Arielle Shultz
- Anna Lilli Garai
- May 28
- 3 min read
Arielle Shultz’s paintings come together slowly—through layering, scraping, and repeating simple gestures. She works with materials she knows well, like ballpoint pen, wax, and pigments from plants she grows herself. Her surfaces feel worn and personal, like spaces that have been lived in. Shapes like ovals appear often—not as decoration, but as quiet forms that carry meaning. Arielle’s process is steady and focused. She works with what’s close at hand, letting each material guide the pace. There’s a sense of care in how the images build up, wear down, and settle into place.
Q: What first drew you to the idea of texture as a way to explore time?
A: I began thinking about textures as compressed time because of my domestic environment. This past year, I’ve lived in an old New England house, built in 1885, which will be torn down next year. I’ve noticed the textures of the home are made from layers of history—from the 1960s floral wallpaper in the kitchen, to the thick white lacquer paint covering the window trims, where chips reveal the dark hardwood beneath, and the few hidden spaces that have remained untouched despite upgrades and renovations over its 140-year life. The textures of my home take me back in time. It’s not always linear, but neither is my studio practice. The addition and subtraction of materials fluctuates, and sometimes the most considered and touched aspects end up obscured beneath a messy layer of paint.
Q: You use simple tools like wax and ballpoint pen. What do you like about working with such everyday materials?
A: Mostly it’s a matter of familiarity. I grew up using ballpoint pens, and my arm is comfortable with their specific qualities—how much pressure to use, the angle, the shape—to get the desired effect. Wax is a newer addition to my practice, but its materiality also feels familiar.
What I enjoy most about wax is its adaptability—being able to scrape back, remove, and build up ridges and grooves. The everyday aspect of these materials interests me, especially how their histories point to our collective familiarity with them. It gives me the opportunity to use something ordinary in a unique way.
Q: Ovals show up a lot in your work. What’s your relationship to that shape?
A: Ovals have been part of my drawing practice since I started using colored pencils. I taught myself a technique of gradual layering with circular marks to build images. My interest in ovals as subject matter began after reading Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay "Circles." My current relationship to the shape is that I see the oval as a container, a vessel, and a boundary. There’s a sense of protection—what’s within is safe, and what’s outside is unknown. The ovals have become more three-dimensional through the "omphalos" shape in my paintings, acting as portals between the above and below of a landscape. Ultimately, the oval is a tool I return to—a form I can repeat while embedding other ideas inside it.
Q: How does your interest in old objects and forgotten functions shape what you make now?
A: Many of my references come from old objects. The older they are, the less their function tends to be known—some lose meaning entirely. My curiosity connects me with their past makers. Making is fundamentally human, as is our obsession with function—every object must serve a purpose. In my current work, I try to let go of assigning specific functions to my paintings or constructed objects. I’ve found that my most compelling work often walks a line between the recognizable and the strange—existing comfortably in a place of weirdness.
Q: You co-founded a pigment garden. Has growing your own materials changed how you think about painting?
A: It’s opened so many doors by expanding how I think about art-making. It’s helped me scale back and reduce the number of variables in my process. The simpler the tools and methods, the more expansive the possibilities. Growing my materials means investing time long before the art even begins—focusing on synthesis. It slows down the process, forces appreciation, and makes me consider every aspect of making. It also aligns with how I want to live and how I want my studio practice to reflect that.
Q: What connects painting and breadmaking for you?
A: Both require commitment to a specific process—one that’s repeated over and over, always yielding slightly different results. Breadmaking demands attention to detail: exact measurements, timing, temperature, kneading, and waiting. Even while fermenting or baking, it asks for your full presence. Like painting, it’s a process grounded in patience, care, investment, and repetition—with the hope that you come closer each time.
