How are you? How was your week? I hope you’re doing well. As for me, my week didn’t start in the most inspiring way, as I had hoped. Somewhere around mid-week, I found myself falling into that familiar mindless scrolling as a way of numbing feelings I didn’t want to feel. I was consuming way more than I was creating, letting other people’s noise drown out my focus. So I decided to step back, close the apps, and just get back into the studio to make things with my bare hands.

It always amazes me how quickly things shift the second I set foot in the studio. It’s an immediate, almost unbelievable transformation. My studio feels like this deeply healing place. The moment my feet touch the floor, all the external noise and worries just melt away. I instantly feel lighter, joyful, and grounded in who I am.

A few things came out of this week that I wanted to share with you.

A Tiny Breakthrough and a Big Idea

At the start of the week, I painted this miniature piece that I completely fell in love with. Working at such a small scale triggered a new idea: What if I started a Mini Painting Mail Club? The concept is to create original, collectible mini paintings and ship them directly to your mailbox on a monthly basis. The idea is growing stronger every day, and I think I am officially going to do it. Keep an eye out for that.

Finding Magic in the Studio Trash

While cleaning up and trying to get back into the swing of things, I spotted a piece of work on paper, crumpled on the studio floor behind my mini couch. My instinct was to toss it in the bin. Instead, I flattened it out and collaged it onto an old, unfinished painting.

The result is this incredible, patchy-textured piece that reminds me of life itself, how it’s a collection of old phases, forgotten scraps, and moments we almost threw away.

Stepping away from the screen and getting my hands dirty reminded me of why I do this. If you’ve been feeling a bit consumed by the noise lately, I hope this is your sign to step back, make something with your hands, and give your old scraps a second chance.

Until next Sunday,

A few things from the week that didn’t make it into the newsletter:

What I’ve been up to lately

I’ve been worrying myself sick. 😫 I know it’s not good for me, but it’s been hard to quiet my mind lately. There have been so many emotions, and some days have felt like a real roller coaster.

When you’re someone who feels everything deeply, it can be draining. You feel your own emotions so intensely, while also feeling the weight of what’s happening around you, whether it’s something personal, something happening within your family, or the suffering we see in the world.

Sometimes, it all becomes a little too much.

So I’m taking some time to be still and let things be. I’m trying not to rush through this season or force myself to have everything figured out. I’m learning to sit with where I am and pay attention to the lessons this season is teaching me.

Maybe there is something to be learned in the quiet too. Not every season is meant to be productive or full of big revelations.

I hope you’re doing well, wherever you find yourself right now. And if life feels a little heavy, I hope you remember to be gentle with yourself. Give yourself permission to slow down, breathe, and simply be.

Take care of yourselves. 🤍

Until next time

Cassandra

As I reflected on this piece, I found myself thinking about life and how many things we can hold at once. Joy, sadness, hope, uncertainty, peace, change, and so on.

We move through so many experiences, emotions, and changes, often all at once. Some days feel light; others feel heavy. Most days hold a little of everything. I think this painting reflects that.

I’m sharing it with you in the hope that you’ll spend a moment with it and discover your own connection. I’m always grateful that a painting can hold different meanings for different people.

Thank you for being here and for following this journey.

For the past few weeks, I haven’t spent much time in the studio.

It wasn’t something I planned. Life simply unfolded that way, and I’ve learned not to interrupt every season by trying to make it look like the last one.

These weeks have been full in a different sense. I’ve been paying closer attention to my health, finding a steadier rhythm for my days, and spending more time with God. None of those things have anything to do with mixing paint, yet I have a feeling they’ll find their way into the work.

I’ve never believed that art is made only in the studio. The painting may begin there, but the seeing begins long before that. It grows in ordinary days, conversations, prayer, and the simple habit of paying attention.

When I pick up the brush again, I don’t think I’ll simply be returning to the work. I’ll be returning with weeks of living that weren’t there before.

Perhaps every artist needs seasons like this. They remind us that the work is nourished by the life we live, and that every day has something to offer before we ever step into the studio.

As for me, it seems as though the work is richer when it grows alongside a life that is full of prayer, attention, and ordinary moments.

Thank you for being here and for allowing me to share these reflections with you. I don’t take it lightly that you make space for my words, my process, and the work I am creating.

