Personal Stories That Shaped Me

Cositas y tesoros que uno encuentra en una casa en la cual ya nadie está. Silencios que guardan historias, rincones que respiran memoria. Entre todo, encontré una cartita a Papá Noel escrita por el Sambito. En su letra temblorosa decía: “Papanoel, te pido 2 pistolas en estas navidades. — Jorge Lanas.” Un papelito torcido, con letras de niño aprendiendo a soñar, que para cualquiera hubiera sido basura… pero para mí por siempre será un tesoro. No sé por qué no me quedé con ese

Art has always been more than expression to me — it is my path. Through creation, I connect to the deepest parts of myself — the ones that live beneath words and form. When I create, I cross the threshold between the visible and the invisible. It is there, in that quiet inner space, that I find my spiritual relief, my release, my communion. I used to think that art was something I did , but now I understand that art is the way I pray.  It is how I listen to life. Every painti

When the words began to pour out of me, I didn’t understand what was happening. There was an urgency I couldn’t contain — as if I were late for something sacred. My fingers could not type fast enough to capture the visions flashing through my mind: memories, emotions, conversations, moments I thought I had long forgotten. I called the collection “Before I Forget.”  At the time, it felt like a poetic impulse — a race against memory. But now I see how prophetic it was. Just a f

Turning that corner after a really bad right turn I had made, I found myself crying like María Magdalena on a park bench near my house in Quito. To get to that park I’d had to make a right turn. I stormed out of my house in tears of anger — furious at myself for feeling small, wishing I had the body of Hulk Hogan so I could fight fair and square with my opponent: a skinny man who looked like Snoopy’s brother, Spike. In our neighborhood, everyone knows him as el pendejo — but

Mind, heart, hand, action — mind, heart, hand, action — mind, heart, hand, action. Repeat these words, and if your belief is driven by your mind , heart , hand , and action , your dreams will come true. That’s how I began my path of turning dreams into reality. Most people looked at me with doubt — “crazy artist, she is doing what she loves with no money in return” they said — but everything I did came from those liberating daydreams. After all, I am a Pisces! This exercise

I don’t know exactly what happened to me — maybe it was the move to our farm. My paints, brushes, and easel are all stored away until I can find the right place to set up my studio. In the absence of these tools, I suddenly felt the need to write.I usually write while I paint, keeping a small personal journal beside me, but this time the impulse was different. I didn’t want to write about my paintings — I wanted to tell stories. And almost effortlessly, words began to flow. I

Author’s Note   These stories are not written in order, nor are they meant to be read that way. I write them as I feel them — as they surface, like memories that rise unannounced and ask to be seen. Each one carries a fragment of who I am: an artist, a wife, a friend, a daughter, a sister, a dreamer — and above all, a soul learning what it truly means to love. Some stories are about my projects — the children I’ve met through art, the journeys that have taken me around the wo