No. 2: Inside the Studio: How I Create, Rest, and Listen Through Art

Hello, Friend! 

There’s something sacred about stepping into the studio—whether it’s a dedicated space or a corner of the kitchen table. For me, it’s a return. A quiet yes. A place where the noise softens and the rhythm of making begins.

Today, I wanted to invite you behind the scenes—into the ebb and flow of my studio life, the rhythms that shape my days, and the small, ordinary moments that often hold the most meaning in my creative process.

✧ The Studio as Sanctuary

My studio isn’t pristine or perfectly styled. It's lived-in. Worn in the best way. Brushes in jars, handmade pigments drying on ceramic trays, stacks of paper waiting to become something new. It smells faintly of earth and ink, and often there's a bit of dust settling on the windowsill alongside the light. But there’s peace in this space. It’s quiet enough to listen—to the work, to the Spirit, and to what the day might hold.

I begin most sessions not with a grand plan, but with a small gesture: a pencil sketch, a simple wash, or even tidying a corner of the table. That first step matters. It tells my body: we’re here now. Let’s begin.

✧ Process Over Product

Much of my process centers around paying attention. I’ve learned that making art isn't about control—it's about response. I may have an idea or a vision, but the materials often lead the way. A pigment will move differently on one paper than another. A torn edge might spark an unexpected composition. The work teaches me to let go and stay open.

I work in layers—sometimes with watercolor, sometimes with handmade inks or fabric or pressed botanicals. I let things rest in between. I walk away. I return. It’s rarely linear, and it often takes longer than I expect. But I’ve learned to trust the slow pace. Some pieces speak right away; others whisper over weeks.

✧ What I'm Working On

Lately, I’ve been preparing a new collection inspired by the earthy textures and golden light of Provence. It’s rooted in place but also in memory—in the way a landscape can linger in the body long after you've left it. I’ve been experimenting with natural pigments, vintage textiles, and soft graphite lines—searching for a balance between structure and softness, clarity and mystery.

I’m also continuing work on Making for Mending, the book I’ve been quietly shaping over the past year. The process of writing is its own kind of art—requiring its own kind of faith.

✧ Daily Anchors

Here are a few gentle rhythms that have been anchoring me in the studio lately:

• A morning iced matcha before I begin—no rushing, just steeping and silence.
• A handwritten list of three things I’d like to notice that day: a shadow, a sound, a texture.
• A practice of pausing mid-session—to take a walk outside or just step back and breathe.
• Scripture and quiet prayer before it all begins, and also woven into the in-between moments. It keeps me rooted when the work feels uncertain.

I hope this little glimpse into my process encourages you in your own. Whether your space is large or small, whether you're creating daily or just thinking about beginning again—I want you to know that it all counts. The messes. The pauses. The quiet persistence.

The Lord is in it all.

Warmly,
Gabi