I’m grateful to have this little corner where I can share the thoughts, experiences, and inspirations that become part of my creative process.

Until next time, thank you for being part of this journey.

I think I needed it more than I realized.

Spending an hour with his drawings and reading through his notes was exactly what I needed. I loved how loose and carefree his lines felt. Resding his letters and notes in French, was the highlight of my visit which made the experience even more special. It gave me a deeper understanding of his creative process.

I left the museum feeling inspired, so I thought I’d share a few photos from my visit. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

Recently, I was invited to contribute to a magazine feature about my work, my creative journey, and some of the experiences that continue to shape my practice.

In this conversation, I share more about what draws me to painting, the ideas that guide my work, and the personal experiences that have influenced the way I approach creativity, healing, and storytelling through art.

Rather than writing about it here, I wanted to share the full feature with you. If you’re curious to learn more about the work behind the paintings, I’d love for you to read the article.

Read here

Thank you, as always, for being here and for following along on this journey. Thank you to “The Mark Magazine” for opportunity to share more about my journey and the work behind the paintings.

“Living in Color” was originally published in Best Life Magazine Spring Edition. I’m grateful to Brianna the founder and editor, for giving this piece a home and for allowing me to republish it here after its initial publication period.

If you’d like to explore more of the stories and essays featured in the magazine, you can visit here

I’m excited to share the essay with you below.

Color has always been a part of my world. Growing up in Haiti, in the heart of the Caribbean, it was everywhere. It lived in the clothes people wore, the meals we shared, and the vibrant homes along the streets. The tropical landscape made it impossible to ignore, yet nowhere was it more alive than during our annual Carnival, a time when our culture comes alive, a moment to honor our heritage, express creativity, and share joy with the community.

Photo credit: We are Haitians on Instagram

That time of year was always my favorite. The streets transformed into a celebration of music, bright costumes, bold face paint, and an energy that felt almost electric. I remember feeling completely immersed in it, filled with joy as I watched and participated as color brought culture and tradition to life.

In Haitian culture, color is inseparable from identity. And not just nationally – individually too. It was part of how people were perceived, how they moved through the world. From an early age, I was taught how to match hues, coordinate outfits, and craft looks that made an impression. It was a signal of pride, indicating to others that you’re thoughtful, socially aware, and connected to your heritage.

And everyone knew, if the color of your outfits did not match, it would not go unnoticed. Mismatched or poorly chosen colors stood out and suggested carelessness – or worse, a lack of awareness of cultural norms.

Our personal relationships to color were fostered early on, as a way of exploring our own selves, too. From the paint on our walls to the smallest things he brought home, my dad always asked my sister and me to choose the colors ourselves. He insisted we have a favorite. I used to say mine was baby blue, and somehow, every special thing he bought us, whether a toy, clothes, or something small and unexpected, would come in our favorite color. I think it was his unique way of giving us a sense of choice and identity. He always showed his love and care for us through color, making even small things feel special.

Those early experiences with color stayed with me. At the time, I had no idea that these moments would lay the foundation for a deeper relationship with color later in life. And by the time I entered my thirties that fascination had grown into something more deliberate and profound, especially when I discovered art.

As I started painting, my connection to color deepened even further. Certain shades held memories, while others simply brought me joy. I began to see color as a way to express feelings and thoughts that words alone can’t capture – a way to respond to that presence and explore the full spectrum of emotions. My interest in art felt sudden; in truth, it was a new way for me to explore this lifelong relationship.

Painting opened a space where color could live through me, a way to trace the beautiful memories of my childhood. I always say I paint for two people: my childhood self and my adult self.

When I stand in front of the canvas, choosing a color doesn't even feel like a decision, it feels instinctive. I don't sit and analyze it, I simply reach for what feels right in the moment based on what's moving through me. Sometimes the feeling is soft and grounding; other times, it's intense or overwhelming. But the color always seems to arrive before I can explain it, and the canvas is there to capture the shape of my inner world, however it unfolds.

Often, I only understand why certain colors appeared after the painting is finished. It's as if my subconscious guides the process all along, using color to express something I was not yet fully aware of.

