Art, to me, is about approaching life, rather than escaping from it. Collecting memories from our shared past, embracing our present, and looking toward the future with hope, weaving all the raw, surreal, and serene emotions and experiences into our art, we find connections with others along the way. My aspiration is to empower others to discover their own artistic voices, healing society in small but powerful ways. Growing up in a fishing village of 500 inhabitants, in Baja California Sur, Mexico, electricity was only provided for six hours a day; much of my childhood was spent drawing the world as I saw it through young, curious eyes, simply drawing with pens I found scattered about. Guided by these imperfect supplies, I was gradually unearthing my artistic voice and what would become part of my purpose. Recently, I came to the United States to study art formally, exploring materials and techniques and gaining more life experiences to inform my work. My sister’s death taught me the healing power of art and how essential it is to growth. Sketchbook journaling was something we did together, and when she passed away, I returned to that space to process my grief. When art is our companion during times of loss, we can transform vulnerability into strength. Along the way, I learned that Art is more than just “expression”; it is a way to heal, to bridge gaps, and to bring people together. I have learned that to explore art is to explore myself and the world around me. I have become more observant because I do not simply copy what I see, but translate what I feel. I have become a problem-solver because I not only create to possess the final result, but also to gain valuable knowledge during the process. I have become more empathetic because I don’t just capture the shape of my subject, but I allow myself to explore through its story, even when there is no apparent “life” in it. I want to create spaces for those with limited access to art, especially in rural communities, providing opportunities for those whose voices often go unheard to find their own creative tools, bringing people together. Asking others to wonder how art can inspire them will help carry healing forward to the next generation.

In loving memory of Hazel and all the siblings who became angels too soon. I’m 24 years old, sitting on a bus with the early morning light coming through the window, and the heat caressing my face, though the air around me remains cold. The weight of my backpack, filled with art supplies, rests heavily on my shoulder. I’m on my way to college, but my mind lingers on a single question: What would she think of me now? My older sister, whose time on earth was cut short, lives on in my heart. Her name was Isis, after the Egyptian goddess. Black hair, a giant smile, and a body flecked with moles. We were raised in a fishing village in Mexico, where electricity was limited to 6 hours a day. In those quiet hours, nature and drawing became our companions. For as long as I can remember, I admired her. She was kind and effortlessly brilliant. From an early age, Isis grasped new concepts with ease, earning outstanding grades. She loved poetry and books, filling her notebooks with words as I filled mine with sketches. She saw my passion for drawing and always encouraged me to keep creating, just as I watched her pour her heart into writing. I remember how sensitive she was. She once cried at the sight of a flower, moved by its beauty. She cried when someone’s words were mean, overwhelmed by hurt. She cried while learning to drive, fearful of the unfamiliar. At the time I thought that crying was embarrassing and pointless. How can someone expose their feelings that way? But now I understand. Her vulnerability wasn't a weakness, but a quiet strength. From her, I’ve learned that feeling deeply is not something to hide, it’s part of what makes us profoundly human and truly alive. One day, when I was 17, she was writing at her desk with her frilly pen, while I drew on the floor. Words weren’t always necessary between us, but she broke the silence with something that has stayed with me ever since. “You’re already an amazing person, Britney, and I know you’ll only continue to grow into someone even more extraordinary.” At the young age of 23, on June 26th, 2018, Isis was about to graduate from law school when she suffered a heart attack. There is nothing more surreal for me than growing older than my older sister will ever be. I knew her at this age, but she will never know who I have become. My hands can no longer hold hers, so I create and refuse to let her be forgotten. From her encouragement, I discovered the bravery within me. Many years later, I finally decided to pursue my passion and come to the U.S. to study art. My sister’s death taught me the healing aspects of art and how that is essential to growth. Sketchbook journaling was something we did together, and when she died, I returned to that place to process my grief. When art is our companion during times of loss, we can transform vulnerability into strength. One of my passions is to provide that opportunity to others, especially those with limited access to art, such as in rural communities like where we grew up. The bus comes to a stop, and I step off onto the Laguna College of Art and Design campus. The morning chill has faded, replaced by the warmth of the sun. I sling my bag over my shoulder, my art supplies shifting inside, As I head to class, a thought lingers, “She might think I'm extraordinary.”

