“I’ve been playing guitar for a long time, but Nashville has forced me to become a better player,” says Mongé, fresh off her first full-band show at Analog at Hutton Hotel in Nashville. For the 38-year-old artist, the move to Tennessee caps a stretch of constant change—from the Pacific Northwest to Arizona, then North Carolina, and now Nashville, a city she never expected to call home.

“I feel like Nashville’s always been on my radar just because of the style of music that I do, but I’ve kind of stayed away from it for years,” she says. “I am quite the rebel when it comes to the music industry, and I try to do it my way, which is sometimes not conventional. Nashville just kind of embodies so much of the industry that I haven’t really wanted to be a part of until now.” But since settling in, the city has started to win her over. “I really do think there’s a balance between being an independent artist and building a team, and mirroring other creatives,” she says. “Nashville is full of people who are not just wrapped up in fame and fortune, per se, but are all about creating. It’s pushed me to collaborate more, co-write more, and to look at ways I can tell my story better.”

Her story, of course, started long before Nashville. Mongé built her career in the Emerald City, performing as a street musician at Pike Place Market, where her soulful voice and songwriting caught the attention of passersby. “I loved cutting my teeth in Seattle,” says Mongé, who moved from Spokane to Seattle at age 20 to study audio engineering at The Art Institute of Seattle. 

“Seattle is a great incubator for artists, especially in the timeframe I was there, which was pre-smartphone and pre-social media,” she says. “I felt like I could breathe there. I miss the relaxed feeling. I miss the culture. I miss the music. I miss my friends. I miss the beauty. It’s the most beautiful city in the world. There’s so much about it that I love that I definitely miss, but I’m also not quite ready to go back and live there, if that makes sense.”

Even with that longing, Mongé says she’s finding a new rhythm in the South—one rooted in growth and hard-earned self-assurance. “I’ve really gone through a lot of stuff in the last few years,” says Mongé, who lost her mother to cancer in 2020. “Moving across the country to continue pursuing my music has been the most cathartic way to honor my mother, who has always wanted to see me rise to the top. I feel like I’m at a place where I’m open to experiencing how good life can be rather than anticipating when the next shoe is going to drop.”

These days, Mongé continues to add dates to her touring schedule and she’s exploring what it means to connect with audiences in a new city while carrying the lessons of Seattle with her. “I take pride in my performances—in the way that I know how to pull people in,” she says. “I learned that at Pike Place Market. It’s such an interesting magic trick. I feel like if I describe it, I’ll ruin it,” Mongé laughs. “How can you bring somebody to a point of presence, especially when they’re not expecting it? That’s the most magical element—when people aren’t really expecting it to happen in a space like an airport or on a street corner or in a rowdy bar. It’s those moments when no one’s paying attention—that’s where the magic actually lives. Real artistry isn’t about approval, it’s about true human expression, whatever the outcome.”

The post Whitney Mongé’s Next Verse appeared first on Seattle magazine.

For her exhibition, Dobler Dzul produced an entirely new body of work spanning glass, ceramics, video, weaving, and embroidery. Working with Tacoma’s Museum of Glass, the artist partnered with expert hot shop technicians to create blown-glass vessels from her drawings of animal-like beings connected to Maya cosmology. An armadillo and piglet are represented in pitcher-like vessels bearing local waters from Chambers Bay and Flett Creek, while possum and jaguar adorn the transparent glass lids of containers that hold blue pigment, cochineal, and precatorius and ojo de venado seeds. Elsewhere, thorny vessels display hand-dyed henequen threads used for weaving. 

Her reverence for materials echoes German artist Wolfgang Laib’s displays of jarred flower pollen and natural pigment in his shows. But in her exhibition, Dobler Dzul points the viewer’s attention toward ancient technologies from the more-than-human world, to go beyond an aesthetic display of the artist’s materials to remind us of where cultural memory and lineage reside.

The land was divided and the river provided.

Photo by Yeshe Lhamo

The exhibition continually interrogates cultural memory as a major theme. Visitors entering the gallery are confronted with two massive, double-sided wall-sized textiles mounted on individual standing looms, inspired by looms Dobler Dzul’s grandmother and mother used to weave hammocks. Each machine-embroidered textile, represents the history of places that are key to the artist’s identity, whether her home in Tacoma or Yucatán. The Yucatán loom reimagines creation stories in the artist’s own visual language, while the Tacoma loom documents the Puyallup creation story and speaks to present-day realities of environmental violence. As visitors circumambulate the textiles, past and present converge into uneasy stories of destruction and extraction.

Priscilla Dobler Dzul. Hardshell piglet, burrows the rains that fall from the skies, from When the three armadillos arrived with the water. The lords of the underworld brought the offerings. And vessels removed their thorns to weave the threads together, 2025. Blown glass, water from Puget Sound. 20 x 8 3/8 x 15 in.