After immersing myself in my craft for six years, different colors have created specific resonances within me. White feels like renewal, where everything can begin again; yellow carries hope, warmth, and sunlight; green brings calm, a reflection of nature and growth; blue offers steadiness, a connection to the wider world, to the skies and the seas I grew up with. Red feels powerful, intense, and sometimes difficult, holding a depth of emotion I am still learning to fully welcome.

I once questioned the timing of my artistic awakening. Why hadn’t I painted since childhood? In hindsight, it’s clear that my adult initiation into painting was not a coincidence. The lessons and experiences of my childhood — my father’s insistence on favorite colors, growing up surrounded by the vibrancy of my culture — shaped the unique bond with color I have now.

It took time to fully inhabit the emotional and sensory world I had been moving through since childhood, to feel ready to explore color in this new, intimate way. The connection was always there, but until recently, I don’t think I realized just how much color had already guided me, shaped me, and carried memory, joy, and pain.

I remember when I left my small town to live in the city for high school, color arrived each morning on wheels. Our transportation was the public tap-tap, Caribbean taxis painted in bursts of color, decorated with bold patterns, and bold Caribbean designs.

My days began before sunrise. I woke at 5 a.m. with just enough time to reach the schoolyard by 6:45 a.m, where we gathered to pray, sing the national anthem ‘La Dessalinienne,’ and prepare for the disciplined day ahead.

In the mornings, choice did not exist; crowds of sleepy students climbed into whichever tap-tap stopped first, often the most worn and crowded ones, simply grateful to arrive on time.

However, the afternoons belonged to us. After school, my friends and I would stand together and wait, refusing every passing ride until the most beautiful and colorful tap-tap appeared. We would hail the one with the brightest colors, liveliest designs, with music spilling into the street.

It didn’t matter how long we waited; beauty was worth patience. Inside those moving colorful taxis, we laughed, sang, and rode home filled with joy, as if color itself carried us. Those rides left a permanent mark onto my spirit. These times were the most joyful times of my existence – and I'm not exaggerating. I think color played a big part in it.

• These are pictures of Cap-Haïtien, the city where I went to high school.

• Photo credit: We are Haitians on Instagram.

It wasn't until 30 years later, as a painter, that I understood why those moments never left me. The happiness I felt growing up in the Caribbean – vivid, effortless, and alive – is a feeling I have rarely found again, except when I stand before a canvas. When I paint, surrounded by color, I return to those afternoons, to that joy, and for a moment, I am riding home again – and I realize I never really left.

Thank you for taking the time to read this article. In sharing these reflections, I hope it offers a closer look into my journey as an artist and the places that have shaped me. I appreciate you being here and engaging with my work.

When I first began the Reclaiming series, I believed I was exploring what it feels like to take one’s power back after something difficult. But as I kept painting, I came to understand that the work was asking something else of me entirely.

I do not think we return to who we were before certain experiences. Some changes remain, and in some ways, a part of us does not come back. There are wounds that do not disappear in the way we expect them to, and I am beginning to understand that this, too, is part of living.

The real question, then, is not how one becomes the old version of oneself again, but how one continues to live as the person one has become.

This is what the work has been teaching me.

The paintings themselves have taken shape slowly, over time, layered, built, and returned to again and again across weeks, sometimes months. It was never a matter of completing something in a single sitting, but of coming back to it, even when only a small mark could be made in a day.

At first, I thought that meant I had not yet figured it out. But now I understand that this tension was always part of it.

Healing is not always immediate, but it can arrive at a place where what once felt heavy no longer carries the same weight.

Sometimes power is quieter than we expect. Sometimes it is simply learning how to exist with what has happened, without trying to undo it.

I think that is where the series is moving now, toward a way of going forward that carries the memory of what has changed you, without attempting to erase it.

Thank you for staying with me as I work through these questions in the studio.

Until next time

Cassandra

The first part of the series is titled The Red Series exploring how we return to ourselves emotionally, spiritually, physically, and psychologically after parts of us have been fractured, silenced, or disconnected.

At first, I questioned why the work was taking me so long.

I would begin a painting, stop for days, then come back to it weeks later. Some pieces carried heavy layers of paint, marks, and revisions. But eventually I realized the process itself mirrored the subject of the work.

I think I was releasing a lot while making these works. I also understood that healing is not linear. Sometimes reclaiming yourself happens slowly, and with resistance. Letting go of certain emotions can feel frightening, even when you know they no longer belong in your body. The red series taught me that.

