My love for art started in the most 90s way possible: by copying anime characters from Toonami—Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball Z, Gundam Wing—if they aired on Cartoon Network after school, I sketched them. From pencil to acrylic to Photoshop, I chased creativity wherever I could.

Background

When I got to college, I studied Graphic Design: Interactive Media, but my foundation was rooted in traditional fine arts. I took everything—drawing, oil painting, animation, color theory, museum studies—and even minored in Art History. My color theory textbook was Color Choices: Making Color Sense Out of Color Theory by Stephen Quiller. I still think about those acrylic studies I did based on its exercises—I’m thinking of doing them all over again but with watercolor.

I only tried watercolor once in school. This was a frog from a Nat Geo magazine, done with a cheap Crayola oval pan watercolor set and brush. I consider it my first watercolor.

After college, life took the spotlight. Work, marriage, responsibilities—my art became more occasional than consistent. I dabbled in acrylic and still loved the buttery richness of mixing oil paint, but the mess and drying time were hard to manage. I tried to go purely digital, but I missed the feedback you get from a brush and paper. It just wasn’t the same. I also love the challenge of making a mark that you can’t just undo but must work around.

So why watercolor?

While a challenging medium, it just fits my lifestyle. Right before COVID, my husband and I downsized and lived tiny, so I needed something portable and low-maintenance. Oils and acrylics were out. Watercolor was clean, compact, and gentle. What began as a convenience has become a commitment.

I’ve long admired watercolor in fashion and architecture—how it’s used to dream, sketch, and study what might be. Now, I’m using it the same way. Sometimes, it’s a quick way to blot down colors a camera can’t catch. Sometimes, it’s a quiet study of light and shadow. Always, it’s an invitation to notice more closely. I still feel like a beginner. I haven’t spent nearly enough hours to call myself “experienced.” But that’s changing. Slowly, intentionally, I’m building my confidence. I’m ready to share what I see and how I see it.