Photo by Jueqian Fang

Just past her textiles, the focal point of the show is The four winds gathered around Tree and her threads—a series of red clay sculptural vessels that evoke the female form and have been shaped by a memory of the artist’s body and impression through touch. The vessels are tethered by henequen straps to woven hammocks anchored by a Western red cedar tree, in a shape that evokes the practice of backstrap weaving with a portable loom. Dobler Dzul made the twill, tartan patterns in two of the weavings to honor her Scottish grandmother. The red and black hammocks were made in collaboration with master weaver and environmental educator Doña Brigida Lopez and cultural advocate and community organizer Daniela Mussali Meza.

The guardians remind us of what we have forgotten features a wall of four red clay figures inspired by ritual Maya censers. The fierce visages watch over the space. While working with the University of Washington as an artist in residence, Dobler Dzul created these larger-scale pieces using the art school’s ceramic studio and kiln. Inspired by the intricate decorative styles of the Classic Maya period, the backgrounds of each sculpture feature patterns from different architectural sites. The figures represent spirit dwellers and protectors.

The show also features a video viewing station with two films that bring together her reflections on ecological decline in both the Yucatán and Tacoma. The artist worked with Iva Radivojevic to create a film that reflects on the impacts of the construction of the Tren Maya railway on the Yucatán Peninsula. Henequen thread production is depicted, showing the colonial history that continues to exist and contribute to the destruction of the connection and history that Maya people had with this plant through displacement, development, and land privatization. Dobler Dzul moves through the landscape trailing literal threads of her ancestral lineage behind her.

Priscilla Dobler Dzul. The guardians remind us of what we have forgotten, 2025. Oregon red clay with grog. Dimensions variable.

Photo by Jueqian Fang

An additional film, made with A.J. Lenzi and Jonathan Jacobson, mourns the loss of water to industrial expansion in Tacoma. Dobler Dzul appears in the film carrying 70-pound ceramic vessels filled with water and lugging a rake she uses to return seeds to the earth. During filming in Tacoma, Dobler Dzul tore a ligament. Filming took place over three days across five seasons in both early morning and nighttime conditions. Throughout both films, Dobler Dzul grieves environmental injustice while invoking ancestral memory rooted in water to explore liberatory possibilities for reimagined relationships to the elemental. 

Priscilla Dobler Dzul. Lo único que existía era el movimiento de las aguas y los cielos / The only thing that existed, was the movement of the waters and the skies (still), 2025 . Digital video (color, sound); 18:00 min. each.

Courtesy of the artist

The Frye Art Museum will host “Interwoven: Panel & Weaving Demonstration” on Sunday, Oct. 26, from 1:00 p.m. to 3:30 p.m. Priscilla Dobler Dzul will be in conversation with her collaborators Doña Brigida Lopez and Daniela Mussali Meza. The event is moderated by curator Tamar Benzikry. Following the panel, there will be a live demonstration of backstrap weaving—an ancient technique highlighted in the exhibition.

Water Carries the Stories of our Stars will be on display through April 19, 2026.

The post Tracing Lineage appeared first on Seattle magazine.

The five-month installation is part of Seattle Restored, a city initiative that transforms unused storefronts into art and pop-up spaces. For Chan, a Bellevue-based artist who left her career in tech about a year ago to pursue art full time, it marks her first large-scale public display and a chance to share what she calls an intentional act of optimism.

“I want the colors to pause people in their day, to pull them out of the gray,” Chan says. “Even if someone’s waiting for the bus, maybe they stop for a moment and feel a bit lighter.”

Her vibrant, high-contrast florals blend traditional symbolism with modern, digital technique. In her artist statement, Chan notes that flowers in Chinese culture carry meaning—peonies represent prosperity, gladioluses symbolize resilience and remembrance, and peach blossoms mean renewal and vitality. Growing up near Hong Kong’s bustling flower market, she saw these blooms mark every new year and celebration, and after moving to Seattle in 2005 for college, they became a way to stay connected to home.

Chan says that link only deepened over time. As an immigrant and parent raising two young children far from extended family, she’s drawn to subjects that speak to belonging and continuity. The flowers she paints carry the same meanings she grew up with, but they also act as bridges—symbols that anyone can recognize and find comfort in. During her years at university, she met classmates from all over the world and began to see how universal these connections are. Her work reflects that belief that beauty and optimism transcend language and background.

Chan earned both her undergraduate degree and MBA from the University of Washington and spent more than a decade in tech before returning to art during the pandemic. With her children learning from home, she found herself craving a creative outlet. “It was a stressful time,” she recalls. “Picking up the paintbrush was about self-care in the moment.”

