For Yemaya, painting is more than a medium—it's an act of presence, a vessel for memory, and a porous boundary between the self and the natural world. Drawing deeply from the ecological textures of the Pacific Northwest and guided by a lifelong connection to land, body, and light, Yemaya’s work engages with complexity, ambiguity, and transformation. Seaweed, shadows, and tidal forms are not just recurring visual motifs but metaphors for resilience, interconnection, and change. This is an artist who invites viewers to slow down, feel deeply, and listen—to the landscape, to their intuition, and to what cannot always be named.

✧✧✧

How important is it for viewers to understand the intended message of your work? Does ambiguity add value, or do you seek clarity in your expression?

I have come to deeply value ambiguity in my work. While I often begin with a personal story or an emotional impulse, I appreciate the ways others bring their own interpretations. I usually don’t worry about how a piece will be received while I’m making it as painting is about being present with whatever emerges. Ambiguity, to me, is not a lack of clarity but a form of complexity. Emotional connection is an important part of my practice and ambiguity leaves room for multiple truths to coexist and invites viewers to slow down and engage on an intuitive level. It also allows people to feel what they need to feel and follow whatever references arise for them as they can hold both the known and the unknown. 

Natural forms such as seaweed, ferns, tide lines, and shadows of the body all frequently appear in my paintings. I meet these forms during daily walks along the coast, then bring them back as sketchbook notes, photographs, or memories of movement and light. In the studio, they act as bridges between inner experience and outer environment, linking the personal with a larger ecological context. This forms a spacious place where ecological and human connections can be felt rather than explained. Sometimes these motifs stay literal; other times they dissolve into layered marks or silhouettes. At times, they are purely aesthetic, but more often they serve as subtle metaphors for memory, entanglement, or change.

Once a work leaves the studio, interpretation opens up. I’m often surprised when a viewer uncovers an insight I thought was hidden and just as intrigued when their response is completely different from mine. Those differing perspectives enrich the piece and help me see it anew. I don’t aim at a fixed message; instead, subtle shifts in hue or fragments of recognizable forms act as invitations into the painting’s atmosphere. In short, ambiguity keeps the conversation alive. It transforms a private impulse into a shared space where multiple voices, stories, and sensations can meet, adding depth, complexity, and vitality to the art.

What unusual or unexpected sources of inspiration have deeply influenced your work?

Seaweed has become a persistent and powerful source of inspiration for me. Living near the Pacific Northwest coast, I am naturally drawn to the littoral zone and the shifting, dynamic boundary where the land meets the sea. This area is always changing, shaped by tides, wind, and weather. The constant movement and transformation happening there truly captivate me. It is a space where the idea of transition feels deeply meaningful.

Over time, I have spent many hours researching and closely observing different types of seaweed. I have looked at all their unique textures, colors, and shapes. Each kind of seaweed has its own form as some are delicate and feathery, others thick and strong. There is something both otherworldly and deeply ancestral about seaweed. It connects me to ancient natural cycles and reminds me of how humans have interacted with the sea for thousands of years. Seaweed’s resilience, the way it withstands harsh conditions and continues to thrive, inspires me. It also plays a vital role in ecosystems, providing food and shelter for many marine creatures. On top of that, seaweed has been used culturally for dyes, food, and medicine in coastal communities worldwide. These uses inform my work and deepen my respect for this living organism.

For my recent body of work and MFA thesis, I did extensive research on seaweed. I explored myths and stories about it from different cultures, read scientific books, and studied artists who use seaweed to make natural dyes and yarn. I also watched films about the women (Ama) known for free-diving without modern equipment to collect seafood such as abalone, sea urchins, and seaweed. This tradition dates back over 2,000 years. All this collective research was an endless source of inspiration. I was surprised to learn how connected seaweed is to everything in our ecosystem and how it acts as a major indicator of ocean health or decline. In a way, seaweed functions like the immune system of the planet, absorbing and responding to changes in the environment.