The process became a space where I could release emotion, confront tension, and sit with things long enough to understand them differently. Looking back now, it makes sense that the series needed time. I needed time.

I think I was releasing a lot while making these works and sometimes that process can be uncomfortable. You can feel where I stopped, returned, changed my mind, covered and revealed things.

Now I’ve started the blue series, and emotionally it already feels completely different. The brushstrokes are softer, and the marks feel lighter. The paintings are less layered, and less dense. There’s more openness in them already.

I’ve noticed that I enter the studio differently now. There’s more ease, trust, and softness in the process. The work is still emotional, but it’s no longer carrying the same weight during the making process.

It’s interesting to witness how color can hold emotional language, and how the body reveals itself through the way we make things.

The red series felt like I was trying to let something out of my system, while the blue series feels like learning how to move forward.

Both series hold their purpose. If you’ve followed the series so far, thank you for being part of it, and witnessing this work as it continues to evolve.

Until next time!

-Cassandra

I wanted to share a little update with you all because I’m feeling really excited about where I am creatively right now.

For those of you who have been following my work closely, you know I’ve been working on a body of work I titled The Red Series. That series became the first chapter of a larger project I call Reclaiming. Now, I’m beginning t…

Read more

Hey Cass,

Today was a good day.

I went to work, came home, and cooked a quick dinner. It feels like time has been moving so fast lately. It was already 8:22 p.m. by the time I sat down to take a breather. I got home around 5:45 p.m.

I heard there’s a virus outbreak on a cruise ship, three people have died so far. I don’t know much about it yet. It just feels like every day there’s something new happening in the world.

I’m going to bed early tonight because I have to wake up at 6:30 a.m. for a 7:30 a.m. doctor’s appointment with my mother-in-law. I also have an event later in the evening, from 5:30 to 7:30pm.

It’s a real-Estate event at The View in South Orange—“Golden Hour Social” with a panoramic NYC skyline view. It’s in a beautiful modern architectural home worth $3 million. The art and design there is one of a kind.

A girl reached out to me a couple weeks ago on Instagram out of the blue and invited me. At first I thought it was a scam, but after looking into it more, it seems to be legit. I’m excited to attend.

Now I just have to figure out what I’m going to wear.

I’ve decided on blue jeans with a shirt and blazer, a brown belt, beige shoes, and a brown purse. I went on Pinterest for outfit inspiration because I tend to have a hard time coordinating outfits sometimes, but I’m glad I was able to pull something together.

I’m really hoping I make good connections tomorrow and meet some amazing people. I’ll tell you all about it after.

Good night.

Hey Cass, I had a day today.

Nothing dramatic or anything like that, but it was full.

I woke up at 6:40 a.m. like I said I would, and took my mother-in-law to the hospital for a CAT scan. Everything went well.

I was supposed to start work at 8 a.m., but I didn’t start until 10 a.m. because of the appointment. I’ll make up the hours over the weekend. I got off work at 5:00 p.m., and by the time I got home, it was already 5:30 p.m traffic included.

I washed up and got ready for the event. I arrived around 6:30pm or so.

The place was very glamorous and modern, with a stunning skyline view of NYC. But what stood out the most to me was the art. There was a great collection in every corner of the space, so thoughtfully curated and beautifully placed.

There were light drinks, music, and people. It wasn’t overly crowded, very intimate, which made me feel comfortable. I even felt at ease taking photos, videos, and selfies.

I met the girl who invited me and smiled and said hi to a few people. Overall I enjoyed the experience.

Hey Cass, it’s Friday.

It’s a breezy day—windy, a little cold for spring. The sun has been coming in and out.

I’m on my lunch break right now. I take it at 1 p.m., and today I’m sitting in my car. There’s a lawnmower going in the background that’s kind of disturbing my peace, but I’m trying to stay in my own little world anyway.

I’m watching Scandal on my phone. Well,

re-watching it.

I want to go home so bad today.

It’s one of those days where I just want to be isolated in my little corner, and not be bothered. I just want to go home and be still.

I need to do laundry this weekend, but honestly, I don’t feel like it. I don’t feel like meal prepping either. I just want to follow my energy this weekend. Move gently, do what I can, and leave the rest alone.

It’s Mother’s Day on Sunday.