Late at night, she began painting with watercolor and gouache, mediums that let her start and stop easily while balancing parenting and work. She liked that both were water-activated; she could step away to make dinner or help with school and return to a dry palette that came back to life with a bit of water. The flexibility made painting possible in short bursts, and those sessions soon became routine. They led to Cute Fun Joy Designs, the art business she launched in 2024, and a growing presence at local cafes, art walks, and markets. When Seattle Restored announced a call for artists earlier this year, she applied.

One piece in the Lake City installation comes from her Kintsugi Collection, inspired by the Japanese practice of repairing broken pottery with gold. The idea took root when Chan noticed misprints coming out of her home printer. “I was learning how to manage color, and the results weren’t perfect,” she says. “But instead of throwing it away, I decided to finish it with gold leaf, to honor the imperfection.”

Each hand-embellished print is one of a kind. And in a way, Chan’s process mirrors Seattle Restored itself: both see potential in what’s been overlooked.

Chan’s gold-leaf Chinese poppy from her Kintsugi Collection—each hand-embellished print honors imperfection and turns a printing mistake into something luminous.

Photo by Cute Fun Joy Designs

Since the installation went up, she says she hopes it brightens the day of people walking by. “It’s been really interesting to connect with people over flowers, and it’s been an exciting year,” she says. “I’ve had opportunities to show my artwork in lots of different settings.”

In Lake City, new pop-ups and a monthly art walk are adding creative energy to the neighborhood. Chan plans to join those events this winter and hopes to collaborate with other artists she’s met through Seattle Restored.

Photo by Samuel François / GrowingBoyMedia

The installation runs through Feb. 20, 2026, at 12325 Lake City Way Northeast.

The post Flowers Light Up Lake City appeared first on Seattle magazine.

What Emmy finds herself navigating now is the somewhat confusing mix of happiness, anxiety, thankfulness, and fear that comes with survivorship. “My life right now is just like any normal kid,” says Emmy, who has been in remission for the past six years. “The only difference between me and my peers is that I go to maybe one or two appointments a month, which is great, but yeah, nobody likes going to doctor’s offices.”

That truth is captured in “Hope is a Light in the Dark,” an inspiring song Emmy co-wrote with fellow Hyundai Hope on Wheels National Youth Ambassador Jackson Trinh, at The Sound Factory in Hollywood over the summer. It was part of a special songwriting session hosted by Musicians on Call. “Hope has helped me through my whole cancer journey,” says Emmy. “Cancer comes with its share of struggles. Hope is a big part of how me and my family kept going. We always prayed for another day and hope definitely got us through that journey and where I am now.”

Twelve-year-old Emmy Cole (far left) channels her cancer journey into music, using songwriting as a source of strength and hope, alongside producer Suzy Shinn on guitar.

Photo by Dusty Barker

Jackson and Emmy recording with musician Lou Lou Safron. 

Photo by Dusty Barker

Writing such an emotional song wasn’t easy. “The most challenging parts were probably fitting all the words into the song,” says Emmy. “Finding the words and making sure every word had a meaning was the hardest part. I want every other kid who listens to these songs to know that you are going to get through this.”

That honesty made a deep impression on the producers who guided the session. “It was evident from the start that she wanted to write about the anxiety that she still feels as a cancer survivor,” says producer and songwriter Suzy Shinn, who—alongside fellow producer Sam Hollander and musician Lou Lou Safron—partnered with Hyundai Hope on Wheels and Musicians on Call to help the youth ambassadors in the songwriting process. “I didn’t expect those words to come out of her mouth and how well she could articulate herself and the big, very human, very thoughtful, very deep emotions that she could say. She knew exactly what she wanted to say, and I was blown away by it.”

Authenticity is what makes the Musicians on Call songwriting program so special. “It’s all about allowing people to share their story through song,” explains Pete Griffin, president and CEO of Musicians on Call, an organization that brings live and recorded music to the bedsides of patients, families, and caregivers in healthcare environments. “When these young people share the words of what they’ve been going through or what they’ve been through, you really see their energy grow and they start to light up because it’s giving them power over something that maybe they felt powerless with.”

And if you ask Griffin, Emmy is a star in the making. “She is just a fantastic young person,” he says. “I mean, we joke around—having done two songwriting sessions with her now—that someday we’ll be working for her because she’s just such a smart and talented kid with such a big personality. She’s wise beyond her years.”

These days, Emmy is living a fulfilling life on the cusp of her teenage years. She loves horseback riding, hanging out with her friends, and listening to music from favorite artists such as Tate McRae, Morgan Wallen, and Russell Dickerson. “I feel stronger than ever,” says Emmy. “Right now, I’m in the survivorship part of my era, so we aren’t as worried about the cancer as we were before. I’m very proud of myself.”

The post Finding Hope in Music appeared first on Seattle magazine.

Kelp Reverberations, which opened in late September, transforms the space into an underwater world—one that hums, sways, and glows with the life of the Salish Sea.

