Inside the Studio: Marcy Stone
- Art Dealer Street
- Jul 8
- 7 min read
Updated: Jul 9
In the realm of contemporary abstract art, few voices resonate as deeply and soulfully as that of Marcy Stone. Her work doesn’t just invite the viewer in—it holds space for healing, presence, and profound emotion. Based in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, Marcy came to painting not through traditional art school channels, but through an intimate, life-altering journey of grief, resilience, and transformation. Following the tragic loss of her daughter, Marcy found herself drawn to art not only as a form of creative expression, but as a spiritual tool—one that allowed her to process, survive, and eventually, to thrive again.
Her vibrant compositions, infused with movement, texture, and light, mirror the complexities of human emotion. Whether working in abstraction or figurative symbolism, each canvas becomes a meditation—on memory, motherhood, community, and connection to something beyond ourselves. With a practice rooted in intuition, music, and emotional honesty, Marcy’s studio becomes more than a workspace; it becomes a sanctuary, a sacred ground for transformation.
From her fluid acrylic paintings to the commemorative works she creates for families navigating loss, Marcy’s art pulses with energy and empathy. She’s not just making art—she’s helping people feel seen, understood, and uplifted. Her workshops, rooted in joy and play, extend this philosophy, reminding us that creativity is a birthright and a balm.
In this intimate interview, Marcy opens up about her process, her inspirations, and the healing force behind her work.
Read on to learn more in an exclusive interview with Marcy Stone :
1. Your daughter’s passing profoundly shaped your creative path. How did that experience ignite the powerful emotional energy that we now see in your vibrant, "soulfulll" work?
That’s a deeply moving question, and it speaks to the heart of transformation through grief. Losing my daughter was the most devastating moment of my life. It broke me open in a way that nothing else ever could. But in that darkness, I found a raw, untamed emotional energy that needed somewhere to go. Art became that place. It wasn’t just about painting anymore—it became a lifeline, a language for emotions too complex for words.
My colors became more vivid, my brushstrokes more urgent, and my themes more spiritual. That pain gave birth to a deeper purpose. What people call “soulfull” in my work now—that’s Syd. Her spirit is in every layer, every line. Creating became a way to stay connected to her, to heal, and to turn that grief into something that could speak to others’ hearts too.
2. You describe painting as a way to "find the middle path again" and reconnect with your soul. Can you tell us how that healing process unfolds in your studio and on the canvas?
For me, my studio is like a sanctuary — a quiet space where all the noise of grief, confusion, and life’s chaos can settle. When I pick up the brush, I’m not trying to escape pain, but to meet it. Painting is how I listen to my soul and let it speak back. It’s a conversation between loss and love, between the ache of absence and the beauty that still remains.
The healing doesn’t happen all at once. Sometimes it’s in the layering — laying something down, covering it up, letting parts peek through. Other times, it’s in the colors I choose; deep, rich tones that carry weight, or sudden bursts of light that feel like hope. Each painting is a step toward balance, a way to re-center and remember who I am beneath the grief.
That’s what I mean by finding the middle path — not being consumed by sorrow but not denying it either. Just holding both, gently, and letting them move through me onto the canvas.
3. You’ve mentioned fluid acrylic's structured yet freeing nature echoing your background. How does balancing process and intuition shape your creative workflow?
Yes, fluid acrylics are the perfect metaphor for how I live and create — they offer both structure and freedom, just like my own journey. My background taught me discipline, resilience, and the value of planning. But grief, and the emotional awakening that followed, taught me to let go and trust something deeper — intuition, spirit, flow.
In the studio, that balance plays out in every piece. I might start with a loose plan — a palette, a sense of movement — but once the paint hits the canvas, I let it lead. Fluid acrylics have a life of their own: they move, merge, resist control. So, I respond in real time, adjusting, listening, even surrendering.
There’s a rhythm to it — a dance between intention and spontaneity. That’s where the magic lives for me. It’s not just about what I create, but how I allow the process to unfold — grounded in skill but guided by feeling.
4. You frequently speak of painting to music and emotional states. How do melodies influence your choice of colors, brush strokes, and overall mood in a piece?
Music is the emotional current that carries me into the work. I don’t just listen to it; I paint with it. Certain songs unlock specific emotional states, and those feelings directly influence my choices on the canvas.
If I’m listening to something slow and soulfull, the colors might lean warm and deep — earthy reds, smoky blues, gentle golds. My brushstrokes become slower, more deliberate, almost like a visual sigh. But if it’s something more rhythmic or raw, the colors might be bolder, the lines more urgent, the movement more intense and expressive.
