Cynthia Oswald

Surface Design, Fine Art + Branding for Creatives

Cynthia Oswald

Drawing Meaning: The Art and Emotional Power of Letterforms

The Emotional Life of Fonts:
Choosing Typography That Reflects the Heart of Your Brand

Before someone reads the name of a business, the lettering has already begun shaping what they expect from it. It can suggest that the business is established, approachable, artful, playful, refined, or deeply rooted in its history. When the lettering doesn’t align with the work behind it, something can feel slightly off—even when it is difficult to explain why.

This is part of what makes typography so powerful within a brand. The curve of a letter, the weight of a stroke, and the space between two words all influence how the message is received. A beautiful typeface is not necessarily the right one. The question is whether the letters communicate something true about the person, place, product, or idea they represent.

I have spent much of my life noticing those details, although I didn’t always have the language to describe what held my attention. Long before I understood typography as part of communication design, I saw letters as images—something to study, shape, and draw.

To me, letterforms have always been art.

I Have Always Drawn Letters

Some of my earliest creative memories involve studying the shapes of letters. I practiced my handwriting for hours as a child, paying attention to the way one letter connected to the next and experimenting with different ways of forming each one. I studied signatures, made bubble letters, and treated the words on school projects as part of the artwork—not something added after the artwork was finished.

I was also fascinated by early symbolic forms of communication. Cuneiform, hieroglyphics, and other ancient marks seemed to exist somewhere between language and image. They carried meaning, but they also had shape, rhythm, and presence. Long before I understood why, I was drawn to the idea that a mark could be both something to read and something to see.

One of the first logos I remember feeling connected to was the General Electric monogram. At the time, I did not understand its history or know why it stayed with me. Its hand-drawn quality simply felt different from other corporate marks—historical, human, and full of movement, as though someone had carefully considered the way every stroke flowed into the next. Looking back, it makes sense that I eventually became both a communication designer and an artist. I have always been interested in that place where language becomes visual and where structure meets the evidence of someone’s hand.

People sometimes look at my lettering and say, “It looks like you drew that letter.” I love hearing that because it describes exactly how the process feels to me. If I were drawing a flower, I would study the direction of its stem, the curve of its petals, and the small details that give it its particular character. I approach custom lettering in much the same way. I look at the angle of a line, the shape of a curve, the space it holds, and how it relates to the letters around it.

I am not thinking of it as a standard letter that I need to make more decorative. I am drawing it as its own visual form. An A or an R becomes the subject in front of me, much like a flower, an animal, or anything else I might draw. When someone notices that quality in the finished lettering, it means they are seeing the letter in the same way I do—as a piece of art, not simply something that was typed. Something that has the ability to carry visual cues that tell the story far beyond words.

I am not simply typing a word and choosing a font. I am looking at its shape—drawing it, responding to it, and trying to understand what it wants to communicate.

Letters Communicate Before Words Do

Every typeface has a personality, although we may not always recognize it consciously. Some feel steady and familiar, like something discovered in the pages of a well-loved book. Others feel crisp, modern, soft, authoritative, expressive, or restrained.

Those impressions come from many small decisions within the letterforms. The contrast between thick and thin strokes can make a word feel elegant or dramatic. Wider, more open forms may feel generous and calm, while condensed forms can feel focused and orderly. A slight irregularity might bring warmth and humanity; perfect geometry can create a very different sense of precision.

We often associate serif typefaces with history or literary tradition and sans serif typefaces with modernity, but those categories are far from fixed. A serif can feel remarkably fresh, while a sans serif can carry tremendous warmth. The feeling comes from the individual forms, their proportions, the spaces between them, and the way they interact.

This is something I have learned to pay close attention to: a beautiful typeface is not automatically the right typeface. It may be lovely on its own and still communicate something entirely different from what a particular brand needs to say.

A business rooted in craftsmanship might lose some of its humanity if its typography feels overly corporate. A professional service brand could undermine trust if its lettering feels too casual or fleeting. A brand built around history and place may need a sense of permanence, while another looking toward the future might call for something simpler and more unexpected.

These moments of misalignment are rarely dramatic. More often, someone senses that something is not quite right without being able to explain why. Much of the design process involves listening to that response, remaining curious about it, and continuing to explore until the visual language begins to feel more truthful.

When a Typeface Is Not Quite Enough

I have a deep appreciation for beautifully designed typefaces. I can spend hours studying their history, structure, and subtle differences, and I am continually discovering letterforms and type designers whose work changes the way I see. Sometimes an existing typeface is exactly what a brand needs, either as it was designed or with a few thoughtful adjustments.

There are other times when the idea seems to call for something that does not yet exist. This is where custom lettering allows me to treat a word or phrase as an illustration.

I might redraw an individual letter, change the relationship between two forms, introduce a detail inspired by the brand’s history, or adjust the composition so the lettering fills a particular space more naturally. Rather than being limited by what is available in a font library, I can respond directly to the name, the story, and the way the lettering will eventually be used.

I am especially drawn to lettering from the mid-1800s through the early 1900s, particularly European references. Those forms often carry a richness and artistry that speak to another time. I am not trying to copy them or make a new brand feel as though it is pretending to be old. I am interested in understanding what gives those letters their character, then exploring how some of that quality might be interpreted in a way that feels relevant now.