A collaboration between a group of artists and scientists familiar with the ecology of local kelp forests, the exhibition combines images, sound, sculpture, and data mapping to bring attention to the presence and decline of bull kelp in the San Juan Islands.

Bay Area artist and author Josie Iselin fills the atrium with floating cyanotype banners—deep blue prints created using sunlight and seaweed specimens that capture the intricate beauty of underwater life. A soundscape by designer Ken Pearce and Canadian composer Jonathan Kawchuk surrounds visitors with the subtle hum of the ocean, while Puget Sound artist Betsy Peabody contributes sculptural works made from locally gathered bull kelp.

Mapping and data from the Samish Indian Nation reveal how kelp beds around the islands have changed over time, linking the installation’s beauty to an urgent environmental story.

Kelp Reverberations is presented in collaboration with Above/Below, the Puget Sound Restoration Fund, and Washington Sea Grant, and is on display through Dec. 1.

The post Salish Symphony appeared first on Seattle magazine.

“I host trivia at Hemlock State Brewing Company in Mountlake Terrace,” laughs McBride of her unusual weekly gig. “Being a writer is a weird job. It’s very stressful in many ways. So, I love my trivia on Tuesday nights.” 

She also loves Seattle—the city she moved to when she was 21 years old and snagged a job at Third Place Books in Lake Forest Park. “I already had a book out, but I needed a day job,” says McBride, who now lives just north of Seattle. “I was originally hired at the attached café Honey Bear Bakery, but eventually I transferred into the bookstore. It was actually a pay cut because I wouldn’t get tips. But I figured the book discount kind of made up for it.” She left the bookshop in early 2019, after about seven years.

Her job at Third Place Books gave her a front row seat to the publishing world, an experience she would draw on throughout her career. “Learning publishing from that end was invaluable,” says McBride, who refers to herself as a hybrid writer, utilizing both traditional publishing and self-publishing. “I have a perspective on books on the shelf––what readers actually say about books, what covers work, and what publishing houses are better at getting these books to the bookstore. And because I worked events (at Third Place Books) for so long, I got really good at public speaking too.”

McBride’s love of creativity began when she was growing up in the small town of Silverdale, Washington. “I started reading really young,” she says. “As soon as I figured out someone made books, I realized that was what I wanted to do. I was lucky that I had a mom and a stepmom who were very supportive of reading and writing and would always run me to the library.” 

Despite her love for words, McBride says she struggled personally and academically in high school—something her 10th grade English teacher picked up on. “She told me, ‘there are people that are really good at writing and there are people that can do it for a living, and I think you can do it for a living,’” recalls McBride. Even with the reassurance, McBride ended up dropping out of high school—but years later, she tracked the teacher down on Facebook to share the news that she had, in fact, become an author. “Basically, I wanted to let her know that I didn’t die in a ditch,” laughs McBride. “I’m perfectly fine.”

McBride is more than fine. She’s gone on to write a total of ten novels, including her debut Hold Me Closer, Necromancer, her first adult book A Little Too Familiar, and her newest young adult novel Red in Tooth and Claw. “I write romance, and I credit that almost entirely to the fact that I grew up in a very dude-heavy household,” says McBride, who was raised with three brothers and multiple male cousins. “Plus, basically the books I really loved were the ones that had romance in them.” 

That realization snuck up on her. “I wasn’t against writing romance,” McBride recalls. “But the more I read it, I just kind of fell more in love with it. I realized it was something I did want to do.” 

She’s hardly alone. Romance sales have more than doubled in the past four years, and Seattle even welcomed its first romance-only bookstore, Lovestruck in Seattle, this summer.

“It’s been the most fun,” says McBride. “I love how responsive the readership is and how voracious they are. It’s been nothing but good.” Her love for the genre has only grown—especially as readers increasingly search for an escape from the real world. “Romance brings joy, and it brings connection and as a reader, it brings with it an amazing community,” explains McBride. “And those are all things that we kind of desperately need right now.”

Her next young adult book, Most Likely To Murder, is set for release in March. She’s drafting a new adult fantasy romance for her agent. And she’s been meaning to get back to work on a book she’s writing on Patreon. Her most recent release, The Suitcase Swap, came out in August, a later-in-life love story about two strangers whose luggage gets mixed up at JFK. “I am a little over the place,” laughs McBride. 

McBride admits the industry can be daunting, but she still urges writers to keep going. “You have to be a little hopeful, and you have to have some fight in you because it’s an industry that’s really hard to get into,” McBride says. “It’s really hard to stay in, and it’s not always very nice to you. But the thing that keeps me going on the days where I want to chuck my laptop into the ocean is those moments where a kid comes up and says, ‘this book mattered to me.’”

McBride shrugs off the uncertainty with a laugh. “Writers don’t usually retire, you know?”

