Why I Paint: The Spirit Behind the Studio
Most mornings, I find myself standing barefoot in my studio before the world wakes up—coffee in one hand, a brush in the other, and quiet all around. It’s often the only still moment in a very full life. As a mother raising my sweet boy Luka, traveling with him most weekends for his soccer games, and running Zana Brown Studio, life moves fast. Painting is where I reset. It’s my sanctuary, my center—the place where I return to myself and remember who I am beyond the noise.
And then there are the nights.
Some evenings, after house finally exhales into silence, I find myself back in the studio. The light is low, the hum of the day still lingering in my body. That’s when I pick up a brush—not to plan or perfect, but to let it all move through me. These night sessions are sacred. They’re where I unwind and process the emotional build-up of the day. Where I capture unspoken moments, glances, ideas that found me while I was driving, talking with someone, or folding laundry… In the dark hush of those hours, the canvas becomes my confessional, my release, my mirror.
With all the recent talk about Artificial Intelligence and automation, I’ve been reflecting on why I still paint every single piece by hand. The answer is simple: I need to feel the work. The textures, the rhythm, the spirit of it. Painting is not a task—it’s a spiritual practice. I believe I’m just a vessel. I don’t invent ideas; I receive them. Whether it’s a whisper of color, a sudden vision, or an emotion aching for form, something flows through me, and I listen. I move. I translate.
As a person, I am a product of war—shaped by messy, painful times that taught me how fragile life is and how to create beauty out of chaos. My work is born from that alchemy: the transformation of ache into light, of disorder into harmony. I create from the deeply human, often raw and beautiful place where life, motherhood, and art intersect.
I transform the intangible—emotion, memory, presence—into something you can hold, hang, and live with.
I’m always striving to be the best version of a mother, the best version of a human—and art is part of that journey. If you’ve ever collected my work, visited the gallery, or simply followed along, please know: you are part of this soulful, hand-touched story. You remind me that what I do matters. That handmade beauty, quiet devotion, and authentic expression hold a place in this rapidly changing world.
With love and paint-stained hands,
Zana