The Studio Before the Storms
I’ve never heard of another art studio in a century-old former island resort cabana that has taken a direct hit from a Category 3 hurricane, was flooded three times in three months, and is still here to continue telling its story. But that sums up the Coconut Treehouse Studio, as I call it. Does this make the studio magical? Blessed? Maybe there’s some special energy in the air now — a fortitude and wisdom from having seen so much. I’d like to stick around and find out.
Last summer, when I was first submitting this story, I described my studio in peaceful terms: “It’s a small but inspiring space in our historical home on Siesta Key, just off the coast of Sarasota, Florida. I can hear the boaters and seabirds that also call this barrier island home. We are tucked up high in the native palms, with huge poinciana trees that bloom red when the tarpon run, and banyan trees that have been here for ages. My studio is filled with coastal treasures from our adventures, along with antiques and Palm Beach-style furniture I’ve found at bargain prices (so they aren’t too precious to get paint on). I also have kid-friendly art supplies and extra easels for whenever my little boys want to join in on painting.”
Then, the unthinkable happened.
The Storms
Hurricane Debby – August 4, 2024
At first, we were told it would be “just a tropical storm.” But Debby turned quickly into a hurricane. It parked right over Sarasota, dumping a historic amount of rain. The flooding was worse inland, but we still had to replace our roof and take shelter from a tornado passing nearby. The lightning strikes were intense. It was a mess, but the home and studio made it through still standing.
Hurricane Helene – September 26, 2024
Next came Hurricane Helene, a Category 4 beast that swept the entire Gulf Coast. Despite being 100 miles offshore, it still dumped 8 feet of water on Siesta Key. The island took the brunt of the surge, and more homes flooded. It was the worst storm surge in the history of recorded weather for our area.
I had been working on a series of coastal studies that I planned to use for a larger painting when Helene “went by.” I expected a rainy, cozy day in the studio, but as the storm picked up, it quickly became clear this was no ordinary rainstorm. As the first band of the storm hit, we realized we needed to evacuate. We sought shelter inland, staying at a hotel to escape the worst of it.
That night, I received messages from friends asking if we needed rescuing, as the surge was rising fast. I will never forget that family’s selfless and brave offer. The power went out soon after, and I didn’t know how my friends who stayed behind were doing. I spent the night glued to my phone, watching the radar and praying the water would recede soon. Our property flooded again, this time reaching between 4 and 6 feet. Storm surge, by the way, isn’t just beautiful clean ocean water — it’s backed up sewage drains, chemicals, boat fuel, mud, broken glass and flesh-eating bacteria.
Hurricane Milton – October 9, 2024
The third storm, Milton, came just two weeks later. We were warned by weather experts that it would cause catastrophic damage, and we took it seriously. We left 36 hours before impact, staying until the last possible minute to prep our house and help others. You don’t forget who comes over in those eerie moments — the calm before (another) storm — and helps when the chips are down and the city is mostly empty. I took my favorite and sentimental paintings by myself, my kids, and my grandma with me to Orlando, carrying them up to the hotel room on the luggage cart. I took photos of paintings I had to leave behind, just in case.
On the way to Orlando, I stopped by a local gallery to evacuate not only my art but also other artists’ work. I ended up carting multiple pieces out in a frantic flurry, driven by the need to protect what was irreplaceable.
A collector who had commissioned a painting sent me this message that day: “Hey Lauren! I have watched your stories all week, and stopped and prayed. I can’t fathom your emotions and devastation but I know you are covered in love. Take care and know people are lifting you up!!!!”
A message from my brother sent that day from his Army deployment overseas also brought much comfort: “Last night I had a dream we were all at the beach swimming, and a huge wave was coming. The wave dissipated at the last second because we were under a bridge or something. Stay safe.” His dream ended up being true. Right before Milton hit Siesta Key, the eye wall of the storm mysteriously visibly dissipated. You could see it happen live on the radar, and the storm wasn’t actually as bad as it should have been as it dropped from a Cat 5 to a Cat 3.