See Lish McBride at The Grimm Market in Monroe on Oct. 11, 5-8 p.m.

The post The Many Lives of Lish McBride appeared first on Seattle magazine.

I love taking them through the city. The trains are crowded with every type of person and I always feel both protective and proud. I grew up in a rural part of northern California so country-bumpkin I’m embarrassed to say its name out loud, so maybe that’s why the city still dazzles me. I hardly talk to my girls when we’re tromping through it because selfishly, I want to take it all in on my own terms. I try to walk a few paces ahead, buzzing with the sights and sounds, hoping they’re soaking it up too.

We circled our way up from the underground tunnel to the tree line and onto the monorail. We wandered through Seattle Center in a burst of perfect early-fall sunlight. We stopped for a single photograph of the day: my ten-year-old in her dress, standing at the edge of the International Fountain. We hurried on to catch a matinee at Seattle Rep of The Play That Goes Wrong.

Then, like a total maniac, before the show, just as the lights went out, I found myself crying. Moms are so weird! But I was just happy to be there with everyone else (the show was sold out) crammed into those little padded seats to watch, in this case, a bunch of actors trip and fall, spit water all over each other, and flub lines while the set literally collapses around them. I managed, in the loosest sense of the word, to pull it together. Luckily it was dark, so I could laugh-cry through the whole thing, sneaking glances at my daughters to make sure the jokes were landing. They were.

As we slowly shuffled out of the theater, I thought about the artists who keep the city humming—the dancers, actors, comedians, musicians, set designers, painters, muralists. They’re also bartenders and baristas, Uber drivers and nurses, construction workers, fishmongers, administrators. People working double shifts and side gigs, still carving out time to create. They show up even when the work is unstable, the pay thin, and the future uncertain. That’s the thing about art: it’s essential. It’s how we know ourselves and each other.

For me, the pandemic made that truth impossible to ignore. I wouldn’t have gotten through those terrifying and surreal years without books, movies, podcasts, late-night comedy, and Spotify. Art steadies me. Or maybe it mirrors me. Whatever I’m feeling—or searching to feel—I can count on it being expressed somewhere in some form and all I have to do is find it.

But art is more than that. Even more than a pretty day spent laughing at a silly play. It’s resistance. Self-expression is the opposite of control. A song, a story, a mural. They push back against the idea that people can be neatly managed. That’s why art gets censored. It refuses to behave.

Seattle knows this. When KOMO (owned by Sinclair) refused to air Jimmy Kimmel’s return to late night, Seattleites showed up outside the station in protest. And Cascade PBS just ended its written journalism, laying off 17 people and closing down Crosscut’s newsroom after Congress cut $3.5 million in federal funding. An 18-year run of thoughtful, deeply reported stories is gone.

On our way out of the city, we realized the northbound tunnel downtown had been shut down by a ventilation malfunction. About a hundred people were already gathered on the street waiting for shuttles that kept not arriving. A few said they’d been there forty minutes already. What a hassle. It was also quite hot out. We slipped away from the crowd and grabbed an Uber to the Northgate station, where light rail picked back up.

Norie Sato’s Unfurling a Gesture (The Nature of Persistence) on the Union Street Pedestrian Bridge is a steel fern layered with imagery of wings and ferns.

Photo courtesy of Friends of Waterfront Park

I stared at my reflection in the train window and noticed how my face has changed with age. I thought about how the city wears us down, changes us with its delays and detours, and how it lifts us up too. Art is part of that lift. It’s everywhere if you look—murals in transit tunnels, installations at Seattle Center, even the new waterfront overhaul comes with a flood of public art. On First Thursdays, people fill Pioneer Square not just for the art but to show off their own style. Festivals like WALK DONT RUN carry that same spirit across downtown.

I wanted to remember the day: the fountain, the covert crying, the laughter, the way everyone crowds to the front of the chubby little monorail for a 2-minute ride, the crush of people. A single trip into the city offers these fleeting, unplanned moments, our lives overlapping and blurring together in the big, glossy windows of public transportation.

Life is a sweaty, unpredictable reroute. The whole thing can fall down around us at any minute. Our footing is laughably unsteady. And art is how we hold on to our humanity, and to our democracy, in a world that too often tries to strip both away.

The post Art Matters in Seattle. Let’s Keep it Going. appeared first on Seattle magazine.

“Coming out of the pandemic the past few years, and out of this period of isolation really reminded me and many of my colleagues of the recovery years after the Great Recession,” says art consultant Kira Burge, who organized WALK DONT RUN along with Alice Gosti, Steven Severin, Philippe Hyojung Kim, Meli Darby, Olivia Neal Howell, and Jennie Kovalcik. Burge moved to Seattle in 2010 and found connection and community through gatherings happening in artists’ residences and studios. “We weren’t just going to galleries and First Thursday,” she says. “We were going to Klara’s house, and chicken coop shows, and Sierra Stinson’s apartment in the El Capitan building.” 