I have used this process to create and refine lettering for projects such as the Phoenixville Pottery Festival and Kimberton, and I continue to explore it in current work for Ginty Builders and Botanical Bread Co. Each project asks something different of the letters, and I rarely know exactly where the drawing will lead when I begin. One may need to feel established and built to last, while another calls for something more organic and expressive. The drawing evolves as I come to understand the story more fully.

This is the point at which lettering can become more than one component of a logo. It becomes part of the creative expression of the brand—something shaped by its particular history, personality, and purpose.

Translating the Heart of a Brand

When I begin exploring typography for a brand, I listen closely to how the people behind the business talk about their work. I pay attention to what they make, the people they serve, the places and experiences that have shaped them, and what they hope someone will feel when encountering the brand for the first time.

Clients do not always have the technical language to explain why a typeface feels right or wrong. They do not need it. Responses such as “This feels close,” “This is too formal,” or “I like it, but it doesn’t feel like us” contain valuable information.

My role is to listen carefully and try to translate that response into something visual. I consider whether the type feels too heavy, delicate, polished, casual, contemporary, nostalgic, expected, or removed from the true character of the work. From there, I continue refining the direction—sometimes through another typeface and sometimes by returning to the pencil to draw what appears to be missing.

There is intuition within that process, and some of it can be difficult to explain. Beneath that intuition are research, observation, strategy, conversation, and years spent noticing how visual forms communicate. Even with experience, I do not always find the answer immediately. There may be letters that need to be drawn repeatedly, ideas that look promising but do not work in application, or directions that reveal something useful before ultimately being set aside.

When the pieces finally begin to align, the typography can feel surprisingly natural—as though we have uncovered something that was already present in the brand’s story. That moment is one of the things I love most about the process.

Beauty Still Has to Work

Even the most expressive lettering has to function in the real world. A logo may need to appear on a storefront, a small product label, a website header, a social media profile, or the side of a truck. The broader typography system also has to support longer passages of text, organize information clearly, and remain practical for the people using it.

The custom lettering may carry the strongest personality, but it needs supporting typefaces that create balance. Body copy should be beautiful in a quieter way, allowing someone to read comfortably without calling attention to itself. Headings need enough presence to establish hierarchy and guide the eye through the information.

I think of hierarchy as a form of care for the person on the other side. It shows someone what to read first, helps them understand what matters, and gives their eye a clear path to follow. In a world where we are constantly taking in more information than we can comfortably process, that clarity matters.

Practical questions matter, too. Will the typefaces work on the web? Are there enough weights? Can the client access them in Canva or their email platform? Is there an appropriate substitute for places where the exact typeface cannot be used?

The goal is not merely to create something beautiful. It is to create something meaningful and beautiful that the client can actually use—with enough structure to remain cohesive and enough flexibility to support the business as it grows.

Looking at the Letters Again

If you look closely at the typography in your own brand, what does it seem to communicate before anyone reads the words? Does it reflect the business you are building now—not only the version that existed when the logo was first created? Does it carry something true about your personality, your work, and the people you hope to reach?

Typography can help a business feel established, approachable, artful, capable, enduring, or unlike anything else in its field. Custom lettering can take that expression further, giving a brand visual forms that emerge from its own particular story.

I still experience a letter much as I did as a child: as something to study, shape, and draw. I am still learning from letterforms and discovering new possibilities within them. Each has its own structure and personality, and each changes in relationship to the letters around it.

When those forms come together thoughtfully, they do more than spell a name. They can help us feel something about the person, place, or idea behind it. That is the emotional life I continue to find within letterforms—and why I have never been able to see them as merely type.

Do you have a logo in mind that embodies your business or vision, or are you looking to create one? I’d love to hear from you. Share your thoughts or reach out for a consultation to bring your vision to life. And if you’re a designer, why not take these principles and apply them to your next project? Let’s create logos that don’t just exist but make a resonant and lasting impression.

Bring your logo to life

The Wild Garden: Botanical Portraits Rooted in Memory, Place, and Meaning

The Wild Garden:
Botanical Portraits Rooted in Memory, Place, and Meaning

I’ve always loved the way plants can hold a memory.

Sometimes it’s a flower that brings me back to someone before I even understand why. Sometimes it’s a scent, or a color, or the shape of something growing in a place that feels familiar. It can be something as simple as walking through the fields behind my parents’ home, noticing what was blooming along the edges, or hearing my mom name a plant as we passed it, not in a formal teaching kind of way, but in the quiet everyday way that people pass their loves down to us.

I don’t think I realized then how much she was teaching me to notice.

My mom has always loved plants, and so much of my own love for the natural world comes from her. She pays attention to what’s growing, what’s changing, what needs tending, and what somehow comes back again after a season of looking like it might not. She has kept plants alive for decades, which still feels like a kind of magic to me, especially because I know how much care and patience that kind of thing requires. Plants ask you to pay attention. They don’t always announce what they need, but if you’re willing to observe them closely, they’ll tell you.

I think that way of seeing shaped me more than I knew.

