Studio Letter No. 001
Hey there! If you’ve found yourself reading this, I’m going to assume you’re one of the souls taking a small interest in what I might be creating in this life of mine. Thank you for stopping in, truly.
My childhood was filled with roaming the hills, farms and corn fields of my small town. On a visit back this past week, I took a photo of one of my favorite views; the sun setting over one of my favorite fields.
This is officially my first studio letter, and I could not be more honored to welcome you here. Whether or not you choose to subscribe to these letters, I hope life is treating you kindly; and if it isn’t, remember that the sun is always shining above the clouds.
Before I moved to Detroit nearly five years ago, that was a phrase I’d heard many times but had never deeply resonated with. As I’ve acquired more years under my belt, though, the clichés have gained weight. They remind me why they became clichés in the first place.
After my first Detroit winter, I found myself at one of the darkest points in my life. In all fairness to myself, there were serious challenges I was navigating, but I was also deeply struggling with adjusting to life in Michigan— specifically the winter season.
I remember having to take a flight to New York for an exhibition, and to this day, it remains one of the most emotional moments of my life, second only to the birth of my son. So what was this moment?
It was when the plane ascended above the clouds and for the first time in nearly six weeks, I saw the sun.
I can still recall the blue of the sky and the bright orange rays pouring through the windows as we reached cruising altitude. I found myself crying quietly in my seat as miles of clear sky stretched out before me. It was the moment I finally understood the true meaning of the phrase “the sun is always shining above the clouds.” No matter how thick or endless the cloud coverage may feel, the sun is still there.
It may sound small, but that reminder still gets me through my most difficult days. I hope it can help you too.
Years ago, I had a blog — maybe some of you even followed it, and if so, massive hello! But after a series of unfortunate events (pun intended), I began sharing very little of my life online. Part of that is simply growing older and no longer feeling the need to speak on every injustice I encountered. But another part is due to vulnerability becoming more complicated for me.
Ironic isn’t it? As artists, we make a living from vulnerability, and yet sharing aspects of myself outside of career achievements and exhibitions has remained strangely difficult. It’s quite the conundrum.
A self-portrait taken during my first winter in Detroit
I’ve been lucky enough to hit many of my career goals rather early, which has left me in a place of deep reflection and reimagining. Lately, this has meant trying to exist more authentically without the fear of being misunderstood. It’s also meant slowing down enough to remember how much curiosity, creativity, and meaning exist within the mundane.
For years, my work has lived in large spaces; museums, installations, and objects that require distance to fully take in. While I’m grateful for that scale, somewhere along the way I began craving something closer. Something I could hold in my hands. Something that could live inside of a home instead of an institution.
Studio Bri grew out of that desire.
Or maybe Studio Bri is simply me sharing the things I spend my time doing, reading, making, and thinking about; all of which I consider just as much a part of my practice as the work hanging on gallery and museum walls.
But as I’ve created more space to slow down, I’ve started validating how much of my research wasn’t only happening in the studio. It was happening while stirring something slowly in the kitchen. While mending fabric. Washing dishes. Folding laundry. The repetition of those rituals began to feel just as meaningful as the larger conceptual frameworks I’ve built my career around.
But I don’t necessarily want to abandon the rigor of my art practice; I want to translate it.
So lately, I’ve been making smaller things again. First, for myself. And now, for you as well.
There’s an irony in the art world where scale is often expected to keep increasing. Bigger exhibitions. Bigger installations. Bigger gestures. But lately, I’ve found myself drawn toward intimacy instead.
This first took the form of making totes that I’ve made from remnants of past projects; objects to carry and to hold. Textiles cut from materials that might otherwise be discarded. Pieces that don’t aim to be perfect, but instead hold evidence of touch; visible seams, slight asymmetries, and the quiet proof that something was made by hand. It’s been grounding and simple.
Process photo of pickling red onions
At the same time, I’ve been reclaiming more of my time. More writing. More music-making. More of making recipes that have been passed down through generations. In short, I’ve been paying more attention to the rhythm of the day. I’ve also remembered that the home and the studio are connected spaces; both sites of experimentation, care, and material study.
A recipe is a structure. A bag is architecture. A meal, like a garment, is assembled with time and attention.
Studio Bri is where these threads come together.
It’s not a product line. It’s a practice; one that allows me to slow down, reuse what already exists, and honor the messiness of making and the slowness of contemplation. It’s an extension of my larger work, but closer to the body. Closer to daily life. Closer to you.
I don’t fully know what it will become yet, and that feels important.
For now, it’s a place to share what I’m making; in the studio and at home. It might take the form of capsule collections shaped by material history. Recipes rooted in seasonality and memory. Photographs of process. And reflections on care, labor, and imperfection.
I’m interested in building something that feels lived-in rather than polished. Something that grows slowly and makes space for irregularity.
So beginning this week, I’ll be sending out a weekly studio letter; part reflection, part recipe, part small object in progress; maybe everything in between.
Nothing elaborate. Just what I’m making, thinking about, and working on in real time. Sometimes I’ll share what I’m reading, listening to, and feeling inspired by outside of the confines of my studio and my home.
If you’d like to receive these letters, you’re welcome to join me by signing up below. I’d love to have you.
