Alright – so today we’ve got the honor of introducing you to Laura Williams. We think you’ll enjoy our conversation, we’ve shared it below.

Hi Laura, thanks for joining us today. It’s always helpful to hear about times when someone’s had to take a risk – how did they think through the decision, why did they take the risk, and what ended up happening. We’d love to hear about a risk you’ve taken.

Years ago, I co-owned a fine art publishing print studio in Atlanta, GA. It wasn’t just a business; it was a living, breathing space where creativity thrived. We were three years in, and things were good. The kind of good that lulls you into thinking you’ve found your forever groove. The business was prospering, and I adored collaborating with other artists, leading our team of printmakers, and working as a master printer. It was hands-on, heart-in, all-encompassing work.

But—and there’s always a “but” in stories like this—something was missing. A quiet, persistent whisper that grew louder with every print I pulled. I wasn’t working on my art. The thing that had driven me to this world in the first place was slipping away, buried under the weight of schedules and spreadsheets.

Walking away felt impossible. Who leaves a thriving business they love? But that whisper had turned into a roar, and I realized the bigger risk wasn’t leaving—it was staying and losing myself entirely. So, I did the unthinkable. I walked away.

What followed wasn’t a montage of instant success (don’t we all wish life worked like that?). It was a slog—a beautiful, messy, terrifying slog. Family obligations, illness, and plain old fear tried to pull me off course more times than I can count. But I kept showing up for my practice. I learned to trust the process, even on the days it felt like shouting into the void.

Fast forward to today, and I’m a successful full-time artist and coach. My work has taken me around the country—solo shows, residencies, publications, even a monograph. It’s been a journey of a thousand small victories and lessons, but one truth stands out above all else: relationships are the lifeblood of this work. My printmaking days taught me how to collaborate, how to listen, and how to be generous with my time and talent. Those lessons shaped the artist I am today.

Taking that risk felt like stepping off a cliff into the unknown. But sometimes, when you leap, you find wings you didn’t know you had. And those wings? They’re built on showing up—again and again and again.

Laura, before we move on to more of these sorts of questions, can you take some time to bring our readers up to speed on you and what you do?

I suppose you could say I found art the way some people find secret doors or forgotten pathways. I grew up across the street from my elementary school art teacher, a woman who was equal parts magician and mentor. She was the first person to tell me that I didn’t have to follow the family script—to be a lawyer like the rest of my clan. Instead, she handed me a brush and opened a door to a world where I could speak in colors, shapes, and lines. From the moment I discovered art, the rest of the world blurred at the edges. Art became my greatest language, the place where all the wild ideas in my head could finally take form.

Now, I create abstract spaces that are an ode to an imperfect language. Through motion and mark-making, I translate thought—subconscious whispers, half-formed dreams—into a viscerally understood visual lexicon. These are the spaces between words, the meanings that live in silences, and the stories that don’t fit into tidy sentences.

I work out of my hometown of Chattanooga, Tennessee, though my journey to get here has been anything but linear. In 2009, I earned my Bachelor of Fine Arts from Tufts University and the School of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Later, I pursued my Master’s in Printmaking at SCAD-Atlanta on a full scholarship, where I was lucky enough to contribute to a major print collection with Kiki Smith and Valerie Hammond. That project was transformative—what began as an assistant printer role grew into being assistant project manager, a title that brought more challenges and even greater rewards.

Riding the momentum of that experience, I co-founded and co-owned Straw Hat Press in Atlanta, specializing in fine art publishing and contract printing. For years, the studio thrived, a testament to collaboration, dedication, and the sheer magic of ink meeting paper. But despite our success, I felt a persistent pull back to drawing, back to the work that had always felt most like me.

So I took a leap of faith and returned to Chattanooga, trading the bustling energy of Atlanta for a quieter, more introspective pace. And that’s where my career as a gallery artist truly took off. In 2023, I had the honor of being the inaugural solo exhibitor at the Good Art Co. in Greenville, South Carolina. In 2024, my work took me to Brooklyn for a residency and solo show at Carrie Able Gallery, and later this year, my work will be showcased at Kai Lin in Atlanta and Warnes Contemporary in Brooklyn. Looking ahead to 2025, I’ll join the artist residency programs at Chateau d’Orquevaux in France and Stoveworks in Tennessee.