It still caused extensive damage, though. Our house flooded again — about 4 feet on the first floor. Whatever had survived from Helene was gone now, too. The cleanup was overwhelming, but miraculously, our home stood firm — and so did most of the mature trees. I found Christmas ornaments hanging from shrubs like bizarre remnants of a past holiday. The studio survived, too, and I was incredibly thankful.
Lessons Learned
Trying to process all that we’ve been through feels impossible at times. The whole experience still feels surreal. But some things are crystal clear now: This hurricane season taught me the value of community. If our town and businesses can rebuild and keep their doors open, it will be because people cared enough to help and shop locally. I’ve been so grateful for those who supported me by purchasing prints and stationery from my online store during this time.
The hurricanes also forced me to let go of things I couldn’t control. We had many different plans for the fall — I had work commitments, deadlines, trips planned, and kids’ sports events — and all that went out the window. We had earmarked finances for things other than hurricane evacuation and repairs. We had planned on our kids always being able to go to school around the corner, but now they take buses to separate locations quite a ways away while their school is under major repair.
Any sense of control is an illusion. I’m just here on earth to love my people and to channel this gift of painting as a way to bring others joy and point out Mother Nature’s/God’s handiwork to others. Whatever higher power you do or don’t believe in, going through three hurricanes in a row will make you ponder it and most likely seek it.
I’ve also learned to embrace holding opposing emotions at once. It’s OK to feel gratitude and grief simultaneously. We are tired, but we’re happy we are safe. This has cost us so much, and yet the truly priceless things — our family, our health — are still intact. We have also learned to accept help for the first time. It’s humbling to be on the receiving end of help when I’ve always been the one giving.
For the first time, I accepted a bucket of cleaning supplies and a gift card as a token of care from my kids’ school. I’ve always prioritized and loved volunteering, so it has been very, very humbling to instead be the receiver. I was so touched to receive a text from a collector who, instead of asking why their commission was delayed, asked if they could come help clean and load the dumpster. I will always remember that.
Most importantly, I’ve learned that relationships and time spent with loved ones are all that really matter in life. Giving back to others, helping others, and sharing blessings when you can may be the meaning of life. I feel that to my core after all this.
The Return to Art
After the storm, I struggled to return to my work. The exhaustion and overwhelming emotions hit me all at once. The first morning back, I sat at my laptop and just stared, too tired to move. But then I thought of the teachers who had been through the same chaos, yet showed up right away for the kids. They provided safe spaces for learning and fun while we all began the long process of rebuilding. I decided all I could do was put together a bag of my prints and stationery gift items for them and write a note expressing my sincere gratitude and admiration. It has been a hurdle to get over thinking people don’t want my art as a gift, but I am slowly starting to feel it in my bones that they do. So, it was actually a big win for me to gift the teachers my art instead of something silly purchased from a big-box store.
As time passed, I picked up the brushes again. I returned to the coastal paintings I had started before the hurricanes. The series, now titled Sarasota Strong, depicts my favorite view of Sarasota Bay and the Ringling Bridge. With a sense of gratitude, I poured my emotions into finishing these works. The paintings are a way of honoring my community’s resilience: a tribute to the spirit of Siesta Key, Sarasota, and its barrier islands.
The collection has already been photographed and is selling well, with more collectors and art dealers reaching out. These paintings have become a symbol of Sarasota’s strength and beauty — attributes that are tangible in my work.
The Future
I don’t know how long we can stay in our home and studio. The constant storms and financial strain from repairs are real concerns. But whatever happens, I’m determined to keep painting. I’ve learned not to take anything — my studio, my family, or the precious time I have to paint — for granted. Every day here in this studio feels sweeter now. I’m more inspired than ever to keep painting, to continue sharing the beauty of our coast and raising awareness about ocean conservation.
Whatever comes, I’ll face it with strength, gratitude, and a commitment to the art that honors the resilience of this beautiful place I call home.
