Painting the Feeling, Not the Form

(Part 1 of the "Grit & Beauty: Notes from the Studio" series)

There’s a certain magic in color, motion, and mark-making that can express what words often can’t. That’s what keeps pulling me back to the studio—this deep need to translate feeling into form, even when the form doesn’t look like anything in particular.

I don’t paint to replicate the world as it is. I paint to capture what it feels like to be in the world. To be a person experiencing emotion, energy, change, and tension. For me, the canvas is a place to process life in real time—layer by layer, mark by mark, color by color.

Abstract painting with dark gray mist, bold black lines, and subtle hints of pink

Little Girl Gone, 24×24, Mixed media on canvas

“Little Girl Gone” is a piece that emerged during a stretch of deep personal reflection. It holds a storm-like quality, filled with shadow, obscured memory, and the traces of something—or someone—no longer present. It captures a kind of emotional weather that is dense, grief-tinged, but not entirely devoid of hope. You can see where light fights its way through the layers. For me, it’s about shedding past versions of yourself while still holding space for who they were. This painting speaks directly to the grit in Grit and Beauty—and to the vulnerability required to evolve.


This idea of painting emotion rather than realism has always been at the core of my work, but I’ve only recently found language for it: I call it emotional weather. It’s a term I use to describe the intuitive atmosphere of a piece—the energy I pour into it, the mood I’m navigating, or sometimes the collective energy I sense around me. It could be calm, chaotic, stormy, or light-filled. But whatever it is, I try to follow it honestly.

Sometimes that emotional weather is personal. Other times, it feels connected to something larger—a moment in time, a global event, or even a cultural shift. My paintings become visual maps of those feelings. They’re not meant to be interpreted in a single way, but to invite the viewer into their own emotional response. To ask: What do you feel when you look at this?

Abstract painting with bold pink swirls, red marks, and black lines

Living Your Daydreams, 24×30, Mixed media on canvas

“Living Your Daydreams” is like a breath of wild joy—colorful, expressive, full of upward movement. It’s a piece that leans into the beauty side of the series. But even here, amid the soft pinks and warm golds, there’s still tension. There's chaos beneath the surface, scribbled marks that feel like the tug of reality trying to disrupt a fragile moment of bliss. This is what I love most: when a painting feels like both escape and grounding, like you're floating and rooted at once. That’s emotional weather too.


This way of working is deeply intuitive. I rarely sketch or plan before I begin. I respond to what’s in front of me—adding, subtracting, covering, revealing. Some paintings arrive quickly. Others take months. But each one tells its own story.

And that’s the beauty of painting the feeling instead of the form: the work stays alive. It changes as I change. It speaks differently to every person who stands in front of it. And most of all, it reminds me that emotion is valid. That complexity is beautiful. And that there is no “wrong” way to feel something deeply.

Mama Didn’t Raise No, 24×24, Mixed media on canvas

“Mama Didn’t Raise No” is bold, unfiltered, and unapologetically alive. It’s got grit in every sense—thick lines, fierce contrast, sudden splashes. This piece came out fast, like a burst of defiance. It’s a painting about resilience and the fire we carry when we’ve had to fight for our space in the world. It’s a tribute to inherited strength and self-made survival. The energy is electric, a reminder that we can hold power and softness in the same breath.


Thanks for being here at the beginning of this new series. These blog entries are an extension of the same process I use when I paint—feeling, reflecting, and sharing in real time.

In the next post, I’ll be diving deeper into the Grit and Beauty series—how it came to be, what it taught me, and why that tension between opposites continues to shape everything I create.

Until then, stay present, stay feeling, and stay open.



Previous
Previous

Layer by Layer: The Materials That Speak

Next
Next

Grit, Grace, and the Emotional Landscape: Behind the Work of Kat Collins