My process often involves making prints of the seaweeds I find, taking photographs, and creating drawings. These smaller works grow into larger paintings. Watching seaweed closely becomes part of my creative process. All these experiences enrich my understanding and connection to seaweed. Beyond its ecological and cultural significance, I am in awe of the natural beauty of how seaweed drapes over rocks or floats in tidal pools. Its flowing forms often look like natural calligraphy, with curves and lines that seem to write themselves across the landscape. This visual poetry moves me and influences my art.

Ultimately, I see seaweed not just as a subject but as a metaphor. It represents adaptation and survival, connection and transformation. Seaweed lives between land and sea, crossing boundaries and linking worlds. This idea of porous boundaries feels important to me, reflecting themes of change, relationship, and connection that I explore through my work.

Can art be truly therapeutic? Have you experienced its healing power personally, or seen it impact others?

Art anchors me. It’s where I turn in times of joy, loss, uncertainty, and change. Creating has consistently been how I process what’s going on in my life and in the world around me. It helps me return to the parts of myself that are curious, grounded, and open, even when things feel unclear or overwhelming. Art is where I find clarity. The therapeutic aspect of making is a big part of why I continue to do it. When I’m creating, I can access and work through thoughts and feelings that are hard to translate otherwise.

 

I’ve always been drawn to artists who also use their work as a way to heal or to work through something personal. I’m especially interested in artists who explore the connection between the body, memory, and the natural world. Ana Mendieta’s work stands out to me in this way. Her Silueta Series, created between 1973 and 1980, involved shaping silhouettes of her body into the land using natural materials like earth, fire, water, and blood. She described them as a conversation between her body and the landscape. These works were temporary and fragile but powerful and seen by many as a form of spiritual healing or reclamation. Her approach feels close to how I think about the role of art in holding complex emotions and histories.

 

Frida Kahlo is another artist who shaped how I think about art and healing. She used painting to make sense of both physical and emotional pain. Her work is deeply personal and symbolic, and it reflects her experience of identity, illness, and loss. Despite her struggles, she continued to create, and her art became a way of staying connected to herself and the world. I also think about Hilma af Klint, who created work based on her spiritual beliefs. She was part of a small group of women who held séances to access higher beings. Her Paintings for the Temple came from this connection and were meant to be part of a spiritual space. These artists remind me that art is a way of searching, healing, and connecting to something larger than the individual.

 

My own practice has grown over time. While it started as something personal and therapeutic, it has expanded to include research, collaboration, and professional discipline. These additions have made my work more layered and more connected to the world, but the core reason I create hasn’t changed. Art is still where I bring together thought, emotion, memory, and intuition.

It’s where I reflect, rebuild, and reconnect. It’s also where I listen to myself, to others, and to the land. Art helps me stay present with what I don’t fully understand yet. It gives me space to hold uncertainty and keep moving forward.

Do you have any rituals or habits that help you enter a creative state of flow?

For my most recent body of work, spending time along the littoral zone in the Pacific Northwest which is the unceded lands of the Coast Salish peoples has been a consistent and important source of inspiration. This is the area where the kelp forests meet the old-growth forests, and the interaction between land and sea creates a rich and dynamic environment. Each season brings different types of seaweed and plant life to the shoreline, and I often collect small pieces to bring back to my studio. These natural materials help guide the direction of my work and keep it grounded in a sense of place.

 

The forest comes right up to the edge of the water. Large cedar, Douglas fir, and maple trees cast changing patterns of light and shadow across the shoreline. I often take mental notes of the way the light moves and how it filters through the trees and reflects off the water or puddles. Some of the reflections, especially those framed by fallen leaves and lichens, stay in my mind and become reference points later in my process. These walks are usually done with my dogs and a cup of coffee in hand. I stop often to look closely at how the landscape shifts depending on time of day and weather.

 

The littoral zone offers an immersive visual experience that constantly changes. Whether it's the color of the sky reflecting in a tide pool, or the way a branch casts a long shadow at sunset, these subtle changes affect how I see and think about composition. Walking the same trail again and again through different seasons helps me notice patterns I would otherwise miss.

