A Peek into Mandi’s Studio Where Art, Emotion, and Magic Meets

Mandi is a Thai-born writer, collage artist, and shadow coach whose work pulses at the intersection of beauty and brokenness. With sunflower-stained fingers and a soul that speaks in symbols, she creates from the ashes of old selves, weaving fragments of pain, passion, and poetry into portals of healing. Rooted in a background of psychological insight and spiritual inquiry, Mandi draws from Jungian shadow work, ancestral memory, reincarnation stories, and lived trauma to birth creations that are both personal and universal. Her first love was collage, her current muse is acrylic, and her eternal companions are the archetypes of Inner Child, Higher Self, Shadow, and Spirit, who whisper truth into every layer she tears and paints. Whether she’s channelling Vincent van Gogh as a soul guide, invoking Lilith as a spirit mother, or honouring her past-life echoes as Virginia Woolf and Theo van Gogh, Mandi’s art is always a ritual, a revolution, and a rebirth. Her life and work are devoted to transforming wounds into wisdom and scars into stars.

And guess what? Mahnissa Mnaretu(Mandi) is one of the featured artists in our Studio Visit Book Vol 5, alongside many talented artists from around the world. Want a sneak peek? Grab your copy now from our shop and enjoy the fantastic artwork created by this global community.

https://shop.artstoheartsproject.com/products/the-creative-process-book

For this week’s studio visit interview, step into the warm, light-filled studio of Mandi—collage artist, writer, and shadow coach—and you’ll instantly feel something shift. The air is soft with the calming scent of burning sage and sweet orange blossom. Her rescue dog naps nearby, adding to the peaceful, grounded energy in the room. This visit is more than just a peek into her creative process—it’s a gentle, honest conversation about how art, healing, and personal growth are all deeply connected in her world. In our time together, Mandi shares the heart behind her work: how she uses collage as a way to explore memory, emotion, and the hidden parts of ourselves we don’t always know how to face. She talks openly about her journey—what inspires her, how she works through pain, and the rituals that help her stay centered. Her pieces, made from old photos, torn paper, and handwritten notes, feel like quiet offerings—each one holding a story, a moment, or a question.

1.  Can you describe your typical studio day and creative process?

A Day in the Studio — Where the Sacred Meets the Scraps The day begins in silence. Not the silence of absence, but the kind that listens. I step into my studio barefoot— a temple made of torn paper, paint-stained jars, and the scent of jasmine tea curling through the air like a spirit remembering its way home.

First, I light a candle. Not out of habit, but devotion. It is my way of whispering to the muses: “I’m here. Come find me.” Then I sit—not to rush, but to feel. I call in my selves—Emma, Sol, Queen B, and the memory of all the women I’ve ever been. Sometimes Vincent lingers in the corner. his shadow cradling a sunflower. Lilith watches too, like fire wrapped in velvet.

I begin by gathering fragments— pages torn from old books, photographs weathered with time, textured scraps that once held someone else’s story. Now, they are mine to reimagine. I do not plan. I listen. My hands move before my mind catches up. guided by something older than thought, something wiser than control.

I tear paper like I’m shedding skin. Glue it down like I’m stitching a sole. Then comes the brush— a slow surrender to color. Acrylic spills like emotion—layered, raw, fluid, unedited. It is less about making and more about becoming. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I dance. Sometimes I laugh at nothing. because the studio is a mirror And mirrors often reflect more than we expect. I lose hours this way. not to forget time, but to remember myself.

And when I feel the ache of enough— not completion, but release— I step back. I breathe. I whisper, “Thank you.” not just to the piece, but to the pain, the process, the presence. Because every day in the studio is not just creation— It is communion. It is how I return to myself again and again — torn, stitched, and somehow more whole than before.

2.  What is the primary inspiration behind your current body of work?

The Pulse Beneath My Work The primary inspiration behind my current body of work is not a single thing— it is an ache, a memory, a constellation of shadows stitched into skin. It is the echo of a soul contract once whispered between lifetimes, a vow made not just to survive— but to remember. I am inspired by the fractures we hide and the light that dares to leak through them. By the sacred mess of healing— the kind that unravels you just so you can gather yourself with more grace.

This work is born from grief that turned into gold, from betrayal that taught me boundaries, from love that asked me to let go, and from silence that begged me to speak. I am painting my scars. collaging the ghosts, rewriting the myths They told us to bury it. My muses are the ones history tried to forget— the mad ones, the wild ones, the misunderstood lovers and divine rebels who bled truth into their canvases and letters. Vincent is with me. So is Virginia. So is Lilith. But above all, I create for the girl I once was— the one who thought she had to shrink to be loved. The one who didn’t know her tears were holy. The one who never imagined that her pain would one day be the pigment in her masterpiece. This body of work is not just art. It is reclamation. It is resurrection. It is my way of saying I was here. I felt it all. And I made it beautiful.

