Leaving a Studio I Love

(and Why I’m Still Moving Forward)

There are places that quietly shape who we become.
For me, this studio has been one of them.

The raw brick walls.
The soaring ceilings.
The huge old windows that pour light across the floor in late afternoon.

Without a doubt, this has been my favorite studio since I began in 2007.

Leaving it is far more emotional than I ever expected.

This space has held years of work, doubt, breakthroughs, failed experiments, and moments where everything finally clicked. It has that unmistakable warehouse energy—imperfect, echoing, alive. I love it deeply, and leaving it has been far harder than I expected.

When people hear that an artist is moving studios, it often sounds exciting or aspirational. A fresh start. A new chapter. And while that’s true, it leaves out the quieter truth: letting go of a beloved creative space can feel like a small grief.

This studio has been a collaborator. It taught me how to work big, how to trust instinct, how to let mess and uncertainty be part of the process. It witnessed seasons of growth I’ll always carry with me. Walking through it now—knowing the days here are numbered—feels tender, emotional, and surprisingly heavy.

So why move?

Because love alone doesn’t always mean something still fits.

This building is old—beautifully so—but it comes with real challenges. In the summer, the heat is relentless. Access is difficult. The space is not ADA compliant. As much as it has supported my personal work, it has limited my ability to expand teaching, welcome more people, and create a studio environment that feels accessible and inclusive.

For a long time, I tried to make it work anyway. I told myself that discomfort was just part of being an artist. That struggling with logistics was normal. That loving a space meant staying loyal to it.

But slowly, a different truth became impossible to ignore: this studio could no longer support what I’m building next.

The move isn’t about abandoning what this place gave me. It’s about honoring it—and recognizing that growth often asks us to change structures, not just intentions.

The new studio is different. It doesn’t replicate the warehouse romance, and it doesn’t need to. What it offers instead is possibility.

It allows me to teach in ways I’ve been imagining for years.
It allows me to welcome more people into the creative process.
It allows me to say yes—to classes, creativity coaching, private lessons, and community—in ways the old space simply couldn’t.

This move creates room. Physical room, yes—but also emotional and creative room. Room to slow down. Room to gather. Room to build something sustainable and generous.

There’s a parallel here that feels impossible to ignore. I’ve spent years drawing vines, studying how they grow, how they adapt, how they reach for structures that allow them to thrive. Vines don’t cling forever to what once held them. They grow toward what supports their next season.

This studio move feels like that.

It’s bittersweet. It’s uncomfortable. It’s full of mixed emotions. And it’s absolutely the right step.

The first peek at the new studio.

I have an even better view than before, I still have brick walls (yay!) and in exchange for the character-laden “grunge” of the old building I have modern windows and more comfort in my surroundings. This is going to be a fantastic studio for work and teaching, and I’m so excited to share it with everyone soon.

At the beginning of March, I’ll be hosting an open studio in the new space—a kind of threshold moment. A chance to welcome this next chapter with art on the walls, works in progress, and conversation. Later on in March, I’ll begin offering art classes, creativity coaching, and private lessons, all shaped by the possibilities this new studio allows.

I’m carrying the spirit of the old space with me. The grit, the honesty, the willingness to experiment. What I’m leaving behind are the limitations—not the lessons.

Change rarely arrives without resistance. But sometimes, the most faithful thing we can do—for our work and ourselves—is to move toward what allows us to grow.