As I’ve spent more time in this area, I’ve also learned more about the ecological systems that exist here. Beneath the surface of the water is a large and healthy kelp forest, which supports a wide range of marine species. This is unusual in Puget Sound, where many kelp beds have declined over the past century. The kelp forest in this area is considered a success story, and it is being studied as part of larger regional efforts to protect and restore kelp and eelgrass. This topic actually ended up becoming the focus of my MFA graduate thesis, which explored the role of seaweeds in relation to climate change and ecological resilience.

 

The time I spend outside usually builds up over several weeks before any images are brought into the studio. The walks help me focus, and often put me into a calm, creative state. Ideas come to me while I’m walking and sometimes it’s a detail I want to add, other times it’s a new direction for a painting. Many of my pieces begin in this way, as mental sketches formed outside, then developed more fully once I’m back in the studio.

Can you share a moment when someone’s unexpected interpretation of your art gave you a new perspective?

During my recent graduate program, professional artists were regularly invited to critique our work. One critique has stayed with me ever since. A guest artist, known for her large-scale, color-rich abstract paintings that explore the intersection of language, translation, and abstraction, took the time to examine some of my paintings closely. She was based in Chicago, and I loved her work, which made the opportunity to meet and receive feedback from her especially meaningful. When I finally had the chance to discuss my work with her directly, I was struck by her depth of understanding and thoughtful reflections.

During our conversation, she noticed the way I had painted shoes in one of my paintings. She suggested that these shoes might belong to younger people or figures who felt familiar and connected to a community, though not to specific individuals I knew personally. This observation surprised me because I had not fully realized this aspect was transferable or evident in my work. Her interpretation was spot on and opened my eyes to how subtle details could communicate something deeper.

As we continued talking about my process and intentions, she offered a compelling insight about the shadows in my paintings. We discussed how these shadows could represent hauntings. Not in a literal or ghostly way, but as symbolic presences tied to memory, loss, or hidden social dynamics. This idea resonated with me and gave me a new lens through which to view my own work. She suggested that these “hauntings” were not necessarily visible but were felt, operating in the spaces between presence and absence.

To further explore these themes, she recommended two books: Ghostly Matters by Avery Gordon and In Praise of Shadows by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki. I purchased both and found myself deeply inspired by the concepts they presented. The idea of hauntings and sociological imagination introduced a vocabulary I had not yet found. These works helped me articulate the emotional and social dimensions embedded in my paintings, offering new ways to explain what I was trying to express visually.

Her interpretation added an important new layer to my practice. It was not only about the specific painting we discussed but about larger themes that continue to shape my work and my own psychology which as presence and absence, memory and forgetting, visibility and invisibility. This critique encouraged me to see my art through a more complex and nuanced lens. Since then, I have been more conscious of these concepts and how they inform both the process and meaning of my paintings. This experience was eye opening in expanding my understanding and in developing a stronger voice in my artistic journey. It was also great to see how the right mentor or critique could really open doors.

What are five things you do to overcome creative blocks or feelings of discouragement?

✧ Spend time in nature.
Walking in the woods or swimming in the ocean helps clear my mind. These moments reconnect me with a sense of flow and wonder and help me slow down. I notice color, texture, and rhythm in the natural world, and these details often influence my work. I bring these impressions back to the studio. Nature reminds me to stay present, to observe closely, and to value the process as much as the finished piece.

 

✧ Take a class.
I’ve always enjoyed learning new techniques. In recent years, I’ve especially appreciated how many online classes are available. It’s amazing to study with artists from around the world, often from their own studios. I’ve taken classes from painters I admire and have followed for years. Each class brings fresh ideas and helps me see my work in new ways. The New York Studio School’s online classes have been a favorite, as well as courses with the Art Digger Studio. Taking these classes, especially since COVID, has been eye-opening. They often give me the structure and motivation I need when I feel stuck or uninspired.

 

✧ Explore color studies.
When I’m unsure what to paint, I start by mixing colors. Playing with subtle shades like tertiary greens, warm ochres, or a myriad of greys helps me reconnect with my materials and opens space for new ideas. I keep small sketchbooks to test palettes inspired by what I see around me. I often focus on specific colors that are close in range or opposing colors and limited color palettes. I have also been inspired by the Zorn color palette. Other times, I work from feelings or moods. These color studies keep me connected to the process. Recently, I was lucky to study in a modern painting program that focused on how modernist artists used color. This experience has expanded how I understand and use color in my own work.

