Moving West

Tennessee Drive, 2025, oil on panel, 6x8 | I had just packed up my entire life and settled my 15 year old cat in the back of the car. I felt so uncertain about 75% of my life–no job prospects, my condo hadn’t sold, no idea where we’d be living once we got to California… but I was relieved to be ending the DC/Virginia chapter of my life. The only thing that felt certain was that I was headed in the right direction–West. I remember hitting the Tennessee border and seeing all the yellow blurs of roadside flowers as I sped by. A view I’d seen so many times since spending the last 10+ years in the South East and East Coast. It felt so surreal to know this view would soon become a memory.

Montgomery Time, 2025, oil on canvas panel 6x8 | I settled into our AirBNB, excited to be with Greg for a few weeks and even more excited to be on the road towards our future together. I spent slow mornings on our porch before the thick heat came in too strong. This old building was across the street from us and looked like it had been frozen in time. No one came or went to it, except the birds that perched on top of the rusted roof.

Alabama Blooms, 2026, oil on panel, 8x10 | I never expected to find the coziest coffee shop in Montgomery, AL. I went there most days and did my best to become a ‘regular’ though I knew my time in the city was so limited…like at a delusional level–we were literally only going to be in Montgomery for three weeks. They made the most unbelievable blackberry syrup, which was perfect in both coffee and cocktails ;) Each day the staff put out the most amazing flowers and every time I visited I could feel the compounded stress from the past few years actively leaving my body. No one was rushing to get to the Metro, no casually seething conversations about politics hung in the air, and a grand total of zero people asked me what my job was and where I worked. This was surely the slow, quiet life I had been dreaming of.

Montgomery Goats, 2025, oil on panel, 8x10 | Greg’s dad, David, came down to the area to visit with us and stayed on Jackson Lake Island–which was the filming location for the 2003 big screen hit Big Fish (still haven’t seen it!). In addition to the abandoned Big Fish set, there was a herd of goats roaming the island! We grilled out, relaxed, watched the sunset, and watched our favorite team, Notre Dame, beat the pants off NC State. I actually painted this in the coffee shop we had been frequenting. I sat in their window seat for hours bringing the goats to life!

Orange Beach Burner, 2025, oil on panel, 8x10 | Just as I was getting comfortable in my new, slow, southern life, I was jolted back to reality. . Greg had to head back to Guam a week early due to the good ole government shut down. I pivoted my plans, too, and met one of my oldest friends, Irena, down in Orange Beach, Alabama, for a long weekend on the coast. The beach there really earned its name each sunset–I couldn’t believe how vibrant the sky was. Despite how beautiful and peaceful the beach was, I couldn’t shake this feeling of dread that was starting to set in. Despite the beauty around me, anxiety was beginning to creep in. I worried about money, where Petri and I would stay for an extra week, and whether my condo would ever sell. The stress I had tried so hard to outrun was beginning to burn—just like the sunset in front of me.

Orange Beach Gull, 2025, oil on panel, 8x6 | Irena quickly reassured me I could come stay with her for an extra week. Thank god for good old friends! Yet I was riddled with guilt–I was taking up so much space with my entire carload of my mobile life, my cranky old cat who I knew wouldn’t get along with her animals, and just being in her business for an extra week. I looked at the gulls around us at the beach and noticed how adaptable they were. They weren’t afraid to grab whatever they needed and fly free, and they certainly didn’t care if a wave came crashing up the shore at them–they just hopped along out of the way. Maybe it was time for me to see myself less as a bother and that the extra time with my friend would be a blessing for us both?

Orange Beach at Dusk, 2025, oil on panel, 8x10 | Our long weekend wrapped and I headed to Baton Rouge to settle in for the next two weeks with Irena. I actually painted this beach scene on her porch–the slow mornings in the Southern heat do something amazing for your soul. My concerns about being a nuisance as a guest quickly melted away as I realized Irena and I both needed a good, long visit. We both share a love for painting, especially painting sunsets and candy-colored skies. She was quick to give me encouragement to take my art practice more seriously and I can’t thank her enough for her support!

Golden Glimmers, 2026, oil on panel, 8x10 | Irena and I had many adventures strolling along live oak tree-lined roads and birdwatching while I was in Louisiana. I’d been to Louisiana many, many times before but this time I felt like I was paying closer attention to the world around me. The trees felt like a tunnel of protection from the world around us–only letting glimmers of sunlight in here and there to dance around.

