I originally posted this over on my substack, An Eye for Art a few months ago, but since it’s only available to subscribers to read I wanted to post here as well so it’s available to anyone interested in knowing a bit more background on what drives my work…

This week I thought I’d let you get to know me a little better!

First off, I want to start by clarifying that I generally don’t enjoy talking about myself or my work, which I don’t think is unusual in my profession. I’m uncomfortable in the spotlight and often utilize the bad habit of self-deprecation to avoid it.

Then you might be wondering why I’ve decided to feature myself today. The reason is twofold… First, I’ve been trying to work on doing more of what makes me uncomfortable, and second, I LOVE having deep conversations and think that art can be a bridge to help us express the things we struggle to put into words.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been listening to Rick Rubin’s new book, The Creative Act: a Way of Being, as well as Anderson Cooper’s podcast, “All There Is.” Going between the two has me thinking so much about who we are and how we become ourselves, both through experience and how we choose to live our lives.

I don’t discuss it often because I like to let my artwork stand on its own, but much of the reason why I paint the beauty of our world is that I’ve seen its opposite.

A bit of background… While I had a wonderful childhood filled with exploring, art-making, and play, it was also filled with trauma, loss, and grief. I had the fortune of growing up directly behind my maternal grandparents’ home where many of my 10 aunts and uncles still lived (my mom was the oldest of 11). But by the time I was six, two of my beloved aunts, both in their early 20s, were catastrophically injured—one shot in an attempted robbery and the other in a car accident with a drunk driver. By the time I was 22, I’d also lost a 15-year-old cousin on my paternal side to a medical mistake. I’ll admit that growing up amongst all of this meant years spent waiting for the next shoe to drop, but it also meant that I knew true compassion, empathy, and love nearly from birth.

Growing up, my family felt the highs and lows of life so intensely, yet it was always reinforced how grateful we were for what we had (the old, “things can always be worse”) and how lucky we were to have each other. As an adult raising children of my own, I grieve more in some ways for the pain and sadness that my family has carried for so very long and did their best to shield us from, as well as the innocence my children enjoy that I never knew.

I’ve lived much of my life being careful not to expose the heightened emotions that I feel daily and consider practically innate. Feelings, especially complex ones, make people uncomfortable. As a child, I stayed as even-tempered as possible, but as an adult (and mother) it’s just impossible. Nowadays, when I’m moved by seemingly nominal aspects of daily life and choke up, I often still feel the need to push down my emotions but have begun to embrace them.

I’ve spent a decent amount of time in therapy reflecting on all of this, and often find myself drawn to discussions of grief and healing. We’ll inevitably all experience loss, and though we’d all trade it in an instant, the experience can make us more complex, perceptive people.

In his interview on All There Is, Stephen Colbert talks about how he cries all the time and frequently weirds his family out in doing so. His explanation resonates so deeply. Colbert has realized it’s not the sad things that bring him to tears but more often the beautiful things: “The world can be so sad and you can be so shattered and so sad, but, it can also be so beautiful and the juxtaposition between the grief of the world and the beauty of the world is… ecstatically agonizing.”

I feel Colbert’s words so acutely and see it in my art practice too. My work is as much about noticing and painting that beauty and finding a respite in it as it is about experiencing suffering and loss. The two are so linked for me and cannot be separated. The pairing reminds me of the complementary colors on the color wheel. Complementary colors vibrate off of each other and change how we perceive the other, making their opposite seem just a bit more vibrant. These opposites are considered also to be harmonious.

We are often so uncomfortable with suffering, whether our own or that of others, but I think it’s true that we cannot fully see and appreciate beauty until we know loss. The pain of suffering also allows us to feel the good things more profoundly.

Deeply feeling is what Rick Rubin excels at. If I’m being completely honest, I didn’t know who Rubin was until I saw him interviewed on 60 Minutes. In case you’re in the same boat, Rubin is a world-renowned music producer with a very unusual way of working. Rather than focus on technical details, Rubin listens. He works with artists to explore what emotions their music awakens and helps them pare down their sound to capture the most compelling pieces.

Needless to say, I immediately downloaded Rubin’s new book about harnessing creativity and am spellbound. Early on in the book, Rubin says:

To live as an artist is a way of being in the world. A way of perceiving. A practice of paying attention. Refining our sensitivity to tune in to the more subtle notes. Looking for what draws us in and what pushes us away. Noticing what feeling tones arise and where they lead.

In the following chapter, he goes on:

The best artists tend to be the ones with the most sensitive antennae to draw in the energy resonating at a particular moment. Many great artists first develop sensitive antennae not to create art but to protect themselves. They have to protect themselves because everything hurts more. They feel everything more deeply.

These lines hit me so hard that my breath caught. Not because I consider myself a great artist, but because I don’t think I’d ever fully understood why I became an artist until I heard him speak what I felt.

I want my work to be a reminder of the beauty that surrounds us, to offer relief, if only momentarily, from the challenges of life. I find such solace in noticing the small moments of wonder in our world, and there’s just so much to discover. I also hope though that the work offers a space to feel what we feel, on either end of the spectrum, and know that are never alone in it.

Lately, my subject matter has started to broaden a bit, often keeping the skies that first inspired awe in me, but weaving landscapes, birds, and flowers into my paintings. I’m trying to open myself up and capture what moves me. Whether it’s the Chinese mythology of cranes carrying the souls of the dead to heaven (how beautiful an image is that?) or simply the incredible lure of a marsh in the evening, our world offers such magic if we simply stop to look.

This post, much like sending paintings out into the world, feels very exposed and vulnerable, but I’m hopeful it will connect with you. Whether or not my artwork is for you, I hope you’ll consider what an unexpected gift the connection between beauty and suffering can be, and in Rick Rubin’s words, spend some time looking “for what draws us in and what pushes us away. Noticing what feeling tones arise and where they lead.”

If you’d like to know more about me start here, and also be sure to follow me on instagram at @taraandrisart

Let’s talk more next week, and as always, I’d love to hear what you think in the comments!

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