For artists, space is everything. The right space can turn an idea into something tangible, something bigger than you imagined. And sometimes, if you're lucky, space finds you. That’s what happened when Shunpike’s Storefronts Program gave me an opportunity—not once, but twice.
The first time was 2013. They handed me the keys to a 10,000-square-foot space in downtown Seattle, and for a few months, I got to transform it into something entirely my own. I called it Shop Seattle, a curated pop-up featuring local artists, jewelry, paintings, laser-cut wall hangings, scarves, furniture—pieces I made, pieces I invited others to bring in. It was collaborative, dynamic, alive in a way that only temporary spaces can be.
The second time was 2020—seven years later. This time, I wasn’t filling a massive retail space. I was filling two storefront windows with something more delicate: laser-cut paper mandalas, eight feet tall by six feet wide, light filtering through their intricate patterns, shifting throughout the day. It was precise, meditative work—meant to be up for six months, from January to June. And then, as we all know, everything stopped.
Mandalas have been around forever. They exist in cultures all over the world—Tibetan sand paintings, Hindu yantras, rose windows in cathedrals. Circles within circles, symbols of wholeness, of connection, of something bigger than ourselves.
For me, they’re about process. The rhythm of designing them—layer upon layer, interlocking patterns, deliberate and precise—forces you to slow down, to surrender to the work. And maybe that’s what I love about them. The patience they require. The way they demand presence.
And that’s what I keep coming back to. It’s been five years since I made art—not commercial work, not design, but art for art’s sake. Mandalas are about cycles. About beginnings and endings. And maybe that’s the lesson. The work mattered. The process, the time, the intention—it all mattered.
And now, it’s time to begin again.
