Artist Interview with Manuela De Simone

Tracy Eire
May 22
6 min read

Some artists paint what people see. Others paint what people don’t. Manuela belongs to that second group: visionaries who don’t just create art, but channel something older, quieter, and wholly resonant.

When I first came across her work, I didn’t see just imagery, but invitations.

Her paintings don’t demand anything from you, but they do leave their doors unlocked. They do open the windows a crack to let in the air of the natural world. That house is filled with the kind of sacred silence most of us have forgotten how to sit with. The quiet leaves space for spirit animals and their people to move in.

In this interview, Manuela speaks with rare clarity about how her creative ritual connects her to something deeper than inspiration. It’s not simply a matter of making a painting for her, there’s a whole aspect of the artist being reshaped by her work. What follows is a chat about transitional spaces, female energy in the natural world, and how art becomes both mirror and altar. And that is just cool.

If you’ve ever wondered what it feels like to be painted by your own work, or to follow a white deer into the forest of your brain… you’re gonna want to linger here awhile.

So, let’s begin this artist interview!

You’ve mentioned that art, for you, is a form of ritual. Is there a specific rhythm or practice that grounds you before you begin? Can you describe what that ritual feels like when you’re deep in the act of creation?

Yes, absolutely. Before I begin, I need silence or soft instrumental music: something that helps me tune into a deeper frequency. I often light a candle, maybe some incense, and take a moment to ground myself. It's not elaborate, but it's intentional. The act of creation itself becomes a kind of meditation, like slipping into a liminal space where time fades and intuition leads the way. When I’m fully immersed, it feels as if the painting is painting me back, revealing things I didn’t know I was ready to feel or understand.

"When I’m fully immersed, it feels as if the painting is painting me back...."

Your paintings often are like invitations into another realm—part earth, part mythology, and part spirit in nature. When you begin a new piece, what's the first whisper you usually hear from it? Early on do you usually zero-in on colours, emotions, symbols? Usually, it begins with a feeling. A certain kind of inner pull, like a breath I haven’t taken yet. Sometimes a specific animal or figure appears in my mind’s eye, and I start building around that. Colors come later, guided by the energy I want the piece to carry. Symbols often emerge intuitively, even unconsciously; it's only after the piece is complete that I realize the message they were trying to deliver.

"Colors come later, guided by the energy I want the piece to carry."

The world is often very noisy. How do you find your way back to where your symbols and stories live? Do you ever lose connection to it, or has it become a constant companion?

I do lose connection at times, especially when life feels chaotic or when I push myself too hard. But nature always brings me back: walking through a forest, listening to the wind, touching the earth. These are the doors. I’ve learned not to force inspiration; instead, I try to stay receptive and trust that when I return to stillness, the stories will return, too. It's become a quiet companion over the years—sometimes silent, sometimes loud—but always there.

"But nature always brings me back: walking through a forest, listening to the wind, touching the earth."

I get the sense that your art is almost like a sacred space for you, and that your situation deeply influences the art you make. Have you ever had a piece that resisted you, or one that didn’t want to be finished until something shifted inside you?

Yes, many times. There are pieces that stay unfinished for months because I sense they’re waiting for something in me to change. It can be frustrating, but I’ve learned to respect their timing. Luminescent Dreams is one of those pieces that took nearly a year to complete. I couldn’t force it; it had to unfold alongside a very personal shift in me.

Another deeply personal piece is Healing in the Hush - The Quiet Strength of Together, which I also completed after almost a year. I created it after the loss of my mother. It was inspired by my sister and her Shiba Inu—my mother’s dog—who became her silent companion in grief.

They moved through that time together with such quiet grace, and the painting became a space to hold their shared sorrow and gentle healing. It was a way for me to process what words couldn’t carry. That piece taught me how grief can be tender and beautiful, and how art can be a vessel for that transformation.

If someone stood in front of one of your most emotionally charged pieces, one of the kind that sprang from grief or deep personal transformation, what would you hope they felt or recognized in themselves?

I’d hope they feel seen. That some quiet part of them recognizes its own journey in the brushstrokes. I don’t create to tell people what to feel, but to offer a mirror where they might find their own meaning, their own healing. I hope they leave with a sense of belonging, or even just a breath they didn’t know they needed.

How do you see female energy manifest in the natural world and where does that energy surface again in your artwork?

I see it in cycles, in growth and decay, in the quiet strength of a tree that bends but doesn’t break. Female energy in nature is fierce and tender, wild and nurturing. In my work, it often shows up through the figures I paint—guardians, seekers, healers—and through the animals and symbols that echo ancient wisdom. It’s not about gender, but about essence: intuition, connection, and transformation.

"Female energy in nature is fierce and tender, wild and nurturing."

Many of your works feature spirit animals and sacred symbols. Do these symbols arrive unannounced, like unexpected guests, or are they ones you call up intentionally? Have any surprised you lately?

A bit of both.

Sometimes an animal shows up so clearly in my mind that I know I have to follow it. Other times, it appears mid-process, and I only understand its meaning later. For example, Winter Dreams and Spirit of the Wild were both born from actual dreams: images and symbols that came through so vividly, I knew I had to bring them to life.

Recently, I intentionally called a white deer into two of my pieces. I felt a deep need for clarity and guidance, and the deer came as a symbol of purity and quiet strength. Later, I realized how perfectly it mirrored the inner journey I was on. These moments always feel like gentle whispers from the universe, guiding me toward something deeper.

Finally, if you could place your artwork like a seed in someone’s life, and trust it would grow, what kind of transformation or connection would you hope it nurtures in them?

I would hope it nurtures a quiet remembrance—of their inner magic, of their connection to nature, to spirit, to the stories that live inside them. I see my paintings as small altars, seeds of presence. If one of them could take root in someone's life, I’d wish for it to become a companion in their own unfolding. Not a voice that gives answers, but a gentle mirror that invites them to ask the deeper questions—the ones that stir beneath the surface. I’d hope it reminds them that even in the shadows, there is wonder. That the unknown is not empty, but alive with possibility. If it can offer even a brief moment of stillness, of reconnection, then I feel it has done its work.