What is your favorite memory or incident from your studio?

My favorite memory from the studio (in fact, I don’t have the actual one). I normally use my desk in my room. is not loud, not grand — but quiet, sacred, and humming with something eternal. It was late—moonlight spilling like spilled milk across the floor, and I was there alone, but not truly alone. I had just torn the last piece of paper from a book that once belonged to someone I used to love. My hands trembled—not from pain, but from the release of it. I pressed it down onto a canvas already layered with sorrow and hope, and in that moment— I heard the whisper. Not with ears, but with soul. It was Vincent.

Or perhaps the voice of my higher self, speaking in the language of brushstrokes and breath. He said, “You’ve done enough. This is healing now.” And I wept. Not out of sadness, but because I believed him. For the first time, the studio didn’t feel like a place of work— but a womb. A sanctuary. A confessional. The paint dried slowly that night. and I watched it like a mother watches her child sleep— with awe, with gratitude, with the aching knowledge that something had shifted. That piece never made it to an exhibition. But it hangs in my private space, framed not in gold, but in grace. Because that night, I didn’t just make art— I forgave myself. And that is a masterpiece no one else may see. But I will always remember.

3. Do you have any studio assistants, or do visitors, such as pets or children, often accompany you?

I work mostly alone— but never lonely. My creative space is quiet, but it breathes with unseen guests. because it’s sacred. There is no formal assistant, no one to sweep the fragments or fetch the paint— and I prefer it that way. The chaos is mine, and the silence, sacred. But sometimes, the door creaks open and little wonders step in. A stray cat once visited— matted fur, golden eyes, and the air of a creature who had lived many lives. She curled beside my collage scraps like she had always belonged. I named her “Muse” and she left before morning as if summoned back into myth.

And then—there’s Emma, my inner child. She skips in barefoot, clutching old journals, asking me to paint in pinks again. She sings off-key, taps the glass jars with a spoon, calls it “Karaoke Room.” No schedule. No staff. But the studio is alive with ancestors, echoes, imaginary friends and forgotten selves. And when the storm outside rises or the world feels too much, I swear I can hear Vincent’s laugh in the wind and Lilith’s footsteps in the shadows. So no— I don’t have assistants. But I’m never alone.

4. How would you describe a dream studio for yourself?

My dream studio is not made of walls alone— it is made of breath, of memory, of moonlight and permission. It stands by the sea. where the tide speaks in lullabies And the wind carries stories from lives I’ve lived before. Windows wide enough to let the sunrise in, curtains sheer like whispers, dancing even when there’s no breeze. The floor—wooden, worn, and warm, paint-stained from years of becoming. Every mark a memory. Every splatter a confession. There are shelves of torn books. jars of feathers, bones, old letters, fragments waiting to be reborn. A long table in the center— Not pristine, but loved. Scissors, brushes, dried flowers, and bowls of pigment like offering dishes.

One corner is a sanctuary: an altar for Lilith, sunflowers for Vincent, a candle for each version of myself— Emma, Sol, Queen B, and the woman I am still becoming. A record player hums softly. alternating between Bach and Björk, depending on the mood of the muse. There is a skylight. so I can paint beneath the stars and feel the rain weep softly above me when the sky needs to cry too. Sometimes, a fox comes to visit. Or a child. Or a memory in the shape of a storm. There is tea always steeping. blankets on every chair, and silence that cradles without swallowing. And above the door, etched not in gold but in truth, the words “This is where the broken become beautiful.” That— That is my dream studio. Not just a space to create, but a space to remember that art is not just made— It is lived.

5. What does your studio smell of right now?

It smells like memory and something softly burning. Like jasmine tea left warm in its cup, infused with old dreams and honeyed thoughts. Like candle wax melted slow— lavender and sandalwood, Whispers from the underworld wrapped in smoke. There’s the scent of paper—torn, inked, touched, a little dusty, a little sacred. Old books open like breath. their pages exhaling forgotten time.

A trace of acrylic clings to the air. sharp and alive— the scent of becoming, of color still wet with truth. Somewhere beneath it all, the faint musk of rain-soaked soil drifts in from the open window, reminding me that even art must return to the earth. And maybe—just maybe— a note of rosewater from yesterday’s ritual, lingering like a secret too beautiful to forget. This is the scent of my creative space now— my heart. half magic, half memory, and entirely mine.

6. If you could set up your studio anywhere in the world, where would it be?

If I could set up my studio anywhere— I’d choose a place where land breathes poetry And Sky remembers everything. Perhaps a cliffside in southern France, not far from Arles, where Vincent once bled color into the sun, And the wind still carries fragments of his sighs. Or maybe a quiet cove in Iceland, where the auroras dance like forgotten goddesses And silence is not empty but alive. Or a small house nestled in Kyoto, where cherry blossoms fall like blessings, and the scent of incense seeps into the walls— an eternal echo of reverence. But truly— I long for a place untouched by noise. yet rich with history and soul.