Stillwater, 2026, oil on panel, 11x14 | Louisiana swamps and lake water have always unsettled me. There’s a depth and mystery to them—you can never quite tell what might be lurking beneath the surface. The unknown has always made me uneasy. I’ve spent much of my life trying to control outcomes, looking too far ahead, attempting to predict every wrong turn before I reached it, all in the hope of avoiding discomfort. But the water offered no answers. Its surface reflected the world above while obscuring everything below. Standing there, I couldn't see into the future, and I couldn't control what I didn't know. I was left with only the present moment—and, in that reflection, myself. The thing demanding my attention wasn't what might be hidden beneath the water, but what was right in front of me.

Absolute Burner, 2026, oil on panel, 16x20 | While I was staying with Irena in Baton Rouge, we took a walk around the lakes near Louisiana State University’s campus. Unfortunately, they happened to be dredging the lakes at the time and the smell was absolutely repugnant. Fortunately, good company can make up for almost anything. As we walked, we rehashed the same high school stories we’ve been cackling about for the last twenty years—the kind of memories that somehow never get old. The sun began to sink below the trees and exploded into a swirl of oranges, pinks, and purples. “10/10 Absolute burner,” we declared, laughing like maniacs for no particular reason. Irena, Greg, and I all grew up together in South Bend, Indiana, and share a love of Notre Dame football. As luck would have it, the lakes are directly across from former Notre Dame coach Brian Kelly’s house, and we happened to be there the same week LSU fired him. 10/10 Absolute burner. Looking back, this painting reminds me that some friendships only get better with age. The jokes evolve, the stories become funnier, and somehow even a foul-smelling lake can become the backdrop for a perfect evening.

Don't Be Blown About, 2026, oil on panel, 16x20 | This live oak was billowing in the wind and looked so powerful and strong despite how wiry and fragile some of its limbs appeared. I’ve always been drawn to trees and I especially love painting them. Trees in artwork are a symbol of the self. An ultimate self portrait without ever having to draw a hair or an eyelash. The trunks represent our growth and maturity. Branches are representative of how connected we are to our environments; how easy or difficult it is for us to access what we need in the world. If I could emulate some of the steadfastness and strength that trees like this show in the face of ravaging winds of countless hurricanes, then I’d surely be able to survive one measly cross-country move.

Texas Autumn, 2025, oil on panel, 8x10 | Boy, oh, boy we made it to Texas. Petri and I stayed out in the middle of nowhere in Boerne, Texas, on a ranch that was unbelievably peaceful. Petri spent the afternoons napping on the screened-in porch while I painted on the porch outside. The property had this permanent haze to it, which made it feel like it was in perpetual daybreak and dusk at the same time. I remember this being the first time I felt like I was really actually moving West–no turning around to the familiar and no going back.

Big Sky, Little Space, 2025, oil on panel, 5x5 | I had the pleasure of witnessing the full Harvest Moon while I was on the ranch, and I was so thankful it was there (I’m afraid of the dark…!). I don’t know if it was the full moon or possibly the wild animals that I’m sure were surrounding the cabin, but this stop is where I noticed Petri starting to struggle with our trip. He. Howled. All. Night. Neither of us knew peace. His very obvious stress broke my heart and made me feel utterly helpless. How could I help him? The skies grew bigger as our trip progressed and so did the depth of the uncertain, expansive night.

Old Bones, New Soul, 2025, oil on panel, 5x5 | The owner of the ranch, Oso, lived nearby and came over to talk with me a few times. He was quite old and had been living on the land since the 70’s. He told me about the beautiful life he’d grown there on the ranch and revealed that he was also an artist. He shared so much of his work with me–a lot of it was super funky and honestly kind of weird. But it also had an inherent honesty and authenticity to it that I deeply admire and respect. I felt so humbled by his work. This kind of authenticity is something I search for in my own work and in my style of painting–something I’m not sure I’ve quite found. Visiting with Oso gave me a deep sense of renewal, possibility, and hope. That a life well lived will inform my work if I just let it happen and not force it. That sharing my work and my story with anyone who will listen is time well spent.

Las Cruces Peace, 2025, oil on panel, 11x14 | Our stay in New Mexico was brief, and marked the start of my slow decline into an illness flare. We stayed in a really cool artist’s loft above an industrial space, and man, was it dusty…and filled with spiders. Petri and I snuggled in with our new friends, and I spent the day painting a nearby field with an expansive sky. I was so exhausted. Tired of unpacking, packing, and strapping the load down onto the top of my old Corolla. Tired of moving everything in and out of new spaces. So, so tired from barely sleeping through Petri’s stress yowls. Still, I pushed myself to paint. Somewhere along the way, I had convinced myself that being a “serious artist” meant working no matter how I felt. I didn't realize I was carrying the same rules with me that I had hoped to leave behind. Even after moving across the country, I was still treating productivity like a way of life. It would take me months to understand that rest deserved a place in the picture, too.