Long before I realized it, I was already using plants as a way of understanding the people I love. Certain flowers became connected to certain people in my mind, not because anyone sat me down and explained their meaning, but because memory has its own way of weaving things together. A grandmother and the irises I can still picture so clearly. My mom and the plants she has carried from season to season. My sisters, the feeling of courage and the feeling of home. A place and the flowers that seem to belong to it.

Over time, those little associations became their own kind of language, and I think The Wild Garden grew out of that language.

Botanical Linen Banners

A Pattern I Didn’t Recognize at First

When I look back, I can see that this idea has been showing up in my work for a long time, even before I had words for what I was doing.

In graduate school, I created a project inspired by my daughter Leona’s heritage. I researched plants connected to each part of her background and used them to build a pattern, almost like a botanical expression of lineage, identity, and place. At the time, I don’t think I fully understood why that idea felt so meaningful to me, but I can see now that I was already asking some of the same questions I’m still asking in this collection.

What grows from where we come from? What do we carry from the places and people before us? How can something as simple as a flower hold a much larger story?

I’ve always been fascinated by native plants, not only because they’re beautiful, but because they belong to a larger relationship. They’re connected to the soil, the climate, the insects and birds and creatures that depend on them, and the long, quiet history of a place. The more I learn about them, the more I’m reminded that nothing in nature exists by itself. Everything is in conversation with something else.

That idea feels endlessly meaningful to me.

A flower is never just a flower. It’s part of an ecosystem. It’s shaped by where it grows and by what grows around it. It supports other life, responds to its environment, and belongs to a story much larger than itself.

I think that’s why The Wild Garden didn’t feel like a completely new idea when it began. It felt more like something I’d been circling for years finally revealing itself, bringing together my love of botanicals, pattern, research, memory, place, and the people who have shaped me.

Where the First Piece Began

The first piece began in my own home, in a quiet little space above my dresser that had been asking for something for a while.

I kept imagining something botanical there, but not in a simple or decorative way. I wanted it to feel lush and balanced, peaceful but still full of life, the way a garden can feel when everything is growing in its own direction and somehow still belongs together. I didn’t have the whole idea yet, but I could feel the shape of it. It needed to be layered. It needed movement. It needed to feel like something I’d want to live with every day.

At the same time, my mom was very much on my mind.

She’d been going through something difficult, and I found myself carrying her with me in that way we do when someone we love is moving through something hard. She was in the background of everything, not always in a loud way, but present. And because so much of my love for plants comes from her, it makes sense to me now that the piece started to take shape around a flower.

I was drawn to a green orchid first, and the more I worked with it, the more it felt like the right beginning. It wasn’t meant to look like my mom, but it held something that reminded me of her. Something abundant and alive. Something delicate, but not fragile. Something with its own quiet strength.

From there, my curiosity started doing what it always does, which is follow one detail until it opens into another.

I wanted to know where that orchid was native to, and once I started looking into that, the piece began to move beyond the flower itself. I started thinking about what else would grow in that same place, what colors would naturally appear there, what insects or butterflies might move through that environment, and what other plants might belong to the same world. I found ylang ylang, which felt meaningful because I’ve always loved the essential oil, and then I started looking for butterflies that could carry both the green of the orchid and the yellow of the ylang ylang.

What I thought might be a botanical painting slowly became something much more layered.

The orchid was still the center, but it wasn’t alone anymore. It had a place. It had companions. It had movement around it. The other plants and insects weren’t there just to make the composition more beautiful, although of course I wanted it to be beautiful. They were there because they helped the piece feel rooted in a world.

That was when I started to understand what I was really making. It wasn’t a portrait in the way we usually think of portraits, but it was a portrait all the same. It was a way of painting my mom without painting her face, a way of honoring her through the plants, colors, and natural relationships that could hold something of her spirit, and maybe also something of what she gave to me.

Following the Threads

That process of following one detail into another has become the heart of The Wild Garden.

Each piece begins with an anchor, and that anchor might be a person, a flower, a place, a memory, or a word that captures the feeling I want the piece to hold. From there, I let the research guide me, but I don’t think of it as research in a cold or academic way. It feels more like listening. I’m paying attention to what belongs together, what grows in relationship, what naturally wants to be part of the same story.

I want to know where a plant is native, what grows alongside it, what pollinates it, what birds or butterflies or insects share its environment, and what colors and textures are part of that place. I want to understand the ecosystem around the original idea, because that’s usually where the meaning begins to deepen.

The more I follow those threads, the less each piece feels like a bouquet and the more it feels like a world.

A bouquet can be beautiful, but an ecosystem has a different kind of life to it. It has relationships. It has movement. It has things supporting one another in ways that might not be obvious at first. When I’m building a composition, I’m trying to bring some of that life into the piece, so the final artwork feels rooted rather than arranged.

That matters to me because I think people are like that, too.

We’re not one isolated thing. We’re shaped by our families, our histories, our landscapes, our losses, our joys, the gardens we walked through, the kitchens we sat in, the stories we inherited, and the things we learned to love because someone else loved them first. So when I’m painting these pieces, I’m not only thinking about the flower at the center. I’m thinking about the world around it and how that world can help express something about a person that a literal portrait might never be able to hold.

Painting Portraits Without Faces

At some point, I realized The Wild Garden wasn’t really a collection about flowers, even though flowers are the first thing you see.

It’s a collection about people.

