Transmuting pain through art

Art has always served as humanity’s most powerful alchemical process—the mysterious ability to transform our deepest wounds into something beautiful and meaningful. When we pour our anguish onto canvas, sculpt our grief into clay, or weave our trauma into song, we’re not just expressing pain; we’re fundamentally changing its nature. The raw, chaotic energy of suffering becomes organized, purposeful, and ultimately transcendent.

Through this creative process, we reclaim agency over our narrative, shifting from victim to creator, from powerless to empowered. What once threatened to destroy us becomes the very material from which we build something lasting and profound. In this sacred act of creation, pain loses its ability to define us and instead becomes the catalyst for our most authentic and powerful work—proof that the human spirit possesses an almost miraculous capacity to find light within darkness and create beauty from the very experiences that once brought us to our knees.

This process is a journey from isolation to connection. The nature of our suffering seems to always come down to a sense of being alone. When we decide to create, we take our experience into another dimension - the dimension of dreams, archetypes, symbols, drama - and we play with it. We play until we find a thread of coherence that resonates with us. We’re finding connection. We may even decide to share our creation with others, which then connects our experience to the greater whole.

How do you transmute your pain through creativity? Even if you don’t consider yourself an artist - what stories do you create and share with others through conversation, in attempt to heal and connect?

July 18 2025

This is the beginning of a ongoing journal about creativity, community, and the messy, beautiful process of growing as both an artist and a human being. Thank you for being part of this journey.

There's something profound that happens when you stop trying to control your creativity and start letting it move through you instead. I've been thinking about this shift a lot lately—how the person I was ten years ago, desperately chasing uniqueness and success as an artist, feels like a different lifetime compared to where I am now.

Back then, my creative life felt like an island. I was consumed with being different, with making art that would set me apart from everyone else. The work was good, maybe even great at times, but it was lonely. I was creating in isolation, for an audience I couldn't see, hoping someone would notice and validate what I was doing.

Now, as I watch the creative energy flow through our tattoo shop, Solhawk, I realize how much richer art becomes when it's about connection rather than separation. Every day, I witness something beautiful: clients sharing their stories, explaining why this particular design matters, what it represents in their journey. The other artists and I - Lydia, Kris, and Nathaniel - have become part of that story, helping people carry their experiences on their skin in ways that feel sacred and permanent.

The Shift from "Me" to "We"

Somewhere along the way, my priorities restructured themselves completely. Family became the center, not the periphery. Building community became more important than building a personal brand. I started asking different questions: How can art serve connection? How can our space become a place where people feel seen and understood? How can creativity become a bridge rather than a wall?

This shift didn't happen overnight, and it certainly didn't happen without resistance. There were moments of grief—mourning the ambitious solo artist I thought I was supposed to be. But as I've learned to let go of that tight grip on control, something unexpected has emerged: the art has gotten better. When you stop forcing creativity to serve your ego, it starts serving something bigger.

The Daily Practice of Surrender

Letting creativity move through me means showing up differently each day. Some mornings, I walk into the shop with plans and sketches, only to have a conversation with a client that completely redirects the energy. Other days, I find myself collaborating with the other artists in ways I never would have been open to before—their ideas mixing with mine, creating something none of us could have made alone.

It's not always easy. The challenges with energy and mental health are real, and some days the creative well feels completely dry. There are moments when I question everything—whether I'm on the right path, whether this work matters, whether I'm failing at balancing it all. But I'm learning that these doubts are part of the process, not evidence that I'm doing something wrong.

Finding Faith in the Process

Faith has become essential to how I approach both art and life. Not necessarily religious faith, though I don't rule that out, but faith in the process itself. Faith that creativity knows what it's doing, even when I don't. Faith that the connections being made in our shop matter, even when I can't measure their impact. Faith that growing a family and growing as an artist aren't competing priorities, but complementary ones.

This faith gets tested regularly. When a client's vision challenges me to stretch beyond my comfort zone. When the business side of running a shop conflicts with the creative side of my soul. In these moments, I'm learning to pause and ask: What is this situation trying to teach me? How can I serve the bigger picture here?

Community as Canvas

The most surprising discovery has been how much community has become part of my artistic practice. Our shop has evolved into something more than a business—it's become a space where people gather, where stories are shared, where art happens in real-time as a collaborative act between artist and client.

I see regular clients become friends, not just customers. I notice how the walls themselves seem to hold the energy of all the conversations, all the laughter, all the moments of vulnerability when someone decides to mark their body with something meaningful.

This is art too—the curation of space, the cultivation of relationships, the creation of an environment where creativity can flourish for everyone who walks through the door.

The Ongoing Evolution

I'm documenting this journey not because I've figured it all out, but because I'm still deep in the middle of figuring it out. Every day brings new challenges and new discoveries. The tension between individual creativity and community building continues to teach me things I didn't expect to learn.

What I know for sure is this: creativity is more powerful when it's shared. Art becomes more meaningful when it serves connection. And sometimes the most courageous thing you can do as an artist is let go of who you thought you were supposed to be and become who you actually are.

The evolution continues, and I'm grateful to be documenting it here—not just for myself, but for anyone else who might be navigating their own creative transformation, learning to trust the process, and discovering what happens when you stop trying to control the river and start learning how to flow with it.