There’s a clear line between the way I created before and the way I create now. I spent years as a commission artist after graduating college, living the grind and the burnout that comes with it. Then a series of health issues, including the discovery of an unruptured brain aneurysm, shifted everything about how I related to art, to the world, and to myself. When the way I saw and even heard the world became unreliable, its tactility became my anchor.
Because of my health, I spent most of my time at home. When I felt the most disconnected from the world, something in me wanted to bring pieces of it inside. Terrariums let me build again, let me recreate the ecosystems I loved, and gave me a new way to make. Foraging for materials reconnected me to the outdoors even when my stamina was limited. In a way, I was mirroring my own fragility by creating these tiny, delicate worlds sealed in glass. I often felt like one of those little snails or isopods; living in my own house-shaped terrarium, watching the world from behind my own panes of glass.
Working with the materials I use now grounded me in ways I didn’t expect. It gave me presence, intentionality, and a calm I felt like I’d lost. Whether I’m making a terrarium from an old candy jar or customizing a beat-up skateboard or pair of boots, I don’t rush. I respond to the shape, the surface, the quirks of the object. In that slow, tactile process, I found my way back to myself.
I work with foraged, upcycled, and reused materials. Adapting to whatever was around me; how to turn dirt and moss from my backyard into a tiny world, or a pack of old markers and a Sharpie into something meaningful, wearable, and expressive. Everything has potential.
Art has always been a part of who I am, so it makes sense that it would carry me through one of the hardest things I’ve ever faced. It gave me back a sense of permanence I thought I’d lost. It helped me picture a future again after being told to sit down because I might not have one. It taught me to use my blurry vision as an advantage; to paint shapes instead of chasing perfect lines, to let tremors become part of the mark instead of something to hide. Art helped me accept my circumstances. Creativity is what lets me endure them.
About the Artist: Kayla is a South-Eastern US–based mixed-media artist whose work transforms discarded, foraged, and secondhand materials into intimate ecosystems and expressive objects. After a period of major health challenges reshaped her relationship to art, she rebuilt her practice through touch—constructing terrariums, reworking worn surfaces, and letting the quirks of each material guide her. Her pieces explore fragility, adaptation, and the potential hidden in everyday things. She creates from her home studio in coastal NC, with select works available at Baker Street Curiosity Shop in Wilmington.
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