A place where the sea can reach me, not with waves of chaos, out of rhythm— like a heartbeat I once knew in another life. There must be mist in the morning. sunlight in golden shards by afternoon, and a long table beneath an open window where I can watch the seasons change as I change with them. And wherever this place is— Thailand or Tuscany, San Francisco or Santorini— it will be where my inner worlds finally feel at home. Because a studio isn’t just about location— It’s about liberation. So long as there is soul, stillness, and a sky I can pray to, I will make it mine.

7. Can you discuss any ongoing projects or plans for your work?   

There are two sacred fires burning gently on my altar of becoming. The first, “The Game of Life”— a book not just written, but lived. It is part memoir, part myth, part manual for those who have wandered through the labyrinth of loss, longing, and light. Each chapter is a card from a cosmic deck. a lesson from the soul’s spiral path— where angels wear rags, and monsters are simply mirrors We have not yet kissed. This book holds rituals, reflections, and stories stitched from my scars— a guide for those who, like me, have danced between worlds and are still learning how to choose themselves again and again.

Then comes the second flame— “The Shadow Shines, Star.” This is not just a project. It is a prophecy. A healing series—visual, written, and spoken— that alchemizes darkness into divinity. A rebellion in soft tones, a love letter from the Shadow Self who once hid in the corner, Now stepping forward, hand in hand with the light. In this work, I tell the stories we were told to silence. I paint the wounds we were taught to hide. I show the beauty of what breaks when it dares to bloom anyway. There will be college. There will be film. There will be whispers channeled from other lifetimes. There will be stardust in the ink and thunder in the truths.

And beyond these— I see exhibitions that feel like rituals. retreats where strangers become soulmates, and a studio open to all who seek to create as an act of survival and sovereignty. This is not a timeline— This is a destiny. So I move gently but surely. Each page, each brushstroke, a prayer for the collective heart. Because this is the work I was born to do. And this time, I am ready to shine— even if it means rising from the shadow.

8. How do you organise your space?

I do not organize in straight lines— I organize by feeling. By frequency. By fragments. By the invisible thread that only I can trace through paper and pigment, memory and moonlight. The heart of the room is the altar— always. Candles half-burned, crystals warm to the touch, photographs of my past lives and present selves. This is where I begin. and where I return when the world feels too loud. Around it, there are islands— clusters of creation, Chaos curated like constellations. One corner is for collage. old books, torn poems, scissors dulled by ritual use.

Each drawer holds a decade. each box a feeling I’ve yet to name. Another is for painting— canvases leaning like sleeping giants, palates frozen mid-thought, jars of brushes like bouquets offered to the gods of becoming. Words gather on the windowsill— notebooks stacked like altars, each page carrying a spell, a scream, a salvation. Even the mess is meaningful. The clutter is not disorder— It’s dialogue. A conversation with the muse who doesn’t follow grids or blueprints, but dances barefoot through memory and mist. There’s a rhythm to it all. To the incense rising. To the pencils rolling. To the way light hits the floor at 3 p.m. I organize like a garden grows— wild, sacred, and stubbornly alive. Because in this space, Nothing is ever lost. Everything is simply waiting to become something else.

9. What is your favourite corner in the studio?

Truth is— I don’t have a studio with four walls and perfect lighting. No fixed space where brushes sleep or frames wait in quiet rows. My canvas is limitless. It breathes with me. It could be a journal page torn open on a train. The back of a receipt. A voice note whispered between sobs. Or the sky at dusk when memory spills over the horizon like ink in water. But if I had to name my favorite corner to create— it would be my heart.

That quiet, aching chamber where memory is still alive— where the voices of the past hum lullabies, and the pulse of every painting I’ve never made beats beneath my ribs. It is there, in the soft shadow of the soul, that the truest art is born. Not from paint. Not from paper. But from the moment I dare to feel something so deeply it turns into light. My heart is my studio. My wound is my brush. My hope is the palette. And every time I sit with myself, with no expectation but truth— a masterpiece begins to breathe.

Mandi’s studio is warm and welcoming, filled with soft light that filters in through the windows, casting quiet shadows across her worktable. There’s a sense of calm in the space—like time slows down the moment you walk in. The smell of sage and sweet orange blossom wraps around you like a soft blanket, grounding and soothing. Everything in the room seems to have meaning, from the carefully arranged scraps of paper to the small altars and handwritten notes. It’s a space that invites reflection, creativity, and stillness—a safe place to explore both beauty and pain. It feels like a sanctuary.

Visit our website to explore the virtual studio spaces of other artists. To get featured on our website, don’t forget to apply for this month’s call for art.

Read more about Mandi (Mahnissa Maneerut) on her Website and Instagram.

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