For painter Jereme Brian Mendez, mornings move at their own pace: ice water, meditation, and a walk through the quiet streets of the Berkeley Hills, where deer roam past and the fog hangs low. His studio hours don’t begin until the light shifts in the afternoon, but those early rituals—quiet, steady, tactile—form the architecture of his day.
For painter Jereme Brian Mendez, mornings move at their own pace: ice water, meditation, and a walk through the quiet streets of the Berkeley Hills, where deer roam past and the fog hangs low. His studio hours don’t begin until the light shifts in the afternoon, but those early rituals—quiet, steady, tactile—form the architecture of his day.
We visited Jereme at home for a conversation on how that rhythm took shape; how an unexpected health diagnosis changed the way he sees; and how a new color surfacing in his work has begun to mark a shift.
I drink ice water, which I find if I do first thing it kind of helps to wake up my brain. After that, most mornings I like to meditate and then take a walk around my neighborhood in the Berkeley Hills. There are deer that roam freely, and the homes around us were built in the ’60s and ’70s…it’s quiet, beautiful, and grounding.
I’ll make coffee in a French press with some almond milk. I try to not drink a lot of caffeine because it tends to make me feel anxious, but I like a pick-me-up.
It’s a chunky, wabi-sabi ceramic mug I found at a flea market in Oakland, probably made in the ’70s. My wife always calls it “Jereme’s mug”… it’s the one I always reach for.
If the sun’s out, I’ll step out onto the balcony. But most mornings in the Bay, the fog is thick—you can cut through it with a knife. So my wife and I usually settle into our living room, which is filled with all the things we love: vintage furniture we’ve collected, an old Turkish rug, my hi-fi setup. We were intentional about making it feel period correct to the house: really lived-in, layered, reflective of our sensibilities. From the couch, we can see all the way across Oakland, San Francisco, El Cerrito, the Golden Gate Bridge. We sit there with our mugs before the morning really begins. It’s one of my favorite parts of the day.
I can’t just wake up and immediately start working. My creative rhythm doesn’t kick in until the afternoon, around 2 or 3pm, when the light is best in my studio. That window lasts until early evening, especially in spring and summer. In a lot of ways my routine in the morning—coffee, walks, sitting with my thoughts—is all building toward that moment of stepping into the studio. That time to center myself is essential.
I started painting after a major health scare. A few years ago, I was told I was going blind in both eyes due to an infection that had damaged my retinas. I had two options: surgery or monthly injections, and neither guaranteed I’d get my sight back. I chose the treatments, which involved getting injections in both eyes every month for almost two years. Each time, I’d temporarily lose clarity: I was able to see color, but not form. It was disorienting. For the first 24 hours after each injection, my vision would blur almost completely before slowly returning to something closer to normal.
That first year was especially difficult. I was depressed, unsure if I’d ever see clearly again. Eventually, I started reading more, listening to podcasts, and doing anything I could to shift my mindset. I realized I needed to find a way to turn the experience into something generative. That’s when I began painting. I started with small, abstract florals: images that reflected how I was seeing the world at the time. Flowers were the first thing that brought me a sense of joy. Even in abstraction, they had presence.
Over time, the florals evolved into larger pieces and more expansive landscapes. Still abstract, but rooted in the way light and color registered in my field of vision during those treatments.
My work is about how color feels and how it can shift a mood or memory. It’s interesting… I didn’t share the full story about my health until recently. It wasn’t embarrassment exactly, just something I needed to hold close. But once I spoke it out loud, something opened. Since then, this specific pink has been showing up in my work. It feels like a light. A kind of happiness.
During a recent trip to Mexico City, I kept seeing that same pink again, like the one used on the terrace of the Barragán house. It’s vibrant but moody. My palette usually leans toward earthier tones, olives, browns, rusts..but this pink kept calling to me. Leaning into it has felt like stepping into something new. I haven’t branched out into sculpture or other mediums yet, but this shift in color feels like its own evolution. I’m still most comfortable with brush to canvas, but this pink has become a way of pushing myself, and I’m really enjoying where it’s taking me.
I’ve been listening to a lot of Khruangbin which for whatever reason has felt really good right now. I also have a playlist I’ve been listening to that I made specifically for our house called “Evening in the Berkeley Hills,” which has everything on it from Sade to Mac DeMarco to Marvin Gaye.
For Mariah Nielson, the familiar is never static. Mornings begin inside the hand-built Inverness, CA home her father, sculptor JB Blunk, shaped from salvaged redwood in the 1950s. It’s where Mariah now lives, and is raising her own son amid the textures, tools, and stories of her childhood—alongside traded works from friends, artist-made artifacts, and her own growing contributions.
Kassandra Thatcher is an LA-based artist specializing in ceramic lighting and sculpture. We recently paid a visit to her Arlington Heights studio to see her in action, and learn more about her story, life and work.
Before she ever touched clay, Zoe Dering worked as a pastry chef: learning to follow her hands, sense heat, and trust intuition. After nearly a decade in professional kitchens, she began taking pottery classes as a way to engage with the world differently...and something clicked. What started as a creative experiment soon became its own kind of calling, and today—from her studio in Sebastopol, CA—Zoe creates ceramic work that blends form and feeling, rooted in curiosity, balance, and personal expression.