Let Every Artist Strive to Make His Flower
Yellow Tulips on my work table sitting beside a mohair warp
“Art is the Flower—Life is the Green Leaf. Let every artist strive to make his flower a beautiful living thing, something that will convince the world that there may be, there are, things more precious, more beautiful—more lasting than life itself.”
When I first created this blog, I didn’t really know what it was for. I wasn’t sure how I wanted to use it, or even how to use Squarespace’s blogging platform. It felt awkward, like trying to speak a language I hadn’t fully learned. So I let it sit.
But something is shifting. I’m feeling the pull to write—to reflect not just on finished pieces, but on the daily rhythm of my studio. On what I’m working on, what I’m noticing, what I’m carrying.
Spring has a way of waking something up in me. The lush greens after all the rain, the florals blooming on every block—it’s like color is imposing itself on me, and I’m grateful for the push. I’ve been weaving with bright pea greens, dusty pinks, and rich magentas. They make me happy. And right now, joy feels like reason enough to keep making.
Image of an overshot woven on the loom in greens, yellows and pinks.
It’s taken time to arrive at that mindset. Early on in my art career, I got caught between what would sell and what I actually wanted to make. That kind of pressure drains the life from your work. But I’ve moved past it, at least for now. I make what I want to make. That’s the only way it feels honest—and sustainable.
Rejection is still part of the process. I recently had two project proposals turned down in the same day. That kind of thing never feels great, especially when you’re excited about what you’ve envisioned. But still—the tulips come back. They always do.
And so I keep going.
There’s something grounding about noticing what has grown. The light in my studio. The simple luxury of fresh tulips in my space. The fact that I get to do this at all. I come from scarcity—there were years when I had barely enough of anything to survive. Money, housing, steady work—it was a hustle just to get by. So now, when I pause and look around, I feel a deep sense of gratitude for what I’ve built, what I’ve held onto, what I’ve nurtured.
I’m someone who’s always reaching for what’s next. It’s natural. But I’ve been trying to pause more. To acknowledge the fruit of seeds planted long ago. To reflect on what’s blooming now that some of the harshness has passed.
Because even when the world feels heavy—when artists are being defunded, censored, flattened—I believe our work matters more than ever. It carries meaning, connection, resistance, and possibility. That keeps me going.
So this spring, I’m choosing to be present. I’m choosing to keep making, keep feeling, and keep noticing. I’m choosing tulips.
Even as I lean into this stillness, I know there are shifts ahead—projects set in motion earlier this year are beginning to bloom, grant deadlines are coming due, and change is on the horizon. June will bring announcements, movement, and newness. But for now, before all of that, I’m holding onto this quiet moment with gratitude. Let this be a soft landing before the next stretch of the journey.
Many colorful yarns in a messy arrangement on my studio work table
