The kind of night dreams are made of…
I’ve had a few days to reflect and relax after the opening of my first solo art exhibition, and I honestly don’t know which emotion I feel more—gratitude or pride.
But let’s start with gratitude.
The gratitude and connection I feel toward Angie and Sarah of Girls Who Paint Gallery is immeasurable. About a year ago, I entered an open call for their show Love Hurts—a call I randomly stumbled upon on Instagram. One of those algorithm moments that felt less accidental and more the universe knew what it was doing. I submitted one of my favorite paintings and then immediately spiraled about shipping it. Instead of trusting the process like a normal person, I drove four and a half hours to Maryland to deliver it myself… and then four and a half hours back. In one day. Totally sane behavior.
When I walked into Girls Who Paint for the first time, I felt an unexpected sense of home mixed with nostalgia. Sarah greeted me with warmth that immediately put me at ease, and I knew my painting was in good hands. A few days later, Angie and Sarah went live on Instagram to tour the show, and when Angie spoke about my painting, I cried. Like, actually cried. The connection I felt—to them and to their mission of uplifting women in the art world—was instant and genuine.
When Love Hurts ended and it was time to retrieve my painting, I was navigating the sudden passing of my stepfather. Angie and Sarah were incredibly gracious and patient about me picking up my work later than scheduled. Their kindness wasn’t performative or procedural—it was real care for someone they barely knew. That mattered more than I can properly explain.
A few months later, they put out a call for a Barbie-themed show to coincide with the movie release. I submitted three paintings. One sold before the show opened, one sold mid-show, and the last sold on the final day. Angie and Sarah’s enthusiasm—for the work, for the artists, for the whole experience—was infectious.
Which brings me to how this solo show came to be.
I had seen a post about submitting for a solo exhibition at Girls Who Paint, but I didn’t seriously consider it. Not because I lacked confidence—more because I don’t hoard finished work in my studio. I tend to create collections and release them all at once, so the idea of having a gallery’s worth of paintings ready felt unrealistic. I filed it away as “not for me” and moved on.
Until a few months later, when I got a DM from Angie and Sarah offering me a solo show.
Shocked doesn’t begin to cover it. I was thrilled—and deeply honored—that they believed in my work and trusted me with their walls. The turnaround time was tight: about four months to create, finish, frame, and prepare enough work to fill an entire gallery. It was a lot of pressure, but not the kind that breaks you—more the kind that sharpens you. Failure wasn’t an option. That’s the upside (and curse) of being a perfectionist.
From December 10 to March 20, I painted, gilded, varnished, framed, and packaged 29 original paintings. I made prints. I packed prints. I ate, slept, and breathed this body of work. As I loaded everything into my car for another four-and-a-half-hour drive to Maryland, my anxiety decided to join the process. I vividly imagined being rear-ended by an 18-wheeler and losing everything. Other than driving my newborn children home from the hospital, I have never transported more precious cargo. Thankfully, there were no catastrophes.
One week later, I returned to Maryland with my best friend for the opening night.
Walking into the gallery and seeing the care Angie and Sarah put into every detail—decor, styling, vibe—I almost lost it. Like, Kim Kardashian ugly cry levels. Leopard print tablecloths. Candy cigarettes. A Barbie Dreamhouse. Chinese takeout containers filled with roses. They didn’t just hang my work—they brought it to life.
The night itself was a whirlwind. I met artists I’d been Instagram friends with for years and finally got to hug them in real life. I was blown away by the turnout, especially since I’m not local. Angie and Sarah haven’t just created a gallery—they’ve built a real community of artists and collectors, and it showed. Every red dot next to a painting came with a meaningful conversation. I shared my inspiration; collectors shared what resonated with them. That exchange—that connection—is exactly what I hope my work does.
The gratitude and admiration I have for Angie and Sarah, and for the opportunity they gave me, will outlast so many details of that night. The connections formed—with collectors in person and online—will too. Yes, I’m proud of what I accomplished. But more than that, I’m grateful for the joy and connection my work created.
Cheers,
Catherine