Why I Dumped Prints

I built a successful part of my business and then realized I didn't actually want it.

So, I dumped prints.

Which is kind of wild, because prints have been part of my business since 2020. They sold. People loved them. They made my artwork accessible to people who weren't ready to buy an original. From the outside, there wasn't necessarily a reason to stop.

But there was one pretty important reason:

I didn't want to do it anymore.

And if I'm being completely truthful, I'm not sure I ever really did.

Prints started because I needed money.

In 2020, I had rent to pay and I was trying to make it happen own. I didn't have any financial backing but potentially $1,000 that I had saved before being laid off in September 2020.

Prints seemed like the obvious answer. Take one painting, reproduce it, sell it over and over again.

Brilliant!

So I launched prints.

And for six years, they became part of Cooper Art and Abode.

But something I've realized about myself over those six years is that I am a prolific painter.

I paint about one painting a week. And if I'm not painting regularly, I become mentally unstable.

I'm kidding.

Kind of.

Painting is genuinely where I find my groundedness. It's where I process my life. It's where I feel most like myself.

Give me a giant canvas and several uninterrupted hours and I am thrilled.

Give me emails, spreadsheets, inventory, packaging, vendor logistics and a stack of prints that need to be signed?

I would rather be painting.

At some point, I realized I was staying busy for the sake of being busy.

One of my main print vendors unexpectedly closed this May.

Suddenly, something that had worked fairly seamlessly didn't anymore.

I could move everything to a local printer. But then I'm driving around Bend, picking up prints, signing prints, organizing prints, delivering prints...

And at some point I had this realization:

Why am I running around town doing all of this to sell a $30 print?

Not because there's anything wrong with selling a $30 print.

But because I don't actually want to build a business around selling thousands of them.

I looked into hiring someone to take this part of the business over. The margins just aren't there unless I double down, increase volume and become a much, much larger print seller.

And that's when the answer became ridiculously obvious.

That's not my dream.

My dream is to make incredible paintings.

That's it.

I want to make bespoke, original paintings that completely transform a room.

I want to create collections that have something to say.

I want to spend more time thinking, feeling, noticing, experimenting and painting.

I want my commissions to get more of me.

I want to push my work further than I've ever pushed it before.

And I want to stop building parts of my business simply because someone somewhere decided that successful artists are supposed to have them.

Before 2020, I sold originals.

Somewhere along the way, I built more and more around that simple thing until I found myself running a retail business alongside being an artist.

And I've realized:

I don't want to run a busy business. I want to run a meaningful one.

There's another piece of this that's more personal.

For the last several years, my husband has helped me tremendously behind the scenes.

And we've also learned that working with your spouse is really hard.

We've had to take a serious look at what was happening behind the scenes of our business and our marriage and recognize that intertwining everything wasn't always healthy for us.

So we're untangling some of it.

He doesn't need to run my print business.

And I don't need to build a business that requires him to.

There is something incredibly freeing about realizing that.

So, are accessible pieces disappearing forever?

No.

I'm still planning my annual calendar this fall.

I'm exploring a membership for next year that could include something small each month: a mini print, postcard, card or something else entirely.

I'm also talking with a puzzle company about potentially licensing my artwork so that they can make and fulfill the puzzles and I can simply point you toward them.

I'm actually really excited about finding ways for my artwork to exist beyond original paintings.

I just don't necessarily need to manufacture, manage, fulfill and sell all of those things myself.

There's a difference.

I'm claiming my artistic territory.

That's what this change really feels like.

I'm stepping away from the idea that growth automatically means

more products, more inventory, more sales, more SKUs, more things to manage.

Maybe growth can mean less.

Maybe it means going deeper.

Maybe it means making fewer things and making them incredible.

Maybe it means building a business around the life I actually want instead of building a life around the business I've accidentally created.

This year has already felt like such a strange collision of beginnings and endings. Grief and celebration. Things closing while completely new things seem to be opening at the exact same time.

It feels very Eclipse.

And strangely, this feels like part of it too.

If you had told stressed-out 2020 me, desperately trying to pay rent, that I would launch prints, successfully sell them for six years and then voluntarily shut that part of my business down?