The flowers are the language, but the people are the meaning underneath. Each piece begins with someone I love, or someone whose presence has shaped me, and then it grows outward through plants, place, color, symbolism, and memory. The piece inspired by my mom began with the green orchid and the feeling of abundance. One of my grandmothers came through purple irises and the word restore, and I can still see those irises so clearly in my mind. My Nana’s piece began with yellow roses, Italy, optimism, and mimosa flowers, which are connected to International Women’s Day there. One sister’s piece is rooted in Puerto Rico, hibiscus, and courage. Another piece for a different sister grew from lilies and native plants closer to home, because home is such a strong part of who she is.

Each one holds something different, and each one reminds me that a portrait doesn’t always have to show a face.

Sometimes a portrait can be made from the things a person loved, the place they came from, the colors that feel like them, or the word that rises to the surface when you think about who they are. Sometimes it can hold a feeling more honestly because it isn’t trying to explain everything.

I think that’s part of why these pieces feel so personal to me. They’re not meant to capture the whole of a person, because I don’t think any artwork can really do that. But they can hold one meaningful part of someone’s essence, one little piece of their story translated through the language of nature.

A flower, a memory, a place, a word, a feeling, all gathered into a world that can keep blooming.

Why Native Plants Matter

The native plant research has become one of the most important parts of this collection, not only because it gives each piece a sense of place, but because it keeps reminding me that beauty is never separate from relationship.

Native plants belong to a specific landscape. They support particular pollinators, insects, birds, and wildlife. They’re part of a system that has developed over time, and when you begin to pay attention to those relationships, you start to see the natural world differently. You stop seeing a flower as a single beautiful thing and start seeing the whole network around it.

The flower, the moth, the butterfly, the soil, the bird, the season, the climate, the place itself. Everything is connected, and every small part has a role to play in the larger story.

That feels deeply connected to the way I think about people.

We’re shaped by our own ecosystems, too. By the people who cared for us, the places that held us, the stories that were passed down, and the cultures, landscapes, and homes that formed us in quiet ways. Even our memories are relational. They attach themselves to objects, scents, songs, recipes, colors, and flowers until those things become more than what they are.

A rose isn’t just a rose if it grew in your grandmother’s garden. A hibiscus isn’t just a hibiscus if it carries the feeling of a place your family comes from. An orchid isn’t just an orchid if it brings you back to your mother.

That’s why native plants matter so much in this work. They help me honor not only the person, but the place, the context, and the relationships around them. They give the piece roots.

What Viewers See

One of the most meaningful things about sharing this collection has been hearing how people respond to the work before they know the story behind it.

Someone will be drawn to a piece because of a flower, a color, a movement, or a feeling they can’t quite explain. Then they’ll tell me it reminds them of someone. A mother. A grandmother. A sister. A garden they grew up around. A place they haven’t been to in years, but still somehow carry.

And when I tell them that these pieces are actually about people, and about the way certain people make us feel, something seems to open.

The work becomes less about decoration and more about recognition.

I think we all have memories like that, memories that live inside small details. The plant on a windowsill. The flowers someone always brought inside. The scent of something blooming at a certain time of year. The garden someone tended without ever making a big deal about it. These details may seem ordinary when we’re living inside them, but later they become sacred in their own quiet way.

That’s part of what I hope people feel when they see The Wild Garden. I hope they feel beauty first, because beauty matters, but I also hope they feel invited to look a little longer, to wonder what’s beneath the surface, and maybe to remember the people and places that live inside their own stories.

Looking Ahead

The Wild Garden is still growing, and I think that’s part of why it feels so alive to me.

There are more pieces I want to create, more women I want to honor, more plants and ecosystems I want to understand. I’m currently working on another piece connected to my mom, inspired by a night-blooming cereus she’s kept alive for years. It only blooms at night, often in September, and by morning the flower is gone. There’s something so tender and fleeting about that, the kind of beauty you have to wake up for, the kind you could miss if you weren’t paying attention.

That feels like its own kind of lesson.

The more I learn about nature, the more I learn about people, and the more I think about the people I love, the more reverence I have for the natural world. It keeps giving me new ways to understand memory, connection, care, and the quiet ways we continue to bloom through one another.

I imagine this collection continuing to unfold over time, piece by piece, each one becoming its own small ecosystem of story and meaning. Some may become originals, wall hangings, prints, or future collections, and some may become custom botanical portraits for others who want to honor someone they love through flowers, place, and memory.

I love the idea of artwork that can be personal without being obvious. Something that doesn’t need to explain itself to everyone who sees it, but quietly holds its meaning for the person who knows. Something rooted in research and symbolism, but also in feeling. Something that carries a person’s presence without needing to show their face.

Because sometimes the most meaningful portraits aren’t literal at all.

Sometimes they’re made from orchids, irises, roses, hibiscus, lilies, moths, butterflies, and the wild, living details that remind us who we love, where we come from, and what continues to bloom in us.

If you’re interested in exploring a custom botanical portrait inspired by someone you love, I’d love to create a piece rooted in your story, your memories, and the natural details that make them feel alive.

Ready to bring more of nature’s beauty into your home or workspace? View my available works or contact me to discuss collaborating.