Looking to capture some of that same creative spirit and bring people together through the positive influence of art—especially in a climate where everything feels so divided—Burge approached Glosova about reviving NEPO 5K. Glosova demurred, but gave Burge her blessing to run (or, in this case walk) with it. To fund the one-day festival, Burge applied for an Office of Arts & Culture’s Hope Corps grant (which she received). Paired with sponsorships, donations, and 4Culture grants, much of the money raised went towards paying artists involved for their time and work. 

Members of Seattle Cheer (an all-adult, non-profit cheerleading organization that raises funds and awareness for the LGBTQIA+ community) kicked off the opening of  WALK DONT RUN.

Photo by Irina Wong

“The goal is to contribute to downtown Seattle’s revival through fun, creative activities that showcase the art and culture that is the lifeblood of our city,” Burge said in a call before the event. “It’s what gets people to go out to dinner before a show—art is commerce on its own, but it’s married to the bigger ecosystem.”

More than 100 artists—visual, dance, music, performance—participated in WALK DONT RUN, activating streets, alleys, sidewalks, and public spaces covering more than 20 city blocks. Moseying along the route, which was marked by blue sidewalk paint, QR codes, and colorful ribbons tied on poles, marathoners could be spotted by their “race bib” stickers, distributed from a booth in Occidental Square, on which they wrote cheeky sayings, nicknames, or art puns. (The best one I saw: “The only marathon I’ll ever qualify for.”)

“Seeing art in an unusual context can change the way we feel about both the art and the context,” says artist Britta Johnson, whose sculpture, Making Kin, was installed in a parking garage on the corner of Third Avenue and Virginia Street. Made from a modified oil barrel with a mini screen of LED lights, it displayed a strange, ghostly octopus waving its tentacles through what looked a porthole. “I hope visitors will experience beauty, strangeness, delight, etcetera, and get to see the city in a new way,” Johnson said a few days before the event. 

Britta Johnson’s Making Kin shows an octopus glowing through a porthole in a parking garage.

Photo courtesy of Britta Johnson

A school of salmon making their way through downtown Seattle, part of a participatory performance by artist Lorraine Lau.

A member of SuttonBeresCuller at the inaugural WALK DONT RUN art marathon.

Photo by Berhanu Images

Discovery was part of the fun—big names mixed with emerging talents, and roving groups such as SuttonBeresCuller (in their infamous all-white jumpsuits, each with a lit red arrow on their back) brought moments of delight and irreverence as you turned a corner or crossed a street. We ran into one assemblage around the Pike/Pine corridor—a participatory performance created and ideated by Lorraine Lau—in which each member held a papier-mâché salmon on a stick, gleefully “swimming” them down the street. Longtime Seattle artist Margie Livingston reprised her “art dragging,” in which she connected more than a dozen wood-framed paintings to straps on a harness and hauled them around the sidewalks, eroding the surfaces, but imbuing each work with something from the city, the participants, and the event itself. 

Live performance took over the 2+U courtyard at Second and University Avenues. This performance is by Danielbi Perdomo and Leah Russell.

Photo by Irina Wong

Artist Jesse Higman kicks off a collaborative paint pour.

Photo by Marina Boichuk

Live performance took over the 2+U courtyard at Second and University Avenues, including a live duet by Danielbi Perdomo and Leah Russell. At the center of it all, Jesse Higman offered up his interactive paint pours, called “The Collaborative Landscape,” in which large groups of people, often strangers, come together to pour cups of iridescent mica flakes suspended in water onto a 16-foot horizontal canvas, resulting in a shimmery, ephemeral constellation. 

“From my vantage point I watched people arriving in Occidental Park excited for the event,” says local curator Jeremy Buben, who served as an Art Concierge, rolling a podium stacked with art books around town, ready to answer any and all questions. “I also posted up in Pioneer Place Park, and at the finish line on Bell Street. Each location greeted me with participants seeking directions, recommendations, information on scheduled activities, and a few existential art questions. It was also a real pleasure seeing many friends who had turned out to walk the event.” Buben plans to return next year, if there is a round two—something that everyone along the route is championing. “I’m excited to see this event continue and grow,” he says. “What a great opportunity for Seattle’s artists, musicians, and performers to create an exciting reason to explore downtown.”

Wiggle Room, the collaborative project of Alyza DelPan-Monley and Janelle Abbott.

Photo by Marina Boichuk

WALK DONT RUN was the perfect kick-off to fall. It helped that the day was absolutely gorgeous: sunny, clear, and topped with radiant blue skies. For me, the event felt like a reconnection with Seattle’s vibrant creative scene, and an opportunity to further explore my own neighborhood, see faces I haven’t seen in a while, and celebrate those in the community who believe enough in the city to keep showing up for it—not only during WALK DONT RUN, but every single day.