Each melody becomes a kind of emotional map — guiding my energy, shaping the texture, tempo, and tone of the piece. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m feeling until the music pulls it out and the painting responds. It’s a full-body experience, a fusion of sound, memory, and intuition.
5. Your body of work spans from the Divine Feminine archetypes to vibrant abstracts. How do you decide when a concept demands figuration versus pure abstraction?
For me, it starts with the feeling behind the idea — the energy of it. Some concepts, like the Divine Feminine, carry a presence that asks to be seen, honored, embodied. Those works often need figuration because they want a face, a gesture, a sacred form that grounds the spiritual in the physical. It’s about giving shape to something timeless and archetypal, something that speaks directly to our human experience.
On the other hand, when the emotion is more internal — like grief, joy, transformation — abstraction allows me to express what words or literal forms can’t. Color, texture, movement… these become my language for the intangible. It’s more about feeling than seeing.
So, the decision isn’t intellectual — it’s intuitive. I listen to what the concept wants. Some ask to be witnessed; others just want to be felt. My job is to stay open enough to hear the difference.
6. Beyond painting, you create commemorative pieces for families. How does this deeply personal work influence your studio practice and your connection with clients?
Creating commemorative pieces is one of the most sacred parts of my practice. When a family trusts me with their story — especially in the context of loss — it’s not just a commission; it’s a collaboration of the heart. I listen deeply to their memories, their love, their grief. And then I translate that into color, gesture, and texture — something that holds their person’s spirit in a way words can’t.
That intimacy changes me. Every time. It reminds me why I paint — not just to express myself, but to serve as a mirror, a vessel, a bridge between the seen and unseen. These experiences bring a profound sense of purpose into the studio. They keep me grounded in empathy and connection, which spills over into everything I create.
Working so closely with others in their most vulnerable moments has also deepened my sensitivity — both to emotion and to energy. I approach the canvas more gently now, with more reverence, because I’ve seen how powerful art can be when it’s made from love.
7. You host fluid-art and collage workshops in Lancaster—how does teaching and community engagement affect your own art-making, and what do you gain from being a guide?
Teaching and creating in community has been one of the most enriching parts of my journey. In the workshops, I’m not just sharing techniques — I’m holding space for people to express, to play, to heal. There’s something magical about watching someone tap into their creativity for the first time or let go of perfection and just feel. That openness, that vulnerability — it feeds my own practice in unexpected ways.
When I guide others, I’m constantly reminded of why I started painting in the first place: not for the outcome, but for the process. It humbles me. It re-centers me. Being part of that creative energy — laughter, storytelling, even tears — brings fresh life into my studio. I carry their courage and joy with me when I go back to the canvas.
Community keeps me connected. It turns art from a solitary act into a shared experience. And in guiding others, I grow too — as an artist, as a listener, and as a human.
8. As someone who has rebuilt life through art—from grief, coaching, writing—what advice would you offer to budding artists searching for their own soulfull voice?
I would tell them this: your soulfull voice isn’t something you have to find — it’s already inside you. It’s in your lived experiences, your wounds, your joy, your curiosity. The real work is learning to trust it. To listen to that quiet pull, especially when it leads you away from what’s trendy or expected.
Grief, coaching, writing — all of that taught me that your voice grows stronger the more you allow yourself to be real on the page or the canvas. Let your art be honest. Let it be messy. Let it ask questions instead of always trying to provide answers.
And don’t rush it. Soulfull art doesn’t come from performing — it comes from being. Give yourself permission to slow down, to feel deeply, to make without needing every piece to be perfect. The more you live fully and stay connected to what matters most to you, the more your voice will rise — clear, strong, and unmistakably yours.
Marcy Stone’s work reminds us that beauty can be born from heartbreak, and that creativity can be both a mirror and a balm. Her story, steeped in loss yet lit by resilience, invites us to explore our own inner landscapes with tenderness and courage. Whether through vibrant abstracts or quiet moments of community, Marcy’s art calls us to feel deeply, to listen inwardly, and to believe in the healing power of creation. In a world that so often asks us to rush and perform, her practice is a much-needed reminder to slow down, feel fully, and make with meaning.
You can learn more about Marcy Stone and her work via these links: Website: https://marcystone.art/ Instagram: @marcy_stone.art Cohart: @Marcy Stone
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