Isabella Grossman: Artist’s Statement

Living and creating on the California coast has shaped me in more ways than I could’ve imagined. I didn’t grow up here, but the ocean, the light, the people, and the rhythm of this place have become part of my work—sometimes directly, sometimes in ways I can’t even explain. I’ve let the environment, the chaos of Isla Vista, the stillness of a long paddle out, and the rush of learning something new guide me just as much as my academic and studio practice.

When I first arrived at UCSB, I was holding tight to a very traditional view of what art “should” be—particularly in painting. I came from a background in classical oil portraiture, where realism and technique were the benchmarks of success. I believed a painting had to look like a photograph to be taken seriously. But that belief started to unravel as soon as I gave myself permission to explore. I began leaning into color, pattern, abstraction, texture—and most importantly, intuition. That shift opened something up in me, and I’ve been following it ever since.

Of course, not every moment has been creatively electric. I’ve had stretches where I didn’t paint at all. Times when I didn’t feel connected to my work, or even sure of what I wanted to say. But I credit a huge part of my artistic reawakening to the immersive experiences I’ve had in the art world—working and interning at places like Art Basel in Miami and Singapore, studying at Sotheby’s in London, and working locally at Maune Contemporary in Santa Barbara. These roles placed me face-to-face with art every day—handling it, learning from it, falling in love with it.

There are certain moments I still carry with me—like the week I became completely obsessed with a painting by Marielle Campana at Art Basel. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I didn’t expect to feel so drawn to something abstract, but it changed the way I understood my own taste. I ended up purchasing that piece—it was the first work of art I ever bought. That decision, like so many in my creative life lately, felt intuitive and deeply right.

No matter how far I travel or how many galleries I step into, it’s the landscape and rhythm of Santa Barbara that’s had the deepest influence on my work. I find endless inspiration in the ocean and the mountains, in the subtle palette of sun-worn coastal objects, and in the structure and history of things like quilting, embroidery, and tilework. I’ve fallen in love with pattern—both visual and personal—and that fascination has led me to explore influences ranging from traditional Polynesian and Hawaiian quilts, to early American coverlets, to Owen Jones, Gustav Klimt, and even local designers like Katie Lovelace. I’m constantly looking at embroidery, beadwork, and antique needlepoint online, and have found surprising joy in learning how to translate those textures into paint.

My practice has also expanded beyond the canvas. Surfing has become a part of my creative life—both as ritual and material. I’ve started painting on surfboards, using them as functional canvases to explore symmetry, repetition, and visual meditation. I plan every pattern by hand—measuring, sketching, and sanding the surface before even touching a brush. (I never thought I’d use a protractor this much as an artist, but here we are.)

Photography, especially 35mm film, continues to be a grounding medium for me. I shoot both in and out of the water—capturing people, textures, and light that later reappear in my paintings. Sometimes I’m hired to shoot parties, bands, or fashion features for local publications, and sometimes I’m just chasing the right moment. Either way, it feeds the same impulse: to pause, observe, and turn something fleeting into something lasting.

Right now, I’m in a place of transition—exploring textiles, patterns, and expanding my painting practice into new formats. I’ve been experimenting with beading and researching traditional quilting methods, and I hope to eventually digitize my painted patterns and print them onto fabric. I’m interested in creating work that lives somewhere between the functional and the sacred, the decorative and the deeply personal.

The direction I’m moving in still feels new, but it also feels like mine—rooted in lived experience, memory, landscape, and design. In a world where it’s easy to feel like you’re constantly absorbing, it’s a gift to feel excited about creating. That excitement is what’s guiding me now.