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“Our favorite camping spot was up in Washington at Lake Merwin,” recalls the rising country music star during an interview with Seattle magazine. “We would pack the car to the brim, fill it with all of my siblings and my parents, and we would meet a bunch of cousins there.” And then, the fun would ensue. “We would go fishing on the docks where the campsite was, and we’d swim. When I was young, we had a boat, so we’d go tubing and wake boarding,” remembers McNown, a West Linn, Oregon native who also loved hiking at Multnomah Falls. “I was very blessed to be raised in the outdoors and within the forests of the Northwest.”

The 24-year-old hitmaker of songs such as the Platinum-certified single “A Lot More Free” and Gold-certified “Better Me For You (Brown Eyes)” already misses those good times. “If I could go back and experience all of that again, I would do it in a heartbeat,” he says quietly. “Those experiences are part of who I am. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.”

It’s memories like these that fill McNown as he navigates the chaotic life of a star on the rise. He released his deluxe album Night Diving (The Cost of Growing Up) in July and is now on an almost sold-out run of shows as part of his Forever Ain’t Long Enough Tour, including an Oct. 17 stop at The Showbox in Seattle. “We’re playing 150 shows in 2025, so counting off days, that’s roughly two-thirds of the year that I’m not even in Nashville, let alone my home in the Northwest,” he says.

And while McNown may love living in Nashville, his obvious adoration for the Pacific Northwest can not only be heard in his voice, but in every lyric and note. “I try my very best to channel my upbringing into my music,” says McNown of the creative infusion that can be heard in songs such as “St. Helens Alpenglow,” “A Lot More Free” and “Azalea Place.” “It has heavily affected my music.”

McNown was just 21 when he moved from Oregon to California in the hopes of building a music career. “I had lived there for 21 years, and one of the downsides of the Pacific Northwest is the nine months of rain and clouds,” laughs McNown, who had long looked up to Oregon-based artist Matt Kearney. “So, when I moved to Southern California, I was just looking for something different.” He spent about eight months there and found some success busking on the pier in San Clemente. But life in California was expensive, so he moved back to Bend before he ultimately landed in Nashville at 23.

“My Pacific Northwest brand was already being established as the foundation before I moved to Nashville,” says McNown, who made his debut at Lollapalooza this past summer. “Because I think if you don’t have a foundation, whatever you build might not be the truest version of yourself. There’s so much influence and temptation in Nashville to fit into what everyone else is doing.” But he’s far from falling for that. “The Pacific Northwest is in my soul—it has made me who I am,” he says. “I want to keep that with me in my personal life, and in my music.”

And while the future only looks to get busier, McNown has a plan to eventually return home to the Pacific Northwest for more than a tour stop. “I have a very intentional plan to reconnect with the Northwest as soon as things slow down a little bit,” he says. “Once I can start to slow down the construction of the snowball we’re trying to build, I really want to reconnect, whether that’s moving back, or having a home for the summer in Oregon. I’m not sure.”

Luckily, the Pacific Northwest isn’t going anywhere. “Not much makes me more excited than to think about taking my kids there someday. I really want to be intentional about giving that to my family, just like it was given to me.”

Max McNown plays The Showbox in Seattle on Oct. 17 at 9 p.m. Tickets are available here. 

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“We launched Kraken Common Thread last year as our own evolution of the NHL’s former jersey design program, to further demonstrate how the Seattle community is tied together; we’re all here for our love of hockey,” says Ali Daniels, SVP of marketing for the Kraken. “This program and our theme nights give us an opportunity to expand our reach and highlight historically underrepresented communities.”

The themed nights, which include Hispanic Heritage Night, Indigenous Peoples Night, Pride Night, AANHPI Night, Black Hockey History Night, Women in Hockey Night, and Green Night, each have a corresponding jersey designed by a local artist. While players are not permitted under NHL rules to wear the jerseys on the ice, they do sign them, and after each game the jerseys are auctioned off. 

“[Auctioning them off] gives us an opportunity to raise funds for both One Roof Foundation, our charitable arm dedicated to expanding hockey access, and for local nonprofits focused on bettering the communities we are celebrating,” Daniels explains. 

The season’s artists include: Esmeralda Vasquez (Hispanic Heritage Night presented by Modelo, Oct. 28), Amber Webb (Indigenous Peoples Night presented by Muckleshoot Indian Tribe, Dec. 16), Vegas Vecchio (Pride Night presented by Symetra, Jan. 8), Kenji Stoll (AANHPI Night presented by Alaska Airlines, Jan. 29), Damon Brown (Black Hockey History Night presented by Amazon, Feb. 28), Dasha Medvedeva (Women in Hockey Night presented by PitchBook, March 10), and Jess Phoenix (Green Night presented by Boeing, April 2).

