Seeds and Stories
...on kinship, courage, and creative life.
Hi. This letter holds moments from this week: stories that unfolded, reflections on my Instagram story sales, thoughts stirring in my mind, and a glimpse of mentorship work coming soon.
All currently available paintings can be viewed and purchased here.
Dear reader,
Over the past three days, we've raised USD $994 for baby formula and food in Nuseirat Camp, Gaza, to support Ibrahim and his community kitchen.
Since last year, through art sales, we’ve collectively raised USD $7,645
I've been in direct contact with Ibrahim for two years. I check in with him regularly—he sends updates from the ground. Despite the unimaginable grief of losing his entire family to Israeli violence, he continues to feed and care for his community. His Instagram account has been erased countless times, yet he keeps rebuilding, showing up through unbearable hardship.
The shirts are no longer available, and I thank you all for showing up while they were. People coming together to resist these violent systems is the seed of fundamental, embodied transformation.
To all my Iranian friends, readers, and clients, I stand with you.
Patriarchal regimes will always try to pit us against one another. Mainstream media will push propaganda. And the so-called leaders of the world will continue their work of erasing memory, something the West and its allies have long perfected. They erase Indigenous histories and cultures rooted in spirit, peace, and actual progress because, to capitalist and fascist regimes, people who are unified, aware, and led by their hearts are a threat.
The revolution lives in each one of us: in upholding lineages of truth, ancestry, and humanity.
In light of all that's unfolding in the world, I've been feeling a steady calling rise within me.
As I near 40, move through my fourth year of full-time motherhood, and mark a decade in a deep relationship with a creative spirit, I feel something shifting. There is a pull to offer guidance alongside the art.
There is so much sorrow in the world, the weight of patriarchal violence, the ache of disconnection. And yet, I believe in the medicine we each carry.
I want to bring what I have come to know through the body, through the he(art), into spaces that feel honest, raw, and real. Spaces where mentorship is not about hierarchy but about kinship. Where guidance is shared like seeds, not instructions.
I'll open space for this work in September—both one-on-one and in groups. We'll focus on spiritual guidance, dream work, creative advising, and supporting you through life's in-between moments: grief, birth, balancing motherhood with other responsibilities, and transitions.
I've been doing story sales on Instagram these past few weeks, and they've brought unexpected forms of support.
In the last two years, I've lost many "opportunities" - magazine features, exhibitions, and client work, because I chose not to let anyone censor me. More than once, I was invited to share my work, only to be asked not to mention Palestine. I declined. And the invitations were withdrawn.
Losing income and visibility as an independent artist is never easy. But solidarity was never meant to be. As a mother raising a child without a map, I move through this work with trust. When I returned to Instagram, I did so with a different orientation. Rather than waiting for the right gallery or the right opportunities, I decided to offer my paintings directly, more intimately than before.
The story sales have been tender, connective, and inspiring. Financially supportive. There's something grounding about speaking directly to the people who bring my work into their homes. A kind of reciprocity I'd forgotten—something website sales can't always offer.
This month, I've stepped back to tend to writing and new paintings. The story sales will return on the first Sunday of July, and I look forward to meeting you there again in that real and nourishing way.
A few things I truly love about my story sales:
1. How they foster connection and intimacy through conversation—I love Love.
2. Knowing exactly where my art finds its home.
3. Feeling my trust in interdependence being restored. We need each other to survive and thrive, and these exchanges have been deeply healing.
4. Redefining the idea of a collector—not as a distant figure or an ultra-wealthy patron, but as an engaged participant—and you have embraced this shift with openness and kinship.
5. Holding my agency as an artist—refusing to give my work to institutions that uphold genocide and injustice.
I've also been sitting with some uncertainty around Substack. It's been nearly two years of writing on this platform, and lately, I've felt a shift. As most platforms lean further into video, reels, and short-form content, I'm resisting that pace.
When I committed to Substack, I promised myself I'd stay as long as it felt supportive and aligned with my values. I don't know if it does. I wanted to share this with you in real-time as it's still unfolding. A check-in about where my thoughts are. There's no need to take any action on your end. If I decide to switch back to sending emails directly, I'll update you.
A few days ago, Aki and I went out to eat at our favorite outdoor restaurant and sat at the communal table. A family joined us, and their 9-year-old daughter began showing me her sketchbook after I mentioned that I was also into art.
We ended up sitting together for nearly an hour, sharing stories and laughs while the kids chatted about cartoons. The girl lit up when I told her I'm a professional artist, that I never went to school for it, never studied it formally, and that this is my life's work. She was full of curiosity, asking questions with her eyes wide.
But after every sketch she showed me, after nearly every sentence, she'd pause and say:
"But I'm so cringe."
"My art is so cringe."
I couldn't stand this word, but I also didn't want to correct her or make it a lesson. I told her that being cringe is part of the art—and that it means she's on the right track. She giggled and nodded as if she had heard me. Not just with her ears but somewhere deeper.
At least, I'd like to think that.
Love,
Vanja
Thank you for reading. It’s an honor to be here with you. If you’d like to support me, you can:
Share what resonates and ♡ it.
“Cringe is part of the art” — I love this sentiment and as a parent of a tween I think this is a perfect response. I’ve been turning this phrase over in my mind since I read your post a couple of days ago. Your art is so beautiful and always evolving and it’s lovely that you’re building a mentorship practice. Peace!
❤️❤️❤️