So this weekend, I want to take it easy. I’ll celebrate Haitian Mother’s Day with my mom and my mother in law in two weeks, but this weekend I’m not doing too much. Just being soft with myself.

I trust that the Lord will bring me comfort and handle the things that feel heavy right now. He has always held me.

You know what I just decided?

I’m going to be cute on Sunday—wear something pink, and buy myself flowers.

I think I’ll do just that.

Thank you, Lord. Thank you for holding me and always being my refuge. You are my Father, my best friend. You know me inside and out. You know my heart.

I love you.

I feel like crying, but I’m not going to. When I get home, I’ll go to my studio, and I’ll paint.

Actually, I think I’ll go to the art store and buy blue paint to start my blue series. I’ll close the studio door, put on something soft and calming, and just create.

I’m not even sure what I’m eating for dinner yet, but I’ll figure it out later.

Well, I know I said I wasn’t going to cook this weekend, that I was going to rest for Mother’s Day, but I kept fighting the feeling of doing nothing.

Because even though I want rest, I also feel this pull to do something.

My mom and my mother-in-law at least need to eat something fresh, something good, something Haitian for Mother’s Day even though we are going to celebrate Haitian Mother’s Day in two weeks.

So somehow, after work, I stopped by supermarket and got a few ingredients. I’m planning to make(“tasso” which is fried goat, black rice, fried plantains, and salad russe.) It’s going to take time, probably more time than I want to give this weekend, but it’s all good.

Until next time.

There’s something about seeing someone still early in their life already building a relationship with creativity, through drawing, painting, music, or any form of expression. Whenever I come across that kind of passion, I feel naturally pulled to support it in whatever way I can.

Recently that feeling has led me to someone I want to share with you.

His name is Jeremiah.

He’s currently participating in a national competition called “America’s Most Artistic Kids,” and it felt like a meaningful moment to introduce him and the work he’s creating.

He’s a young artist whose creativity shows up across different forms, through drawing, painting, and music. The more I learn about the way he expresses himself, the more I’ve been thinking about what it means to nurture creativity early, and how important it is for a child to be encouraged to explore what they love.

With that in mind, I wanted to share more about him:

Jeremiah’s art is the key to express his feelings. The butterfly for instance one of his paintings represents the passing of his great grandmother on his 10th Birthday. His artwork most often includes characters and animals. He likes to draw portraits of his favorite soccer players like Messi, MBappè. He takes time making his art , he is very detailed and is good at following directions. Jeremiah is also a talented singer and musician, he loves to spend times painting and singing while he works.

Jeremiah’s uncle and father inspire him. He enjoys incorporating his hobbies into his artwork. He also finds his inspiration in what he believes is the best sport in the world: football (soccer), which is also his favorite sport. He combines three of his greatest passions: art , music and soccer, to create meaningful and expressive artwork. By bringing these interests together, he produces drawings that reflect both his creativity.

His favorite art forms are sketching, painting with acrylic , water color and drawing, as they allow him to express his creativity in different ways. He uses any drawing instruments he can get his hands on. In addition to painting Jeremiah has a strong love for the piano,drums and xylophone. He has been playing the piano about 3 years ago. It is truly beautiful watching him create musical art. He can turn almost anything into a piece of art.

There’s something meaningful about seeing a young artist already finding ways to express what he feels, and bringing together the things he loves into one space.

He’s now been selected as a finalist in this competition, which makes this moment feel even more special.

If his work speaks to you, and you feel moved to support him, you can take a moment to vote here:

More than anything, I just wanted to introduce you to him and share a glimpse of what he’s creating.

It has been a challenging couple of weeks, however, I somehow feel a sense of peace. Although, a lot is happening around me, I feel grounded, peaceful, and calm which to me is a blessing.

I began the fourth piece in the series a few weeks ago, guided only by a color scheme, and my intuition. ( see work in progress below )

I’ve noticed that I can only access my creativity once all external responsibilities are completed. I need a sense of order and control in my daily life before I can paint.

For example, if I have a free day but I also need to run errands, go to a doctor’s appointment, or cook, I won’t paint until all of that is done. Even if I technically have free time, I can’t start creating while those tasks are still pending. I need everything on my to-do list to be finished first, and only then I feel able to sit down and paint.