The Whiteness of Grief "My chest feels heavy, as if that despondent dove had once again settled into the cavity of my heart, threatening to nest there eternally. It cannot find the will to fly. The dove is far from its nest, feeling numb and desolate, longing for shelter providing reassurance and safety. Where will she find her sheltering wing of light? A light that illuminates but does not blind, allowing reality to be seen without prejudice, without preconceived notions. My chest is burdened with shadowy thoughts, yet I do not find myself in defeat. Beneath a sun that warms my feathers, I do not seek to return to my distant nest. Instead, I meditate on calming the wild tide that rages within me and on appreciating the flowers on the vast horizon providing a supporting focus. Heart, do not betray me as you did my sister dove. And mind, do not mock my salty tears from this chaotic sea within me. I only implore you for the freedom to feel safe. Soon, the dove will migrate and take flight, returning to the light." (Journal Entry) From ink to canvas, my emotions are translated into art. My piece, “The Whiteness of Grief” uses the symbol of a white dove to represent the peace we often search for, yet already hold within. My piece captures the weight of vulnerability and sorrow, the heavy stillness that settles in the chest during uncertain times. Despite having faced many challenges throughout my life, I have always found ways to rise above and persevere. Through art, I remind myself and others that from sorrow, strength can emerge. In the absence of modern distractions, living in a fishing village in Mexico where electricity was only provided for 6 hours a day, nature and art became my closest companions. A cherished artistic ritual I shared with my older sister was Sketchbook Journaling, which provided a space to spill colorful ideas and uncertain feelings. When I was 17, on a quiet summer afternoon, my sister’s heartbeat abruptly stopped. A sorrow beyond words consumed every part of me. During that same time, my dad went from having mental health problems to becoming homeless. My mom was grieving the loss of her oldest child and her husband. Financial hardships began to amass. As my world crumbled around me, my heart held onto chaotic storms of dread. Art became my safe place. It revealed to me its profound power to heal. Returning to the sketchbooks my sister and I once shared was a way to process my grief. When art is our companion during times of loss, compassion becomes our truest friend. Today, one of my deepest passions is to share that healing power with others, especially in rural communities like the one where I grew up, where access to art is limited but its impact can be life-changing. All of those experiences inspired me to create this piece. The process of mixing my own colors in oil paint was intimate, layering meaning into each choice. Refining my palette to align with my vision. The soft white plumage of the dove that seeks comfort, the crimson bruise for the ache of a wounded heart, and the burnt sienna blended with titanium white to form the skin, echoing the fact that we are still here, still breathing. Even though the feeling came from a place of sadness, I discovered joy in every brushstroke. I didn’t simply focus on the final result, but I cherished the process itself. Because to explore art is, in many ways, is to explore myself.

Growing up without formal exposure to art and discovering its healing power inspires me to create more opportunities, particularly for those in rural communities and others lacking access. Seeing the joy, the self-confidence, and the healing power of art when I taught nature illustration workshops in a marine national park in small communities, has further strengthened my resolve to help others find the outlet that I’ve found in art. My hometown is a fishing village of 500 inhabitants, in Baja California Sur, Mexico, where electricity is only provided for 6 hours a day; nature and drawing were my primary companions. The wilderness of my surroundings was both my playground and my learning lab. As there were no art classes in my community, I started to draw with pens I found around the house, and, through these haphazard resources, I found a unique freedom in expressing ideas on a blank sheet of paper full of possibilities. My curiosity to learn more about Mother Nature and to convey this through my art grew within me, and it is why I chose my first bachelor's degree in Aquacultural Bioengineering. As I gained insight about how natural resources have been exploited, I started recognizing how art could help people learn complex scientific processes, appreciate, and recognize the importance of preserving their ecosystems. Additionally, my sister’s death taught me the healing aspects of art and how that is essential to growth. Sketchbook journaling was something I did with my sister growing up and, when she died, I returned to that place to process my grief. When art is our companion during times of loss, we can transform vulnerability into strength. My passion is to provide that opportunity to others. My desire to study art became even stronger during this time, as I wanted to learn to improve my artistic technique in order to fulfill this vision. So, I gathered the courage to trust my intuition and am now pursuing a bachelor's degree in “Drawing and Painting with an Illustration emphasis” at Laguna College of Art and Design. The positive impact I want to create in the world is to inspire and create opportunities for those with limited access to art, especially in rural communities. I believe that everyone can tap into their creativity and refute self-limiting beliefs, by understanding the world around us and within us.