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The Quiet Beauty of Clay-Coated Wallpaper

wild daisy pattern Cynthia Oswald ©
Clay-Coated Wallpaper Installation Guide

I became completely sold on clay-coated wallpaper while preparing for a studio tour in 2023. The moment I compared the substrate to the peel-and-stick I’d worked with in the past, I knew it was the right fit for me. I could see the quality of it immediately—the depth, the softness, the way it held light. But here’s the thing: I had absolutely no idea how to actually install it.

When I decided to do a quick installation inside some crown molding that day, I went at it without really knowing exactly what I was doing. I ended up ruining a piece of wallpaper simply because I couldn’t find instructions that made sense to me in the moment. It was frustrating, but it was also the moment I realized I needed to document this properly—not just for myself, but for anyone else who might fall in love with the material and want to give it a try.

So here’s what I’ve learned along the way. These steps will help you avoid that same frustration, and they work beautifully when you’re ready to give it a go.

Installation Steps

1. Prep Your Surface Well

What’s underneath can show through, so start with a smooth, clean, primed wall. A wallpaper primer (or standard surface primer) helps create an even base and improves adhesion. Take your time here—it makes everything that follows easier.

2. Measure and Cut Carefully

Measure your wall or furniture surface accurately, then cut your wallpaper with a sharp blade. Clay-coated paper is forgiving in many ways, but precision here prevents waste and ensures clean seams.

3. Apply Paste Evenly

Apply paste evenly from the center outward, making sure to reach all the way to the edges without oversaturating the paper. A light hand works best—clay-coated paper responds better to minimal moisture.

4. Allow Paste to Activate

This is the step that’s easy to skip—but don’t. Once you’ve applied the paste, follow your adhesive’s instructions for how long to let it soak into the paper before hanging. Skipping this step is one of the most common installation mistakes, and it’s what causes the paper to expand unevenly on the wall, or not adhere at all. Every strip should soak for the same amount of time for consistent results.

5. Position and Smooth Gently

Once positioned, use a wallpaper smoothing tool to remove air bubbles and ensure consistent contact. Work from the center outward using gentle, even pressure—avoid stretching the edges. The paper will have expanded from the paste, so use your sharp blade to trim any excess on all sides once it’s smoothed into place.

6. Be Careful at the Seams

Butt seams carefully and avoid excess paste on the surface. If needed, clean lightly with a barely damp sponge—too much moisture can affect the finish. Take your time here; it’s worth it.

7. Trim with Sharp Blades

Use a sharp utility blade to trim excess wallpaper at edges and corners. Change blades frequently and avoid dragging paste across the surface of the paper.

8. Allow Proper Drying Time

Don’t rush this step. Follow your adhesive’s recommendations for drying time before moving or touching the installed wallpaper.

A Friendly Note

These steps work beautifully, and I genuinely love seeing people discover the joy of how wallpaper transforms a space. That said, if you’d rather have someone with experience handle it for you, that’s completely valid too. There’s no shame in bringing in a professional—especially if you’d prefer to skip the learning curve and just enjoy the finished result. Either way, you’re getting a beautiful material into your space, and that’s what matters.

Why Designers Choose Clay-Coated Wallpaper

Clay-coated wallpaper offers qualities that traditional vinyl simply can’t match:

  • Natural, non-plastic surface — It breathes in a way vinyl doesn’t, creating a more organic feel in a space.
  • Matte, sophisticated finish — The subtle depth works beautifully alongside natural materials and textures.
  • Durability without compromise — It holds up well while maintaining that soft, intentional aesthetic.
  • Environmental consideration — If sustainability matters to you, clay-coated options are gentler on the planet.

A Note on Installation

Because wall conditions, materials, and installation environments can vary, these recommendations are intended as general guidance only. While clay-coated wallpaper can absolutely be installed successfully as a DIY project, every space and surface is a little different. If you’re unsure about the process—or simply want the cleanest possible finish—I always recommend consulting a professional wallpaper installer. Proper preparation and installation can make a beautiful material look its very best for years to come.

Ready to bring more of nature’s beauty into your home or workspace? View my available works or contact me to discuss collaborating.

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Heirloom Revived: The Story Inside an Object

Restoring a Family Heirloom Dresser with Botanical Wallpaper: Memory, Meaning & Biophilic Design

The Objects That Stay With Us

One of the most meaningful creative projects I’ve ever worked on didn’t start as a product or a portfolio piece. It started as a small wooden dresser that’s been in my family for generations.

My grandmother had five daughters. Somewhere along the way, this dresser moved with her, and later ended up with my mom. When my oldest daughter was born, my mom passed the dresser down to me. It fit perfectly in her nursery—like it was made to hold her tiny clothes and baby socks. I used it for each of my daughters.

When my daughters outgrew it, I couldn’t let it go. The drawers were lined with wrapping from my baby shower gifts—little bags and papers from friends I love—so every time I opened them, it felt like opening a memory box. It wasn’t especially beautiful, and parts of it were chipped and worn, but it held so much meaning.

I knew I wanted to keep it. More than that, I wanted it to live on as a family piece—something that carried its story forward, even for people who might not immediately see the beauty in something worn and imperfect.

Bringing the Piece Back to Life

My husband, Steven, and I decided to restore it together, and in many ways, the process felt less like starting over and more like paying closer attention to what was already there.