So what do I make? I draw the spaces between things—the quiet gestures of the world. I study how light bends, how shadows stretch, how clouds drift across an infinite sky. My work meditates on the delicate tension between chaos and order, chance and intention, randomness and rhythm.

The process itself is a bit like catching stars in a jar. I toss beads, seeds, or fragments into the air and let them fall as they will, creating a constellation of chance. From there, I build, layering graphite and ink to echo the rhythms of light and shadow, the weight of memory, and the fragility of time.

My art is deeply personal, born from my own reckoning with trauma, memory, and recovery. After a concussion in 2016 left me grappling with memory loss, I began layering translucent materials—graphite, ink, watercolor—to reflect the clarity and distortion of memory, how it shifts and fades over time. Later, as I navigated the aftermath of a suicide attempt, my work became a way to process pain, mapping the invisible scars left by grief and the quiet strength it takes to heal.

Art, for me, is both a catharsis and a bridge. It’s an invitation to others who have lived through dark places to join me in the light—to find connection, comfort, and meaning in the unspoken spaces between us. That’s the heart of what I do: I make marks, I tell stories, and I leave space for others to find themselves in the work.

Have any books or other resources had a big impact on you?

When it comes to resources that have shaped my management and entrepreneurial philosophy, a few stand out as absolute game-changers:

1. Artwork Archive: This platform has been a lifeline for me. Having my entire body of work organized in a database doesn’t just keep me on track—it also streamlines collaboration with everyone I work with, from collectors to gallery owners. I can generate reports, catalog damaged works, track my exhibition schedule, and even see where specific pieces have been shown. Artwork Archive has made what could be a chaotic process feel seamless and professional.

2. Art21: The interviews on Art21 have been a consistent source of practical wisdom. Hearing other artists talk about their studio challenges and solutions has been invaluable. It’s like having a mentor on standby—someone to provide strategies when I’m stuck or struggling with a practical issue.

3. Hiring an artist coach: Without a doubt, this has been one of the most transformative resources for me. A great coach helps take those “impossible” dreams and breaks them into actionable, achievable steps. My coach guided me through refining my practice and turning my aspirations into tangible goals. I’m a firm believer that having someone in your corner to hold you accountable and provide clarity can make all the difference.

4. Visionary Art Collective and the Canopy Program: These communities have been incredible. They gave me a trusted network of artists I can rely on for advice, feedback, and support. I can’t stress enough how important it is to surround yourself with people who understand the ins and outs of your field. They’ve helped me navigate everything from who to trust to brainstorming new ideas. Having a “clan” of like-minded individuals is essential—both for growth and for staying grounded.

Each of these resources has shaped not only how I manage my practice but also how I approach problem-solving and growth. Together, they’ve helped me stay organized, inspired, and connected in a way that keeps my work moving forward.

Do you think there is something that non-creatives might struggle to understand about your journey as a creative? Maybe you can shed some light?

One of the strangest things about a career in the art world is that the best advice I can give to an artist is also, objectively, the worst business advice: don’t ever stop. No matter how many times you fail, no matter how impossible it feels, keep going.

This persistence isn’t just a motivational cliché—it’s the single most defining, universal trait I’ve seen in every successful, full-time artist I know, both personally and those I admire. They didn’t stop. Even when they had no money, no space to create, or no external validation. Even when people around them said their work was terrible or that they should give up. They didn’t. They kept showing up for their practice, again and again.

This is a hard thing for non-creatives to understand because, in most industries, failure often signals the end of the road. But in the arts, failure is almost like an initiation. It’s a companion on the journey. Success isn’t about avoiding failure; it’s about surviving it.

The truth is, the number one reason you won’t achieve your goals as an artist isn’t a lack of talent or opportunity—it’s stopping too soon. Creativity is a marathon, not a sprint. It’s messy, unpredictable, and often feels thankless. But if you stick it out, keep pushing through the doubts and the dry spells, you’ll find yourself creating the life and the work you once only dreamed about.

For anyone reading this who isn’t an artist, I’d ask you to consider where persistence might pay off in your own life. Art has taught me that resilience isn’t just for creatives—it’s for anyone willing to keep going when the odds seem stacked against them.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.lauraclearywilliams.com
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/lauraclearywilliams/
• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61552541489835