Seattle magazine had the opportunity to chat with three of this season’s artists to get the scoop about the inspiration behind their designs. 

Amber Webb for Indigenous Peoples Night presented by Muckleshoot Indian Tribe

Seven years ago, artist Amber Webb started focusing on Yup’ik art forms, stories, and teachings, using them as a platform to bring attention to issues impacting Indigenous communities, such as the crisis of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, suicide, and the long-term effects of trauma from colonization. “That quickly led me to community wellness work,” Webb says. “My work is really inspired by my love for my people and my homelands.  Since then, the work I’m most proud of is the work I’ve done with my community.”

Webb, who was raised in Dillingham and Anchorage, and lives in Aleknagik, admits to feeling a little nervous, but also honored, when asked to design a jersey for the Kraken. “I really wanted to make a design that would resonate with fans but also one that would be authentic to Yup’ik design principles as well as who I am as an artist,” she says. The result, which includes a bird and four salmon, is a beautiful ode to the natural world, as well as Webb’s heritage. 

Jersey design by Amber Webb for Indigenous Peoples Night.

“I come from salmon people, and my first question was how am I connected with the indigenous people in the Seattle area?” Webb says. “ Indigenous people are stewards of our lands and waters and our relationship with the salmon and the many species of birds connect us.  All along the coast we have a personal investment in protecting the environment.” She hopes that her design is a reminder to Kraken fans, and anyone who encounters it, that we all have a relationship to the land, animals, and water that surrounds us in the Pacific Northwest, and should help steward it for the generations that come after us. 

“These animals have taken care of our people, and we also have to take care of the land and water for them,” Webb says. “Both of these animals are connected with hospitality and generosity, so I wanted to really highlight those two values as well because when we celebrate, we share foods and gifts. “

Indigenous Peoples Night is December 16. A portion of the proceeds from special ticket purchases will go to the Rise Above organization.

Damon Brown for Black Hockey History Night presented by Amazon

Seattle-based Damon Brown, known widely as Creative Lou, has been an artist as long as he can remember. Drawing, sketching, and painting since he was two, Brown developed a graphic style that can be spotted across town, from Outdoor Research’s Sodo headquarters to multi-family residential buildings in the Chinatown International District neighborhood. Like Webb, Brown felt honored at the request, even though he isn’t a longtime hockey fan. 

“The first part was just to get over the awe moment,” he says. “Like, oh, I’m actually getting an opportunity to do a jersey, and I’ve never done a jersey, right? So, once I got over the ‘ah-ha’ moment, I did a little bit of research on black hockey history.”

With that research as a guidepost, Brown designed a rhythmic, multi-colored logo that nods to the future and the past in one logo, where the iconic Space Needle stands proud under a celestial orb. 

Jersey design by Damon Brown (“Creative Lou”) for Black Hockey History Night.

“What inspired me were the Black players of the past,” Brown says. “And this jersey is kind of based off Afrofuturism and [looking] into the future…I hope it inspires any artists out there, and I also hope that it inspires those that want to get into hockey and to play the game.” 

Black Hockey History Night is February 28, 2026. A portion of the proceeds from special ticket purchases will go to support the Black Future Co-op Fund.

Jess Phoenix for Green Night presented by Boeing

A longtime designer and illustrator, Jess Phoenix hails from Massachusetts, the daughter of two creatives who were thrilled when their daughter decided to attend art school. After earning her B.F.A in Illustration at the Rhode Island School of Design, Phoenix moved west, where she designed greeting cards, gift boxes, and other products for a local company for nearly 20 years. In 2016, however, Phoenix needed a creative outlet that wasn’t work. She started turning out the bright, floral illustrations she’s known for today. When the Kraken reached out, the artist was a little taken aback. 

“I was thinking, ‘do they know I draw flowers?’” she says with a laugh. “This is for a jersey!” It turns out, they did know, and that’s exactly why they asked her—because her designs were so unique. 

“Usually, when I’m making the floral art, I don’t reference real flowers,” Phoenix explains. “[But] for this one I really wanted to do some research, and I looked into endangered and threatened flowers in Washington.” The final design, which Phoenix first sketched by hand, includes golden paintbrush, checker mallows, and Northwest raspberry—10 native plants in all. Its pink blooms stand out against a dark anchor and teal-green background, with an almost Scandinavian flair. 

Jersey design by Jess Phoenix for Green Night.

“I want people to be curious about the design, drawn in by the graphic qualities of it,” Phoenix says. “Even though I’m from Massachusetts, I’ve been living in Seattle since 2007. I really consider this to be my home. I don’t know if I’ve been seen at large as a Seattle artist, but this opportunity really makes me feel like I’m a Seattle artist.” 

Green Night is April 2, 2026. A portion of the proceeds from special ticket purchases will go to support Stewardship Partners.

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