Yesterday was a good day. Even in the presence of things I couldn’t control, I moved past them with a newfound inner peace I had prayed for.

This body of work has helped me realize that my creativity is deeply tied to my emotional world. Through it, I feel myself growing and learning in real time. Something within this process has been helping me navigate a wide range of emotions, and I am receiving so much from it in return. I feel a greater sense of peace emerging within me, as if I needed to first release these feelings in order to arrive at it. I also don’t want to overlook my faith in this.

This peace I am experiencing feels like something God has answered and placed within me. Overall, the series has become a space of healing, reflection, and grounding for me, and it is shaping me in a very positive way.

I am still in the middle of discovering what this piece wants to become. Thank you for taking the time to engage with my work and follow this journey. Your support means a lot as I continue developing this series.

That time of year was always my favorite. The streets transformed into a celebration of music, bright costumes, bold face paint, and an energy that felt almost electric. I remember feeling completely immersed in it, filled with joy as I watched and participated as color brought culture and tradition to life.

In Haitian culture, color is inseparable from identity. And not just nationally – individually too. It was part of how people were perceived, how they moved through the world. From an early age, I was taught how to match hues, coordinate outfits, and craft looks that made an impression. It was a signal of pride, indicating to others that you’re thoughtful, socially aware, and connected to your heritage.

And everyone knew, if the color of your outfits did not match, it would not go unnoticed. Mismatched or poorly chosen colors stood out and suggested carelessness – or worse, a lack of awareness of cultural norms.

Our personal relationships to color were fostered early on, as a way of exploring our own selves, too. From the paint on our walls to the smallest things he brought home, my dad always asked my sister and me to choose the colors ourselves. He insisted we have a favorite. I used to say mine was baby blue, and somehow, every special thing he bought us, whether a toy, clothes, or something small and unexpected, would come in our favorite color. I think it was his unique way of giving us a sense of choice and identity. He always showed his love and care for us through color, making even small things feel special.

Those early experiences with color stayed with me. At the time, I had no idea that these moments would lay the foundation for a deeper relationship with color later in life. And by the time I entered my thirties, that fascination had grown into something more deliberate and profound, especially when I discovered art.

As I started painting, my connection to color deepened even further. Certain shades held memories, while others simply brought me joy. I began to see color as a way to express feelings and thoughts that words alone can’t capture – a way to respond to that presence and explore the full spectrum of emotions. My interest in art felt sudden; in truth, it was a new way for me to explore this lifelong relationship.

Painting opened a space where color could live through me, a way to trace the beautiful memories of my childhood. I always say I paint for two people: my childhood self and my adult self.

When I stand in front of the canvas, choosing a color doesn’t even feel like a decision -- it feels instinctive. I don’t sit and analyze it, I simply reach for what feels right in the moment based on what’s moving through me. Sometimes the feeling is soft and grounding; other times, it’s intense or overwhelming. But the color always seems to arrive before I can explain it, and the canvas is there to capture the shape of my inner world, however it unfolds.

Often, I only understand why certain colors appeared after the painting is finished. It’s as if my subconscious guides the process all along, using color to express something I was not yet fully aware of.

There’s a memory I haven’t shared yet — one that connects everything. The joy I felt as a child, the art I create now, and why color has always been my way home.

Read the full article in Best Life Magazine, Spring 2026: [link]

This feature is a milestone for me- It shares parts of my story that I don’t always share. If you’ve been following my journey and my work, getting a copy of Best Life Magazine supports not just me, but the arts and the spaces that make room for artists. Your support helps keep this kind of creative work visible.

Thank you kindly,

Writing was how I expressed myself before I started making art. Growing up, I was very shy, and the best way for me to share my feelings and emotions was on the page. If I had something to tell you that wasn’t surface‑level, I would write you a letter.

I remember how big letter‑writing was in school back in the nineties growing up in Haiti. We would pass notes under the table without the teacher knowing, then send each other home with letters at the end of the day. It was endless, and right up my alley. It felt safe, and it allowed me to express myself fully.

Because of that, writing will always hold a special place in my heart. Even now, if I have something important or emotional to say, I’d rather write it than speak it out loud—my husband can attest to that.

Over the past year, I’ve noticed a shift in the way I paint. I’ve developed a deep interest in mark‑making; my marks tend to have a calligraphic feel, and I’ve been incorporating more words into my pieces. Sometimes they aren’t immediately visible, you have to look closely to find them.

