Hi, Hello, Welcome to The Art Of:

This space is created to notice the daily glimmers, re-ignite curiosity, work through the hesitancies of the impossible, and remember to notice the art of our humanness: even when we want to look away

If this resonates with you, would you share with someone you love? Sharing this post with others via social media or email allows my work to reach more people and in turn, creates opportunity. The more that we share the parts we’re most fearful of other’s seeing, the more others can finally feel safe being seen.

These posts will be free until the end of September, before the paywall shifts. I’m very grateful for your support x

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Beginnings are uncomfortable.

This isn’t really the beginning, but it is for this new platform. It’s been a bit since I’ve learned how to navigate a new online space. Three years ago I downloaded TikTok and started sharing my work and process. They’ve deleted my account three times since then, much like Instagram— for violating community guidelines with my figurative paintings. This created a pivot: I decided to take the focus off of my work and begin to tell stories. I started sharing my writings there and reading them to you, feeling a little uncertain anything would translate at all. (Also, the sound of my own voice makes me want to crawl into a corner. *Once I post something, I can literally never listen to it again without getting the ick for myself*)

Simultaneously, I was in the most disconnected place I had ever been within my work. (more on this later, perhaps.) Looking back, I can’t help but feel this pivot was essential. Having no touchstone, no edges, nothing to grab onto within this disconnect— I turned to writing. I woke in the middle of the night to grab the journal at my bedside and write down connections I had in dreams, the soft bedside light glowing into the early hours of the morning as I continued to allow it to flow from the place believed to have been lost. I wrote about relationships. Subconscious connections. Family. My studio sat quietly in the background, patiently awaiting my return. I wasn’t sure if I ever would. “Im not ready yet”, I would say aloud to no one, to nothing, staring at the unfinished works that suddenly felt like strangers. Where had my pull gone? I didn’t know, and so I kept writing about it.

In many of the writings I began recording, I played it very safe. It’s difficult to share your inner world and experiences when there are others involved. There will always be others involved. How much am I allowed to say about my own experiences? Are they even my own if they involve other people? I felt everything I was saying was very broad, very generic, and would never really land anywhere.

On a random Tuesday I opened my text messages to find a screenshot of Instagram sent to me by a friend. It was a video I had made from TikTok, with the words, “W T F?!” under it. It was on Drew Barrymore’s account, and I was confused. Thousands of messages and emails started pouring in, of other women sharing their stories, sending support, asking if I had a book for preorder, where they could read more of my work.

I sat there in bed, stunned. I didn’t have any other work, I wasn’t a writer. There was no book for anyone to read.

What no one knew in that moment— was that for the last six months, I had been writing one, in secret. I told no one, made no plans, set no goals for it. It felt like a silly little secret I was keeping for myself because I have given away so much in the last few years— but it was also a protective gesture generated by my imposter syndrome.

I am not a writer. I am not an author.

The world will know it, the voice in my head scolded me. Who do you think you are, trying something new, and asking the world to support you in it?

But that day, the world did. And in my lowest moment, where I had felt I lost my art form and my current— the world gave me a gentle push back to the surface. That world is many of you, reading this right now. I can never thank you enough.

So what’s next?

I don’t know. I never know. I’m working on leaning more into that, with less clenched fists. Will I ever publish this book? Maybe. Maybe not. In this moment, that end goal doesn’t feel as important, because I’ve been gifted something much bigger in the process.

I’ve got my current back.

Writing heals. Learning to navigate your own mind, share it with others, and engage with the world around you creates the space for that. In it, I’ve regained some of my confidence. I’ve remembered. In that remembering: I regain my footing and remember that my life’s mission is to be in service to others.

Six years ago, I stood at an exhibition at Saatchi Gallery in London, where a little black book asked me to write down what I wanted most out of this life. Live a life of service to others is what appeared on the page, before I could formulate a more honest answer. That was my honest answer. I didn’t understand it at the time, because I was lost. My relationship was beyond broken, I was trapped, I was suffocating, art felt like a silly side-quest that was too indulgent and undeserving of the pathetic person that was me. No one believed in me. I would never believe in myself. I had no idea why I followed the pull to be standing in London, in the middle of the street that day, looking up at a stranger I longed to be near. There are moments in our lives where we are met with a kind of tenderness and understanding we weren’t even sure we were looking for. Whether I noticed it or not, it has been a domino effect in my life since that street, since that little black book asked me why. Being understood by others gives us permission to heal, and step forward. I’d like to believe that’s what this is about. I see you, goes a long way. When we internalize it, it can change the course of our lives.

Whether it’s through my art, through my writing, or just by holding the door for a stranger at the grocery store— I want to remind folks that they are far much less alone than they think… because that same deep loneliness has almost taken my life, in one too many ways. I do believe we belong to one another, and the world pushes us to forget.

Writing is about remembering.

And so, if you’re still reading this. I want to thank you for doing your part in that, for showing up and giving me the joy of collective connection and support in the creative expression that brightens my life. It’s my hope that these letters can brighten some of yours, too. x

What to expect

Each week, I hope to share noticeable glimmers with you. You’ll be receiving new ‘Art Of’ writings every other Sunday, with bits of studio work, processings, and notes in between. I hope to create a community chat, host other writers, and even potential podcast episodes. If you have an idea in mind that would generate more connection / or something you’d like to see from me, I’m always open to hear about it.

Please shoot me an email: srueterart@gmail.com

Onward.

A few days ago, I shared thoughts around the idea of the ‘girlhood’ summer many of us have been experiencing, with the release of Barbie and the attendance of Miss Swift’s Era’s Tour: how our girlhood was traded too soon for protection, for social adequacy, for societal expectation. I grew up uttering the words, “I’m not like other girls” as if it were a badge of honor, to separate myself from anyone who related to the concept of femininity or girlhood. I would never throw like a girl, I would never be high-maintenance like a girl, I would never be helpless like a girl or overly-dramatic like a girl. I needed a seat at the table with the boys, and I got it playing the game. As an adult someone who doesn’t naturally gravitate towards bright colors, or makeup, or doing my hair— I wonder how much of that was actually my choice. Would I be an entirely different person had I not grown up with this mindset? Never knowing seems better.

This girlhood summer reminds us that we’re meant to be Taylor-ing (hehe couldn’t help myself) our lives to the little girls inside of us that were ignored for too long. They are our compass: a guide to where we find our flow, our path towards fulfillment. The world strips this from us before we can notice it’s power. Those little girls deserved to build fairy houses in the yard until dark without judgment - they deserved to scream sing at a one direction concert - they deserved to have friends who supported them in it and stood up for one another when boys made comments, when teachers rolled their eyes, when family members made comments about their changing bodies.

“I am EXACTLY like other girls”, they would have said.

I just ordered a pink body suit and a beading kit to make my Era’s Tour outfit by hand. I watch YouTube videos of folks showing the patterns for theirs, learning how to stitch and bejewel and detail; skills I lost after college when they were deemed ‘uncool’ with the weirdo-art-major-label I tried so desperately to escape.

I’ll go to the Era’s Tour next October wearing the same outfit as thousands of girls before me. I’ll trade friendship bracelets and spray glitter in my hair and I’ll laugh at my parents who think I’m insane, because adult women shouldn’t be dressing up to attend concerts.

I am exactly like other girls. There is no better compliment.

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