I would have thought you were crazy.

But here we are.

I'm trusting it.

I'm painting.

And I'm really excited about what comes next.

The Beauty Of Failing

Mock-Up Of My Wooden Print Series for the Redmond Airport

I have experienced a lot of rejection over the years, from galleries, shows, scholarships and more. Earlier this year, I got an email in my inbox stating that the Redmond Airport was looking for art in their new expansion. I was excited about the opportunity and also knew it was a risk. But I decided to go ALL IN. I spent a lot of time on this project. The design concept took about 7 hours, the in-person meeting ate up about 2 hours, and the application took about 25 hours all in. So we're talking about a 34-hour project to put your presentation into the hands of a jury who may just decide you're not the right fit because you hadn't done a prior civic public installation.

What many people who love my art don't know is that art installations aren't necessarily chosen on the "best fit" or most creative idea. Often it's decided based on whether someone has prior experience doing public civic installations. Lucky or unlucky for me, I have never been chosen for one. Have I done public art installations? Yes, my golly, I have done it ALL. I've been hanging art in large installs for a decade, adding my art to murals in apartment buildings, hanging art in over 50 venues around Central Oregon, Seattle and Palm Springs. But is that enough for a jury? No. A jury is often looking for someone with prior experience specifically in an airport, a government-affiliated building, or a nonprofit.

I consider this gatekeeping even if it's written in fancy terms. And I'm keenly aware of it, because I have intentionally built an art business that shatters that perspective. You don't need to live by the old rules of the art world to be a successful artist. I am rogue when it comes to putting my art out there. I've popped up in unexpected places. I've had the best and worst shows of my life. And honestly? That's exactly what I want to talk about. The art of failure. Recognizing that failure is a gentle redirect, and thanking it for showing up. I do this every time. I take the worst days of my business and make them the best days. I begin again. I open the next door, because I know if that last door didn't open, something else will.

So without further ado. I will be introducing a new series of wood panel artworks that were part of my vision for this airport project, because I don't just make art to be judged; I make art because I had an inkling that it needed to go out into the universe. I get downloads of things I need to make, and this is something I know in my gut I want to create. Be on the lookout for a new wood panel series coming this early summer, titled "Portals To Wild."

Mt. Bachelor Design For Redmond Airport

Why collectors are turning back toward color in a monochrome era

Around 2011–2012, a subtle but powerful shift began to ripple through the design world. Our iPhones moved from desks and kitchen counters into our back pockets. Technology was no longer something we visited; it traveled with us everywhere.

As tech integrated into our daily lives, its aesthetic language began influencing our homes. Sleek interfaces, monochrome palettes, glass, chrome, black, white, gray — minimalism became synonymous with intelligence, modernity, and luxury.

But it raises an honest question:

Are we actually happier inside these spaces?

Does black-and-white minimalism spark creativity, warmth, or joy — or does it simply look sophisticated on a screen?

For years, we’ve looked to celebrities and influencers to teach us how to make our homes enviable. But the home was never meant to impress others first. It was meant to be a refuge — a place to rest, reset, and fully exhale into who you are.

Now, I’m not advocating for full maximalism. I’m not suggesting every wall needs to shout. But I do believe that intentional moments of color — a hallway, an accent wall, a piece that holds meaning — can radically shift how a home feels.

Somewhere along the way, many of our spaces lost a layer of soul.

Is it coincidence that as our homes began mimicking the tech world, our sense of joy inside them didn’t rise alongside it?

Color, when done thoughtfully, holds luxury. Not loud color, but layered, emotionally intelligent color. The kind that grounds you, re-centers you, and adds richness to daily life.

Meaningful touches of color can influence how we move through a space. They invite play, spontaneity, reflection. They add dopamine, yes — but also memory, warmth, and emotional texture.

My truth — both as an artist and as a human is that art and color can change how we live.

They shape how we interact with our homes.They shift our mood without us realizing it.

They remind us that luxury isn’t only restraint — it can also be alive. I've seen this with my own eyes. The homes that I have hung my pieces in have truly shifted to places you want to spend time with.

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Why collectors are turning back toward color in a monochrome era