Every brushstroke is an act of generosity—my way of saying, “I see you.” When I’m painting, I’m sharing pieces of myself with the world: the good, the messy, the evolving. You can always tell my art is made by human hands—the imperfect edges, the layered shapes, the surprising lines and colors that refuse to look mass-produced. And with every imperfect painting I send out, I’m opening myself up to the world’s response. Most of it is incredibly kind, some of it isn’t, but that’s part of the deal when you offer your heart in the form of paint.
It’s also strange knowing my growth is documented in real time. You can scroll back and see the old pieces, the awkward middle phases, the moments where I was just trying to figure it out. Vulnerability is baked into this whole thing—being willing to be bad at something, in public, until one day you start getting it right.
And that’s exactly what I teach in my classes. Perfection is not the goal. In fact, I expect students to make things that don’t match the vision in their heads… yet. You’re supposed to “suck for a bit.” It’s part of learning to trust yourself, to keep going when you want to quit, to walk away when something isn’t working, and to take risks knowing the best art often comes from the riskiest marks.
We also talk a lot about mindset: breathing exercises, warm-ups, and creating an environment that’s fun and relaxed. I fully believe the energy you bring to a painting shows up in the final piece—collectors can feel it. So I want students to approach their canvas with curiosity and openness, even when it gets hard. How you think about your creative practice becomes part of your work.
One of the clearest examples of this for me was a commission I painted a few years ago for my godmother in Louisiana. Her daughter asked for something bright, cheery, and joyful—three words that perfectly describe her mom. So I held those words in my mind the entire time I painted. When they saw the finished piece, they both said the same thing: “It looks just like Mom.”
And they were right. Even now, when I see a photo of that painting, I find myself saying, “That’s Connie.” The energy, the colors, the joy—it all lives inside those layers.
That’s the kind of connection that keeps me painting. The pieces that make us pause, catch our breath, or feel something shift inside us—they’re doing more than decorating a wall. They’re starting a conversation between the art and the viewer, between the seen and the unseen. Sometimes the message is bold; sometimes it’s a whisper. But always, it’s an invitation to slow down and be present.
Because once you bring a piece of art you love into your home, it becomes a living, breathing heart-to-heart.
I’d love to know—has one of my paintings ever spoken to you or stopped you in your tracks? Tell me which one and why.
And if you want to experience this kind of connection firsthand, join my next abstract painting class. I’ll save you a seat.
