People often ask me, “Why do you paint?”
And I always pause, because the real answer isn’t simple or clean.
It’s a whole life’s worth of experiences that led me here.

The truth is, creativity has followed me for as long as I can remember… long before I ever touched a canvas. I was always the friend people called when they needed help reorganizing a room, choosing colors, or making their home feel alive again.
I didn’t call it “design.”
I just knew how to transform a space, and people trusted me with their homes, their energy, their environment.

I didn’t think of it as a gift.
It was just natural to me.

One day I was helping paint someone’s house — nothing glamorous, just another project for a friend — and when we were done, there was extra paint left over. I remember standing there, looking at that blank wall, feeling something pull at me.

So I grabbed what was left, and I made something.
Quick. Instinctive. Messy. Honest.

We hung it on the wall, and I remember thinking,
“I didn’t expect that.”
And neither did they.

That was the first moment I realized art was inside me —
I just hadn’t given it space to speak yet.

⸻

“When I paint, something else takes over.”

When I walk into my studio now, I don’t think.
I don’t sketch.
I don’t map out colors or plan compositions.

I just start.

My hands move before my thoughts do.
Whatever needs to come out, comes out.
And the world gets quiet.

People assume I’m exhausted afterward, and I am — but not in the way they imagine.
It’s not tiredness.
It’s release.
It’s like the painting pulled something out of me that I didn’t need to hold anymore.

And one thing people are always surprised to hear:
I never see the hidden imagery first.

Collectors, friends, even strangers will say,
“Do you see the face right here?”
or
“Do you notice the figure in this corner?”

I never do.
Those shapes reveal themselves to everyone else before they reveal themselves to me.
I don’t place them — they just appear, like the painting is telling its own story.

⸻

“My past shows up in my work, but not how people expect.”

I don’t paint events.
I don’t paint trauma directly.
I paint the process of moving through it.

Some pieces come from pain.
Some come from healing.
Some come from moments I can’t even explain.

But all of them are honest.

My art is layered, emotional, textured, and unfiltered.
I’m not interested in perfection — I’m interested in presence.
In energy.
In what a piece feels like when you stand in front of it.

Collectors often tell me my paintings feel alive.
Maybe it’s because I don’t create for approval — I create from instinct.

⸻

“This is who I am. Not who I’m trying to be.”

I don’t chase trends.
I don’t paint to fit in.
I don’t try to resemble any other artist.

This is just me — all of me — poured into movement and color.

Every piece carries a story.
Every layer holds something I’ve lived through.
Every texture is a conversation with myself.

⸻

“Art didn’t save me. It helped me return to myself.”

My work now lives in homes, private collections, and curated spaces across the country.
People tell me the art changes the energy of their room — calms it, charges it, grounds it.

I love hearing that.
But the truth is, every piece changes me first.

Painting is how I heal.
How I speak without words.
How I connect with parts of myself I ignored for years.

It’s not something I do —
it’s who I am.

And if someone connects with what they see,
if a piece speaks to them the way it spoke through me —
then the work did exactly what it was meant too.

SHANNON LOUIS