Evangeline Stott is a visual artist and embodied storyteller with desert roots and a traveler’s heart. She uses her art to explore the connective tissue in our relationships to self, our loved ones, and our tender planet. Much of her work centers around grief and our intangible connection to the spiritual realm, laid down in visceral color or felt through movement work. Evangeline’s work has been shown at The Grind and StateraArts Gallery in Cedar City UT, River Rock Cafe in St. George UT, West Elm in Las Vegas NV, Buunni Cafe in New York NY, and The New England Carousel Museum. She has been an artist in residence with Statera Arts, Sou’Wester Lodge, and the New England Carousel Museum.

Want to be part of the narrative? Find me on Instagram (@evangelinestott), TikTok (@evangelinestottart) or contact me here to get chatting! My work springboards off of inspiration from others, and we can never have too much spring, can we?! I'd love to connect with you.

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“She grieved too (Lassie’s picnic)”
“She grieved too (Lassie’s picnic)”

I had a realization recently, that as my mother was dying, she was grieving too. I started to wonder how I would feel if I knew I was leaving a husband, two children, and a community of people who leaned on me to all live on without me. What anguish might I feel thinking about the years I wouldn’t get to savor with them? What lessons would I fear I didn’t have the time to impart? Judy Garland and a young Liza Minnelli appear in this piece, and my connection to my mom feels a lot like their stances. An everlasting yearning that I believe we both feel. Searching for each other in opposite directions.

“With each flare”
“With each flare”

A spear through the knee

Won’t be a mother

She can’t run for them

“She is blossoming still”
“She is blossoming still”

I can never tell if I feel as if my mother’s blossoming was cut short, or advanced prematurely. Death and life aren’t seamless opposites and we confuse them consistently. Her spirit lives on and continues to expand— either through me or beside me. This is something I know for certain. I rush the clock, thinking that there is only this time, only this place. It’s a futile way to move, but is my instinct, the thing I am trying to unlearn.

 
 

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Do you feel like your spirit and your soul are two different things? Are these words interchangeable for you? If not, how do you differentiate them? And do you feel more in tune with one over the other?⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ #writing #love #life #journ
“Remember you are water. Of course you leave salt trails. Of course you are crying. Flow. P.S. If there happens to be a multitude of griefs upon you, individual and collective, or fast and slow, or small and large, add equal parts of these cons
“Queeries” // The colors in this piece are the same ones that decorated my childhood bedroom. Something about that fact makes me ridiculously happy. Here’s to all the ways we radically change as we age, and to all the ways we stay t
Some close ups of “Queeries”. About: Everything that grows Grows between the lines I may always feel this way A little odd Caught between places Transient Gradient Perhaps this is where I learn to dance Original (30 x 40) SOLD
I’m wildly sentimental. Inconveniently attached. Sappy for days. I have an excellent memory and regularly say things like, “Aww, remember 8 years ago when we ____”, followed by a “no....?” from friends. I used to get emb
When you lose your mom young, it’s pretty rare to find someone your age who can directly relate to your hurt, your sense of home, your life’s trajectory, your dreams. I never expected @terilyn___ to come into my life the way she did, and
A few shots of “All the passion all at once”. About: All the passion at once More fire than my feeble body can contain These pretty screams keep getting celebrated I don’t know how to properly feel tired or hungry There is
“All the passion all at once” // This piece was the first piece in this series that I finished! It was also the one that folks seemed to spend the most time with during the gallery show, which touched me. It felt like a bookend. What does
I never used to like butterflies when I was a kid. The bugs themselves I enjoyed, but whenever I saw them printed on anything or used as decoration I recoiled. I can’t explain why! Maybe I thought they were cheesy? You know that trope about hor