He sanded it down, repaired a broken corner, and brought the wood back to life. From there, I started thinking about how the piece could evolve without losing what made it meaningful.

I chose a deep green paint for the drawers—pulled from the wallpaper I had designed, which holds a range of layered greens inspired by natural foliage. I wanted a tone that would sit comfortably within that palette while still working alongside the original wood that we were keeping.

I picked out the most beautiful brass cicada drawer pulls after a long search on Etsy for something that felt both functional and aligned with the natural direction I was taking. They reminded me of a moment from our backyard wedding, when we were married under a willow tree. The tree was adorned with cicada skins, remnants of their recent emergence. It felt subtle, but personal.

None of the decisions felt separate from one another. Each one built on the last, guided more by feeling than by any fixed plan. What it became genuinely surprised me.

Now, I bring it along to markets and people want to open the drawers, touch it, ask questions. There’s something about it that just draws you in and invites you to hear its story. I think part of that is because it feels layered in a way people don’t expect. It’s functional, but it also carries something quieter and more natural.

It currently lives in my studio, holding some of my favorite small paintings and tools. It became a functional piece layered with history, collaboration, and care.

It’s not something I make money from. But it’s something I’ve made meaning from. And my hope is that the wallpaper, textiles, and patterns I create can do the same for others—becoming part of something bigger, something lived with, something that carries forward.

The Story in the Details

What made this piece come together wasn’t just the restoration. It was the layering of small, intentional choices.

The green of the drawers, the brass cicada pulls, the wallpaper tucked along the sides—each element was chosen to support the piece, not overpower it. None of it was about making something new. It was about paying attention to what already existed, and building around it in a way that felt aligned.

For instance, the wallpaper we used wasn’t chosen to transform it into something unrecognizable. It was chosen to hold what was already there and highlight the impact something so small can have on a space.

Over time, I’ve realized that this is often how I approach design more broadly. A lot of it feels intuitive in the moment, but underneath that intuition is a quiet awareness of how something will live in a space, and how it will shape the way that space feels.

I tend to return to patterns that feel more organic than structured, work that moves a little, breathes a little, and settles into a space rather than sitting on top of it—much like you may feel in the natural world. On the dresser, the pattern doesn’t announce itself. It supports the story. It sits alongside the chipped wood, the repaired corners, the painted drawers, and the marks left by time, becoming part of a larger, living object rather than the focal point. In fact, you’d miss it if you were only looking straight on. It lines the sides—something you discover rather than something that demands attention.

That’s often how I hope my work shows up in people’s homes too. Not as something precious or untouchable, but as something that can live alongside real life, evolving as the space and the people in it evolve.

This wallpaper is available in my shop, and while it works beautifully in full rooms, I especially love it in smaller, more intimate applications—lining furniture, sitting neatly inside crown molding, wrapping unexpected surfaces, or becoming part of something already loved.

My patterns pull together natural elements, materials, and forms into built spaces to hopefully reconnect people with nature. There is an entire movement, labeled biophilic design, that has quickly gaining traction within the interior design world. It aims to improve health, reduce stress, and increase cognitive function by fostering an innate human connection to the natural world.

Restoring my grandmother’s dresser didn’t turn it into something new. If anything, it just brought me closer to what was already there. It still carries everything it always did; it just holds it a little differently now.

And I think that’s part of what I come back to in my work, again and again. Not the idea of replacing or refining something until it feels finished, but the quieter process of noticing what’s already meaningful and allowing it to keep unfolding.

See the Restoration

If you’re curious what that process looked like, check out this video to watch it come to life.

Photos below by Tina Crespo

Ready to bring more of nature’s beauty into your home or workspace? View my available works or contact me to discuss collaborating.

View the wallpaper shop

The Art of Holding Your Vision (and Returning to It)

The Art of Holding Your Vision
(and Returning to It)

“I’m teaching a self-portrait class.” A sentence I never expected to say. Years ago, I completely stopped painting people.

A Painting I Never Finished

I always dreamed of teaching art and design. It’s actually why I first found myself in graduate studies at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts.

During my time there, I was working on a painting that meant a great deal to me. It wasn’t about technical perfection. It was about sitting with the idea of aging. I was watching my grandmother enter her nineties. I was trying to understand what it means to move through time and hold both loss and gain at once.

So I painted myself backed up against a future version of myself. Not as an exercise in skill, but as a way of processing that complexity. It was tender and unresolved, and that was the point.

I was about halfway through when a professor made a comment about my anatomy. About my “lack of skill.” About what I was doing wrong.

It landed hard enough that something in me shut down. I never finished the painting. And without fully deciding to, I stopped painting people altogether. I didn’t announce it. I didn’t process it. I just quietly redirected. I still painted. I had a deep love for life drawing and painting. But this made me pivot in a way that is only clearly visible from the far end of it.

And Yet, Here I Am

Here I am, teaching a self-portrait class for high school seniors at my daughter’s school. I’m guiding them as they learn how to look closely, how to notice, how to translate what they see and feel about themselves onto the page. And alongside them, I painted the first self-portrait I’ve made in over fifteen years.