That presence of writing is more obvious in this new piece from the red series. It wasn’t intentional at first, but midway through the process, the marks began to take over the canvas, and I just let them. I don’t want to give too much away, because I love when people form their own interpretations of the work.

Let me know if it evokes anything in you. I would truly love to hear your thoughts.

In the days leading up to starting this piece these are some of the things, I was reading, watching, listening to and sitting with.

At first, I didn’t have a language for what this series was going to be about. But after finishing the second piece, I could feel the emotion the work is trying to convey.

I understood it instinctively, but for some reason I couldn’t articulate it. All I knew was that lately I’ve been feeling very drawn to red in my work. I want the color to consume the paintings that I create. I tried to ignore the feeling, but I couldn’t seem to create anything else that excites me.

So last month I decided to follow the feeling instead of resisting it.

I had this painting that I thought was finished. I had even exhibited it last summer at the West Orange Public Library in NJ. But as I sat in my studio, I kept looking at it. Something in my soul kept telling me to rework it because it didn’t feel the same way it once did.

So I grabbed the painting and put it back on the easel. I honestly don’t remember exactly what happened next. I entered a kind of flow state. When the work was finished, something inside me felt different, and sat with it for days.

Then I went back into the studio and made a second work, that's when I had an epiphany. I finally understood what I was trying to express.

These works explore what it means for power to return to the body after loss. They speak to the moment when something precious is taken, and you know there’s a part of yourself that will never fully come back. There is anger in that space, confusion, and disorientation. And then there is the shift which is the decision to reclaim control, gather what remains, and stand firmly in your own power again.

I’m still in the middle of this process, still discovering things as the work unfolds. I want to invite you to be on this journey with me as I go deeper into this series, sharing what I’m learning, feeling, and what begins to reveal itself through the work.

Stay tuned for painting number three. I’m not sure yet how long it will take me to finish it, but the momentum is there and I’ve been in the studio working every day. I’m excited to share the rest of the series with you as it unfolds.

I’d also love to hear your thoughts. If something in the work speaks to you, or if it stirs a feeling or memory, feel free to share it with me. I always welcome the conversations that unfold around the work.

Thank you for your support

Cassandra

I'm still on cloud nine after last night's show, it's hard to put into words, but I'll try. The opening was truly life-changing. The connections I made, the energy, and the outpouring of support were just incredible. Big thanks to Blake Smith the curator who put this amazing show together. Her vision is powerful, and it's clear why this show is resonating with so many people.

Funny story, one of the reporter shared that it was so crowded outside, her husband asked her if Picasso was inside 😂. It's clear this show is making waves, and I'm honored to be a part of it.

Big thanks again to Blake for creating this one of a kind experience. I will celebrating all weekend.

Women Hysteria at Pierro Gallery, Baird Community Center 5 Mead St, South Orange, NJ 🖼 On view through April 10

The week before an exhibition opens, I slow down because that time feels sacred to me, and I don’t want to rush through it or feel like I have to prove anything. I just get quieter and come back to myself.

I spend time with the work, by sitting with each piece and let myself feel it honestly. I think about what it means to me now, and try to remember where I was mentally and emotionally when I created each piece. I notice what has changed in me since then. Sometimes the emotion is still strong, other times it has softened. Either way, I let it be what it is.

I ground myself spiritually:

I spend time with God by praying and reading my Bible. I sit in silence long enough to hear what is happening in my own heart. Before the work leaves my hands and enters the world, I make sure I am centered. I remind myself that the ability to create is a gift. That reminder takes the pressure off, and helps me trust what I have made.

The day of the exhibit, I am very protective of my energy. I try not to overload my schedule. I do what needs to be done and nothing extra. I move through my days slowly and intentionally. I protect my peace, and say no when I need to, because I understand that my mind and heart need room to breathe.

I choose quiet, steady activities:

I draw, read, listen to soft jazz, and sometimes sat in total silence. I stay off social media, and avoid scrolling, and try to stay connected to myself.

I think about the people who will be in the room, the conversations and the atmosphere. The other artists who are exhibiting their work alongside me. The quiet moments when someone stands in front of a piece and just looks. I prepare my heart to share that space.

