Life & Work with Gabi Brown of Primm Springs

Today we’d like to introduce you to Gabi Brown.

Alright, so thank you so much for sharing your story and insight with our readers. To kick things off, can you tell us a bit about how you got started?
My creative journey began in music. I was classically trained as both a pianist and cellist, and spent much of my young adult life studying piano performance. Music, for me, was more than an art form—it was a structure, a discipline, a way of expressing emotion and beauty when words fell short. I loved the rigor of it, the shaping of something transcendent through hours of quiet practice. But over time, the intensity of that world–the constant evaluations, endless competitions, the technical acumen–began to feel too narrow, too consuming. I was drawn to a different kind of life—one that allowed space for relationships, teaching, and eventually, motherhood.

After some years teaching and public school administration, I stepped away from that arena altogether when my first child was born. That was a pivotal shift. The decision to stay home full-time wasn’t just about caregiving—it was an intentional turning toward a slower, more rooted rhythm. I began to see creativity not just as a professional pursuit, but as something woven into the fabric of everyday life—something to offer and receive in the quiet spaces of home.

Later, I opened a small music school, which allowed me to continue teaching and nurturing creativity in others while tending my family. I loved that season. It was meaningful and personal, full of connection. But it wasn’t until my husband’s brain cancer diagnosis that everything was upended. That moment—and the long, uncertain years that followed—brought me face to face with grief, fear, and the fragile nature of the life we had built. It was a season marked by deep vulnerability, where I could often only see one step ahead (if that, at all). In that disorienting space, I found myself reaching for something steady to hold onto–something that would quiet my mind and heart. This time, it was a sketchbook and watercolor.

I began painting as a form of quiet prayer—small, simple pieces that helped me process what I didn’t yet have language for. There was no plan to turn it into a platform; it was simply something that brought a sense of rest and presence. But slowly, as I shared that work, it began to resonate with others. What started as a deeply personal practice began to grow outward—first through invitations to teach a class, then through workshops, online courses, and eventually a thriving creative community called The Mending Garden™.

Today, my work as an artist and educator blends all those threads–the structure and sensitivity I developed through years of musical training, the depth that’s come through sorrow, and a long-held desire to live a life that is rooted, intentional, attentive to beauty, and connected to the natural world. I think some of that connection is seen in the materials I choose: natural inks, handmade earth pigments, and sustainable materials that carry the textures and tones of Creation. I work primarily in mixed media and am often inspired by the landscapes I love–especially the soft light and muted palettes of southern France, where my family and I spend part of the year.

My desire is to offer work that feels honest and welcoming—rooted in faith, open-handed, and shaped by the quiet conviction that even in the midst of sorrow, beauty still has a voice.

I’m sure it wasn’t obstacle-free, but would you say the journey has been fairly smooth so far?
It hasn’t always been a smooth road—though I imagine most meaningful paths rarely are. There have been seasons marked by deep uncertainty and grief, especially walking through my husband’s brain cancer diagnosis and the years that followed. That experience unraveled a lot of what I thought I could control and invited me into a slower, more surrendered way of living.

Creatively, there have been doubts too. Questions about whether my work matters, or whether there’s room for the kind of quiet, faith-rooted beauty I feel called to offer. It’s easy to get swept up in noise or comparison, especially in a world that often values speed and visibility over depth and presence.

But those struggles have also shaped the heart of my work. They’ve deepened my compassion, clarified my purpose, and reminded me again and again that making isn’t about proving anything—it’s about staying present, trusting the process, and offering what I can, even if it’s small.

Alright, so let’s switch gears a bit and talk business. What should we know about your work?
My work gently weaves together art, faith, and the often quiet beauty of Creation. I’m a mixed media artist and educator, working primarily with earth inks, natural pigments, and simple, sustainable materials. Much of my inspiration comes from the landscapes of southern France, where my family and I spend part of the year. There’s something about the soft light, weathered stone, and earthy colors that continues to shape not only my palette, but the way I move about in the world.

Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of walking alongside women who are returning to creativity—sometimes after long seasons of silence or sorrow. Through workshops, courses, and my membership community, The Mending Garden™, I offer a gentle space for making that honors both the joy and the ache that often live side by side.

I don’t know that I’m “known for” anything in particular, but I care deeply about creating spaces where others feel safe to begin again. Whether it’s through teaching, sharing my own story, or simply offering a quiet invitation to notice beauty, my hope is always to point to something outside of myself.

What sets my work apart might be its pace. It’s slow, unpolished, and rooted in a desire to be present—to attend well to the life I’ve been given, and to invite others to do the same.

We’d be interested to hear your thoughts on luck and what role, if any, you feel it’s played for you?
I wouldn’t say luck has played a role at all—I see the Lord’s providence woven throughout my story, often in quiet, unexpected ways. There have been moments I couldn’t have planned: surprising connections, open doors, or a gentle nudge in a new direction. I didn’t orchestrate those things on my own. I receive them as gifts—small signs of the Lord’s care and nearness along the way.

There’s also been hardship. My husband’s brain cancer diagnosis was a turning point that reshaped everything—from how we live day to day, to how I think about time, creativity, and purpose. That season, and the long road of learning to walk with uncertainty, profoundly shaped my work. It deepened my belief that making art can be an act of healing, and that beauty has a place even in our hardest seasons.

So while I wouldn’t attribute to luck, I do see grace in both the openings and the obstacles—in the gentle way the Lord has led me, sometimes through doors I never would’ve chosen, but which have formed something richer and more honest in the end.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.gabibrownart.com
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/gabibrownart
• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/gabibrownart