That’s the part that has surprised me most. Because most of the time, we don’t stop doing meaningful work on purpose. We don’t wake up and decide to abandon something that matters to us. It usually happens slowly—a comment here, a piece of advice there, a suggestion that makes sense on paper. Somewhere along the way, our own knowing gets a little quieter.

I never want to reject feedback. If you know me, you know I value critique. I rely on data. I care deeply about refining my work and growing in skill. But I’ve learned there’s a difference between feedback that sharpens your vision and feedback that subtly reroutes it. And sometimes that rerouting isn’t obvious until years later.

Another pivot

In 2015, I opened my home for a local studio tour. Original paintings on the walls, prints laid out, everything ready. It was joyful. It was meaningful. It was not particularly lucrative. Afterward, a close family member asked me why I would spend so much energy on art when I could make more money doing web design.

It wasn’t a harsh question. It was practical. Logical, even. And I paused on fine art for a while—not because web design wasn’t meaningful work, but because I’d let someone else’s logic override my own knowing about what I needed in that season. That wasn’t about anatomy. That was about value.

It took until 2020 for me to pick it back up. And what’s interesting is that during those five years, I never stopped being creative. I was still drawing. Still designing. Still seeing the world through that lens. But I had quieted a part of myself because I had let someone else’s logic override my own.

What Holding Your Vision Actually Means

When I talk about holding your vision, this is what I mean. Not recovering from a busy season. Not shaking off creative fog after a big project. I mean returning to the parts of your work you quietly set down because they didn’t feel efficient, validated, or strategically sound at the time.

Busy seasons do this too. You’re moving fast. You’re making decisions all day. You’re listening to feedback, analytics, advice. You’re showing up for clients, students, your family. You’re holding a lot. You can get so good at responding that you forget to check in.

You don’t lose your vision all at once. You just stop visiting it.

Teaching this class has brought that into focus in a new way. I’m asking students to look closely at themselves and translate that onto the page. At the same time, I’m noticing patterns in my own life, where I stopped trusting my own voice years ago. It’s humbling. It’s also strangely freeing.

Learning to Filter the Noise

There’s so much input now. Data, performance metrics, thoughtful critiques, marketing advice, personality tests, formulas that promise clarity. Some of it is genuinely helpful. Some of it is noise. The hard part isn’t rejecting it. It’s learning how to stay anchored enough to decide what actually belongs.

I’ve started asking myself two questions when I need to recalibrate:

Would my 7-year-old self be proud of this work? What about my 80-year-old self?

These two points of view—the one who creates purely for joy, and the one who has lived long enough to know what mattered—tend to agree on more than you’d think. And when they do, I usually trust it.

Picking It Back Up

Returning to portrait painting after all these years has reminded me that meaningful work doesn’t disappear just because you set it down. If it’s truly yours, it tends to circle back. Sometimes it waits for you to mature. Sometimes it waits for you to care less about being validated.

I don’t think this is about having a perfectly articulated five-year plan. I think it’s about getting honest about the kind of life you’re trying to build and letting your work serve that life, not the other way around.

For me, that has meant aligning my clients more closely with what genuinely lights me up. Creating projects because the process feels meaningful, not because they make the most financial sense in the moment and accepting that not every good idea deserves my time. The ideas that keep resurfacing usually tell me more than the loud ones.

If you’re in a season where you feel slightly off, or unsure, or like you’ve drifted a bit—it might just mean you’ve been listening to a lot of voices and need to hear your own again. I’m still learning this too. Still learning when to protect something tender instead of immediately optimizing it.

But I do know this: sometimes the most meaningful progress isn’t pushing forward. It’s circling back and picking up what was yours all along.

The Rhythm of Slow Art: Why I Paint Botanicals All Year Round

The Rhythm of Slow Art:
Why I Paint Botanicals All Year Round

A few weeks ago, Viola stood by the back door with her little hands pressed against the glass and said, “Oh no, Mommy—the plants are dying.” To her, the browning leaves felt like a small heartbreak. To me, it was the quiet shift into a new season. I told her, “They’ll come back next year.” And the way her body softened into that answer stayed with me. There was something in that moment—how quickly things change, how easily beauty slips by if you’re not paying attention—that made me think about my own pace this year. How often I’ve reached for slowness, or felt myself wanting to hold onto the fleeting things just a little longer.

That’s part of why I chose pause as my word for the year. I wanted more space to notice what I’m usually rushing past. From the outside, my days didn’t always look slow, but internally, I stepped back from a lot of good things so I could protect the pockets of stillness I need—both for myself and for my family. That desire for a gentler rhythm naturally found its way into my artwork. After last year’s Dreaming in the Wild collection, I kept thinking about the quieter work I’d begun in the Wild Garden series—the way I centered one bloom and let everything else relate to it. I loved that focus, but I didn’t have room this year for large pieces or long studio days. I needed something I could return to in small moments and still feel connected to.

That’s how the Golden Halo collection began. A soft return to the butterfly studies I started years ago, and a chance to bring back metallic paints in a way that draws the eye toward the tiniest, most beautiful details. Working this way gave me permission to honor one bloom or one creature at a time. To sit with it, study it, and let that be enough. Each piece felt like an invitation to slow down and really see what was right in front of me. The more I painted, the more I realized how different everything feels when I match my pace to nature instead of the noise around me. There’s a groundedness in it—a settling. I’m not rushing ahead or replaying yesterday. I’m simply here, letting the moment be what it is. It’s meditative in a way I didn’t realize I’d been missing. My hope is that this collection offers even a small touch of that feeling—a place to rest your eyes, breathe, and reconnect with a rhythm that feels like your own.