I take care of my body:

I eat well, and rest. I move gently, and make sure I feel steady and clear so I do not become overwhelmed during the event. I remind myself that being present matters more than being perfect.

Before the doors open and the room fills, I return to God, to myself, and to why I create. And when the night finally comes, I feel ready and grounded.

Pierro Gallery presents Female Hysteria, a group exhibition confronting the historically misogynistic diagnosis once used to pathologize women’s emotions and bodies.

The exhibition reclaims the term, showcasing women artists whose work embraces intensity, beauty, rage, humor, vulnerability, and power.

🗓 Opening Reception: Thursday, February 26 | 6:30–8:30 PM 📍 Pierro Gallery, Baird Community Center 5 Mead St, South Orange, NJ 🖼 On view through April 10

This story follows a day in the life of a woman learning to navigate fear, small comforts, and the ordinary rhythms of her world.

She woke up knowing she had to run an important errand. The kind you don’t want to mess up. That alone made her tense before she even got out of bed. She moved fast, skipped over the slow parts of the morning, told herself she’d calm down later.

Her car didn’t start.

She tried again, annoyed now, then remembered the light she forgot to turn off the day before. She hadn’t noticed because it was freezing. Zero degree makes you rush, and makes you forget things.

There wasn’t time to deal with it. She ordered an Uber and stood outside waiting. She finished the errand quickly, rushed home because all she wanted is to be inside her cozy apartment with the door close behind her.

She returned to bed, giving her introverted self a chance to recharge. It felt essential, especially in 2026, when the world seemed darker and more chaotic than ever.

She ate lunch later that afternoon, breaking an eighteen-hour fast she had not planned. She made coffee the way she always does, with heavy cream mixed with oat milk. She drank it while drawing in her sketchbook.

She wanted the afternoon to be creative, but mostly she wanted it to feel safe, and calm. So she let her nervous system settle instead of forcing it to behave.

The trauma doesn’t announce itself. It slips in like sudden noises, random explosion, running, and screaming. A feeling that doesn’t belong to the moment she’s in. It happens a few times a day, she fears that it can happen again. That there could be another shooting, and she could end up there again, in the wrong place at the wrong time, with no control over it.

She’s learning not to fight the flashbacks, because fighting makes it worse. Instead, she notices it and reminds herself where she is, by looking around the room, and name what she can see. Tells herself she’s safe, even if it takes a few tries for her body to believe it.

That afternoon she called her dad. They talked about normal things. Family, work, and the weather. Hearing his voice helped her come back into herself.

The coffee she had earlier kept her up longer than she wanted. Coffee usually doesn’t affect her much, but this time it did. In the evening, she switched to tea and sat with a book until her body finally slowed down, and felt lighter. She told herself if anything were to happen, at least she was with the people she loves. That was what mattered in that moment, and that’s all that ever matter. She knows she’ll be okay, like everything in life this moment is only temporary.

A little note on this story: it was inspired by one of my journal entries. I like turning small moments and personal reflections into fictional stories, and I’m excited to be getting back to it. It’s a way to share a piece of my world while exploring the moments that matter most to me. Hope you enjoyed it.

Until next time

Cassandra

I recently watched this video where people were mimicking some of the more bizarre things you see in modern art. You know the kind; an artist lies in a bed and calls it art, draws a single black line down a canvas, or lets buckets of sand spill onto the floor.

Because when I see the actual artworks those ideas came from, even if they look simple or strange, they don’t feel the same as when someone just copies them for laughs. On the surface, it’s the same thing. But somehow… it isn’t.

There’s something in the artist’s version that isn’t in the imitation. Maybe it’s the context; the way it connects to a bigger conversation about art, culture, or even the history of making things. Maybe it’s intention; the decision to do it wasn’t random but part of a thought process. And maybe it’s who’s doing it, the fact that it’s coming from an artist with a body of work, a voice, a point of view.

When someone mimics it without all of that, they’re just copying what it looks like, not what it means. It’s like quoting one sentence from a novel without knowing the rest of the story. The words are the same, but the meaning is hollow.

And I think that’s where the difference lies between “anyone could do it” and “someone did it.” The action might be easy to copy, but the layers underneath; the why, the timing, the person behind it; those are harder to duplicate. Maybe the part that can’t be imitated is what makes it art.