and heartache that come along with deep metamorphosis, there is also possibility. There is the beauty of honest expression. There is a hope and a comfort so deep and enveloping that it calms your soul—even when the world outside feels like it’s collapsing. 

The sun still sets and rises. Tomorrow is still a new day. There is still beauty to uncover, tears to dry, and strength to be found.

These paintings are deep, personal, hopeful, and hard all at once. They are the raw beauty of a new beginning. I hope they bring you peace, hope, and strength whenever you need them.