Prickly When Whet, 2025, oil on panel, 5x5 | This little cutie cactus was outside my AirBnB in New Mexico. I’m obsessed with cacti and their ability to thrive in the harshest climates. A cactus is beautiful in so many ways. It has the ability to protect itself, sustain life through periods of harsh drought, and yet still finds a way to blossom and attract exactly the energy and pollinators it needs to thrive. It gives back to its environment and is a home and refuge for animals and insects. It provides beauty and food to communities. Sharply misunderstood and sometimes feared for its barbs. Just as I felt connected to the live oaks of Louisiana, I felt seen by the cactus of the Southwest. I’ve always felt a yearning to be understood–to be seen as beautiful and useful underneath my own barbs. To thrive despite the rough conditions of my family, relationships, and even my own health struggles. Why had I been trying so hard to fit in and be likable to all when I just needed to find the right environment to thrive in and be seen for who I am and what I have to offer?

Prescott View, 2026, oil on panel, 11x14 | Petri and I finally made it to my dad and stepmother’s home in Prescott, Arizona. This was quite the respite for Petri–I think he zonked out and slept almost the entire time we were there. I was so relieved he felt more comfortable. By this point, I, too, was deeply unwell. My exhaustion had really taken over and I was so thankful to have help unpacking the car and to have someone else taking care of me for a bit. I spent an entire day in bed and managed to make it out to the porch one day to paint. The house is set on the side of a mountain and has an unbelievable view of the valley below. Even though I felt awful, I couldn’t help wanting to capture the layers of light and beauty.

Lonely Road View, 2026, oil on panel, 6x9 | I can’t actually remember if this road was in Arizona or California. At this point, I felt like I was dragging a corpse to the finish line. I was so close to my final destination and was also so sick. I had accidentally eaten gluten at some point in the past week (a huge no-no for us Celiacs) and that, combined with general exhaustion from the entire move, had me feeling super sick and kind of lonely. After spending over a month on the road I felt like I had more questions than answers about my future. I still had nothing figured out– honestly maybe even less than when I started. The road ahead of me was expansive and felt so foreign. How could I be feeling so empowered and so lost at the same time?

Lonely Road View, 2026, oil on panel, 11x14 | We made it. It was an oddly gloomy, rainy day in the Mojave Desert. I had lived in the area once before as a child when my dad was stationed at Fort Irwin. The land looked just like I remembered it–almost lunar? Alien? Other-worldly?, and the skies felt completely foreign. The sky was dramatically shifting between a maroon storm and a soft buttery sunset. It started to rain and I remembered thinking how lucky I was to arrive with the rain. It felt like I was being given a gift, a warm and loving “welcome home”. I can’t describe the level of relief I felt from completing the trip and how happy I was to be able to shut my brain off for a bit.

Last Moments of Sun, 2026, oil on panel, 8x10 | I had barely arrived in California when I had to leave again. I dropped Petri off with a friend and boarded a plane for Guam–I stayed for two months while Greg finished his duty time there. At first, it was a refreshing change of pace from the move–tropical drinks, fun nights with friends, and snorkeling in the bays. But after a few weeks, the stress and uncertainty crept back in. I had too much time on my hands to not think about all the parts of my life that weren’t sorted out. I began to doubt my choices, and financial panic set in quickly. It had been years since I had been unemployed, and the last time had been one of the most tumultuous times of my life. Greg and I had a few disagreements, and the stress of his move and the doubt about what I’d be doing professionally just compounded. We departed Guam on New Year’s Day and arrived in Honoloulou on New Year's Eve (we got to celebrate twice!). I mentally recalibrated, reminding myself that we were moving forward together and that we’d be able to figure out as a team. How could we not–we had figured out two years of dating from opposite sides of the world, after all!

Our New Sunset, 2026, oil on panel, 11x14 | This painting is part of my Golden State Glow collection, which I painted after settling in Tehachapi. However, I feel like this painting also fits in this collection. It is such a great expression of the ‘end’ of Moving West because it’s also the beginning of something new. We’re finally settled into our new home, and Greg, Petri, and I are building a beautiful life together. Petri is happy and absolutely thriving in his new home. It’s now hard to even recap the laundry list of worries that plagued me during the move. I am still figuring out my professional life, but I’ve come to embrace that all good things come at the right time. The move taught me so much about myself and the value of letting go of control and relying on those around me who love and support me. We're still writing this chapter, but every evening our new sunset reminds me that some things don't need to be rushed. Home, like so many good things, reveals itself slowly.

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Moving West 〰️

About the Collection

Before the Journey

Christina Burgess

Irena Zajickova

Mariel Arata Fine Art