What Slow Art Means to Me

I practiced “slow art” long before I ever called it that. It wasn’t a method—it was a feeling. A shift in how I paid attention. A gentler way of moving through the world. For me, slow art isn’t really about the speed of the work. It’s about the way I approach it: with presence, curiosity, and a willingness to really see. When I sit down with a botanical subject, something in me settles. My mind quiets. I’m studying the curve of a stem, the glow along a petal’s edge, the places where color shifts almost imperceptibly. It pulls me out of my head and into my hands.

Watercolor reinforces that rhythm. It won’t be rushed. It has its own timing and its own sense of boundaries. If I move too quickly, the whole piece loses clarity. So I follow the paint—layer by layer, wash by wash—until the subject comes forward. And then there’s that moment when the painting tells me it’s done. That part always feels true to life: you show up, you stay present, and then you rest.

There’s a spiritual thread in this for me, too. When I study something in nature up close, I can’t help but see God in it—the intricacy, the variety, the uniqueness of every bloom and creature. Painting becomes a quiet way of expressing gratitude for the abundance provided in nature and the gift of life itself.

Even in the busiest weeks, I feel that same grounding. When I painted the last five minis of this collection—all in one week—I actually slowed down more. I didn’t want it to end. I gave each piece the attention it deserved, trusting that the time I poured in would become part of the work itself. In the end, that’s what slow art is to me: discovery. Something ordinary becomes extraordinary simply because you paused long enough to notice.

The Stories Nature Tells (If You Slow Down Enough to Notice)

Painting across the seasons has taught me to notice the small shifts—the tiny markers of time that get louder as I get older. The more I slow down, the more these little changes feel like their own unfolding story. One of my favorites is a purple bush in our yard that blooms in late summer. For a couple of weeks, it’s covered in delicate moths—hundreds of them. My daughters run straight to it when we get home, cupping the moths in their hands before letting them go. It’s magical, and it’s fleeting. When the moths disappear, I know fall is coming—my favorite season and the hardest one to say goodbye to.

Winter has its own quiet beauty. The first frost always stops me: frozen blooms catching the morning light, dried thistle standing like sculptures. Even in the coldest months, there’s so much worth noticing. And in spring, the violets return and turn our lawn purple. They appeared the same year we found out we were having Viola, and now I can’t see them without thinking of her. They’re brief, but meaningful—like so much of nature’s timing.

Then there are the surprises: the wild geranium I found on a native plant walk, the “flower of an hour” that showed up in my vegetable garden, the monarch caterpillars my sister brings us each summer. Each one gives me a reason to pause and look closer.

Most of these moments come alive because of my girls. Seeing the world through their eyes brings back the wonder I felt as a child—lingering over lilacs in my mom’s yard, breathing in their scent, memorizing the softness of the petals. Now, when they ask, “Where did the moths go?” or “When will the violets come back?” my answer is always the same: “Next year.” There’s something tender about that—its reminder that these moments aren’t guaranteed.

Maybe that’s why I paint them. To honor what’s here, while it’s here.

The Meaning We Find in Botanicals

As I’ve begun to really appreciate the pace and rhythm of nature, I’ve also become more aware of how deeply plants nourish us—not just creatively and emotionally, but physically, too. The more I study them, the more fascinated I become. When you start learning about the healing properties of plants—how rosemary can help with focus, how dandelion root supports inflammation, how certain flowers uplift mood—it adds another layer of meaning to the work. I’m not painting something simply because it’s beautiful. I’m painting something that has purpose, history, memory, usefulness. Studying plants becomes a form of discovery that keeps deepening over time for me. 

And then there’s the nostalgia. Flowers have this way of bringing us back to specific people or seasons of life. I hear it often: “This reminds me of my grandmother.” “This feels like my childhood backyard.” A scent, a color, the shape of a petal—all of it can open something inside us. Botanical art becomes a way of reconnecting with moments we thought we’d forgotten, or feelings we haven’t visited in a long time. That’s part of why I paint botanicals all year. There’s always something new to notice, something fleeting to marvel at, something meaningful to honor while it’s here. 

An Invitation to Slow Down

If you’re reading this and feeling a tug toward a slower, more intentional pace, here’s the good news: you don’t need a paintbrush to experience slow art. You can start by stepping outside for a moment and noticing what draws you in—a bloom, a color, a shift in light. Pay attention to what you enjoy most, and let that be your doorway into presence.

When someone brings a piece into their home, my hope is that it offers that exact kind of quiet moment of discovery—the same kind of “little magic” I feel when I stumble across something beautiful in nature. I can’t take credit for the beauty itself; that belongs to the natural world. But I love being the person who pauses long enough to notice it, study it, and offer it back through my work. My hope is that you too find something in your own life that helps you slow down, take a breath, and notice the everyday magic around you.

Ready to bring more of nature’s beauty into your home or workspace? View my available works or contact me to discuss collaborating.

View the collection