Self-Imposed Restraints | Creating Though the Lens of Astrology

A few months ago, I was working on a painting called How to Disappear when something clicked.

The idea didn’t come from reading my horoscope that morning or deciding I wanted to make “astrology art.” It came from realizing that the way I naturally understand people and the world could become a framework for making better work.

I have always loved astrology. It’s one of the ways I make sense of personalities, relationships, and the different ways people move through life. At the same time, I’ve also always known something about myself: I thrive under self-imposed constraints.

Left to my own devices, I’ll jump from one shiny idea to the next. I’ve always had more creative energy than I know what to do with. As a kid, that felt difficult in a world that rewarded sitting still, focusing on one thing, and following the rules. As an adult, I’ve realized that being multipassionate isn’t a flaw—it’s one of my greatest strengths. The challenge isn’t having too many ideas. The challenge is giving each one enough attention before moving on.

While I was creating How to Disappear, Taurus season had just begun. As a Taurus rising, I’ve always connected with the sign’s appreciation for beauty, craftsmanship, simplicity, and creating something tangible. I found myself thinking about restraint, luxury, stillness, and Louisiana all at once.

That painting became the intersection of all of those ideas.

Then the lightbulb went off.

What if I let each zodiac season influence not what I painted, but how I painted?

Suddenly, I wasn’t asking myself, “What should I make next?”

I was asking, “How would this season see Louisiana?”

That distinction changed everything.

Before this project, I was simply making Louisiana-inspired art. One painting led to another, and while there was nothing wrong with that, I often felt like I was floating from idea to idea. Now, every thirty days brings a completely new creative challenge.

I love that.

I love having almost too much on my plate. I love looking at an impossible project and wondering, “How am I going to pull this off?” Then figuring it out anyway. The changing seasons create a natural deadline. I can’t spend forever chasing one idea because the next season is already approaching.

That time constraint has made me a better editor.

Instead of asking whether every idea is good, I ask whether it’s the right idea for this season.

Instead of collecting endless inspiration, I ask, “What Louisiana iconography can represent what the sky is doing right now?”

The answers are never the same.

An alligator during Taurus season isn’t just an alligator. It’s confidence without needing attention. It’s stillness that doesn’t apologize for itself. It’s beauty that doesn’t have to announce its presence. I wanted that painting to feel luxurious—not because luxury means excess, but because true confidence rarely has to prove itself.

Louisiana became the perfect place to explore this experiment because it’s home.

After spending years living in other cities, I still find myself relishing the joy of being back. Loving Louisiana is one of the ways Louisianians connect with one another. We spend so much of our lives preserving traditions, celebrating our culture, making things beautiful, and finding reasons to gather. That’s something worth paying attention to.

But here’s the interesting part.

Louisiana is simply my first subject.

What excites me about this framework is that it could work with anything.

I could spend a year painting one marsh, one flower, one person, or one collection of memories. The challenge would remain the same: How does this subject change when I look at it through twelve different perspectives?

Because that’s what this project is really about.

Perspective.

We can all stand in the same place, witness the same event, and walk away with completely different experiences. We all communicate differently. We all process differently. We all notice different things.

Whether you see that through astrology, faith, psychology, the changing seasons, or simply life experience doesn’t really matter to me.

What matters is paying attention.

The greatest fear any artist carries isn’t making bad work.

It’s not being understood.

I know some people will think this project is silly. On the surface, it probably does sound lighthearted. But this isn’t a gimmick to me. I’m spending an enormous amount of time thinking through these ideas because they matter. This project asks me to look more closely at my home, at other people, and at myself. That’s not silly.

That’s my life’s work.

More than anything, I hope this year teaches me to trust myself.

To trust that the ideas in my head are there for a reason.

To trust that creativity doesn’t have to stay inside one box. Art doesn’t have to be paint on canvas. Sometimes it’s a painting. Sometimes it’s a dance krewe. Sometimes it’s gathering people around a table in a house where time seems to dissolve.

The medium changes.

The purpose doesn’t.

Ten years from now, I hope I look back on this project and remember that I trusted myself enough to begin.

I hope I’m known for creating things that make people happy.

Whether that’s a painting, a parade, or a place where people feel at home, I think they’re all expressions of the same idea.

This zodiac project is simply the newest way I’m learning to bring that idea into the world.