Paint Still Wet
The value of art is its practice.
Hi. This letter is about the need to create—letting something rise and take form because it must find its way out.
Dear Reader,
Lately, I've been painting a lot. Around the time I gave birth, I began feeling these deep, visceral urges to create—visions of large paintings, stretching canvas, and moving my body with broad, sweeping brush strokes. The colors in my mind feel alive like they're expanding within me, pushing against the edges of my being. There's a pull, a compulsion I can't ignore, a sense that my body needs to make these movements, let the paint flow, and bring these visions to life. I can feel the energy rising, the release, the sense of fulfillment that comes with each stroke. It's as if the work is already inside me before I even pick up the brush. I think of it as something more than a creative desire—it's a kind of premonition, a series of baby steps: collecting materials, gathering courage, mentally preparing, and catching glimpses of the self still forming.
It took me three years and some months to acquire a few brushes, purchase buckets of paint, and use the materials I already had to start painting.
In a world that measures value by productivity, making art purely for art's sake—especially as a mother—can feel almost indulgent, even frivolous. The pressure to create something sellable, to produce art that's already familiar, can feel immense, especially when I have less than two hours a day to paint, draw, or write. Every moment feels loaded with urgency, every piece is expected to have a purpose beyond itself. And yet, in being a mother, I'm becoming more honest, more real—softer, in life and in my art practice.
I've been thinking a lot about the "value" of art—of my art—and how that value goes beyond transactions. Art is a gift, a relationship, an exchange. Even when we sell it, which is necessary in a system that demands it, it's incredibly precious. In a world that can feel so fragmented and chaotic, our creativity, imagination, and connection are sacred.
I've often wondered if I should share a piece of art, a letter, simply because I enjoy it—if that's enough when the world feels like it's falling apart. And then I imagine a world without music, art, books, poetry, and pottery—and something inside of me shrinks. What if Toni Morrison never wrote her stories, if Georgia O'Keeffe hid her art, if Frida Kahlo kept her pain locked away, or if Hilma af Klint's visions remained unseen? The thought is unbearable—a world stripped of the voices, colors, and truths that give it meaning and soul.
The systems, the algorithms, the billionaires—exploit our time, our resources, our ideas, our intelligence, our relationships. They want us to shrink, to feel small, to be obedient. They fear creative, critical thinkers who refuse obedience and think for themselves because such people are too dysfunctional to the institutions.
Every time I catch myself in that space, I make art. I have to. It's a direct act of resistance to a world that's always controlling, always censoring, always taking, always stripping away. And I begin to give something back—no matter how big or small. I want to contribute to culture, not just consume it.
I remind myself that my art is not just one essay, one painting, or one project—it’s all of me. It's my life, my experiences, my being. This is why the art flows. Every step and moment that brings me closer to a "finished piece" is part of the process and creation. And the finished piece is never truly finished—it's the beginning of something else, a doorway to the unknown, to a deeper understanding, to a fuller embodiment of what I've created. Every time I'm in the process of creating, I'm in a deep meditation. I'm connected to myself, the world, and the rhythm of our breath. When anger rises, or life feels too heavy, I return to art. Through that return, I come back renewed, simply by bringing my hands and my spirit into connection with life itself.
"How have you become softer?" my friend asked me the other day, noticing how often I've used the word in conversation. “If something feels urgent, it's not mine to carry. That's how," I said to my friend.
Painting has awakened something in me, a quiet unfolding every time I pick up a brush. Each color that calls to me feels like a step closer to the center of who I am. The colors, shapes, and movements on the canvas have become a language that nourishes my spirit.
This moment of creation comes at a tender threshold—the weaning of my son, an initiation for both of us, a gentle step into wider circles of independence. It's remarkable how initiations happen with such synchronicity, how the body knows what's needed before the mind does. For years, I felt the pull to paint, but this separation—the soft distancing of our bodies—was what was needed for me to finally pick up the brush.
I've been gathering, documenting, and honoring every step of this process like weaving an art installation. A careful tending. Sharing this process and this journey is new to me. I've spent so much time only posting the finished work, but this is a new kind of relationship with my materials, tools, and hands. My figurative drawings would always start with a clear vision. This work, though, flows purely from the body—from feeling, from muscle memory—before the thought or image fully takes shape.
There is a reality in which I sit and worry over the value, impact, and meaning of my art. There is a reality in which I create the very art that feeds those worries. But there is a reality in which making the art holds no concern for any of it—it simply must rise from within me without hesitation.
With love,
Vanja
- A Final Collections Sale on my website happening now—I’m clearing out all the inventory that won’t be coming back. This includes fine art prints, organic canvas prints, enamel pins, and stickers from previous releases. Shop Here.
- This week, I’m reading Nick Neddo’s book, The Organic Artist, drawn by the urge to create my own inks. The toxicity of conventional materials feels unnecessary, especially as I paint at home with my son. I want to work even more deeply with nature—to move closer to the colors that truly belong to my heart.
- A song I keep returning to:
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always on point.
Thank you for reading! You can support me by:
◦ Shopping my art.
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Beautiful Vanja—— 🕯️ 🎨