 

✧ Travel and experience art in person.
Seeing art in person is irreplaceable. Being able to study brushwork, texture, and scale up close gives me new energy. Traveling, even on short trips, refreshes my perspective. I enjoy visiting museums, galleries, and artist studios whenever I can. On a recent trip to Portugal, I saw exhibitions by Paula Rego and Adrián Varejão. Their show, Between Your Teeth, explored themes like violence, power, patriarchy, colonialism, and oppression. It made a strong impression on me. Seeing the depth and storytelling in their work reminded me why I began painting. It reignited my sense of urgency and commitment to my creative work.

 

✧ Step away from art.
Sometimes the best thing I can do is take a break. Whether it’s going for a walk, cooking, or spending time with friends, doing something unrelated to art gives my mind a chance to rest and reset. Taking time away helps shift my view and often lets new ideas come naturally. It reminds me that creativity is not just about producing work but also about being open, rested, and ready to receive inspiration.

What artistic “superpower” would you choose to have, and how would it shape your work?

I often find myself imagining the perfect art studio. Having lived in many different places such as Hawaii, New York, Prague, India, and Brazil, I’m always looking for space to paint, and my idea of the ideal studio keeps changing. Until recently, I rarely even had a dedicated space. Great art can happen anywhere, but the environment matters as well. Whether it’s a city studio with high ceilings and bright windows, a quiet cabin in the woods, or painting outside in nature, the space shapes both the physical and creative possibilities. Living in different places and connecting with their environments has deeply influenced my work. I think it would be a superpower if every artist could find their own perfect studio and create a space that truly supports their creativity.

 

In my mind, the ideal studio has large, uniquely shaped windows and old wooden floors which are elements that bring character and light into the space. I imagine plenty of room to move freely, work on large canvases, and pin up sketches and collages of ideas. I also value having a spot where I can control the light, depending on the time of day or what I’m working on.

I enjoy painting outdoors as well. I recently took a workshop en plein air, where I could observe the shifting light and colors in real time. It was challenging but, a deeply rewarding experience that pushed my practice forward. While I’m not aiming for realism, I like to weave realistic elements into more abstract compositions. I’m drawn to paintings that reveal their underlying structure, or “bones” which is something I admire in many modernist works. So, my ideal setup includes both indoor and outdoor space, with a connection to the natural landscape around me. That relationship to place and light feels essential.

Have you considered teaching your artistic skills to others? What excites or challenges you about that? 

I am currently a fiber arts teacher and love teaching kids to knit and felt. Teaching is a great way to stay connected to the art world while earning a stable income as I pursue painting professionally. Since I am still new to working as a professional artist, teaching feels like a good balance between sharing my skills and developing my own work. It can also be challenging because much of your creative energy goes into teaching. That’s why it’s important to carve out dedicated time for your own art, such as during summer breaks or other pockets of free time.

Why do you personally turn to art, rather than another form of expression?

My mom gave me crayons and paints when I was young, and art quickly became a place where I could freely explore. That early sense of freedom has stayed with me. Art feels like a space where I can experiment and discover without needing to justify myself. The tactile process of mixing paint and stretching canvas keeps me grounded, while the imaginative and poetic aspects allow the work to live in its own distinct world. I turn to art because it speaks a language beyond words which is something intuitive, visual, and richly layered.

✦ ✦ ✦

Rooted in observation and intuition, Yemaya’s practice is a testament to the subtle power of seeing and sensing. The work does not ask for definitive answers, but offers an opening—for dialogue, reflection, and the quiet unraveling of personal and collective memory. Through an art practice that embraces research, teaching, and ritual, Yemaya creates visual spaces that hold both clarity and mystery. In every layer of paint or fragment of shadow, there is an invitation to meet the world—and ourselves—with curiosity, tenderness, and renewed presence.