Rose Brooks
Creating beauty from the discarded, the forgotten, the overlooked — one piece at a time.
My Philosophy
I am eco‑conscious, and stubbornly committed to doing good. I will not participate in the “BUY NOW, TOSS TOMORROW” culture. Not in my art. Not in my studio. Not in my soul.
Every canvas I reclaim is one less object choking our soil, our water, our bodies. Every piece I create is a quiet rebellion against disposable living.
And when someone buys my art, my hope is simple: Love it fiercely — then pass it on. Let it live again in another home, another season, another pair of hands.
Consume wisely. Create consciously. Keep beauty in circulation.
My Origin Story
When I began my journey as an artist in 2016, I never imagined anyone would want to buy my work. I had thousands of pieces tucked away — drawings from elementary school, paintings from college, sketches from every era of my life. One day I showed them to my daughters. Their reactions were… honest.
“Mom, why are you keeping all of this? Sell it or throw it out.”
“Sell it? Do you think it’s any good?”
One said, “Not my style.”
The other said, “Mom… those hands.” Referring to the way I draw / paint
The baby said, "Mom, no, your art is good, people will buy it"
The seed was planted.
Where it really began
I was born to a conservative artist/homemaker mother and a hardworking artist/grocer father.
Art was everywhere, mostly as a side hustle, until my Father started his own company.
As a latch‑key kid, art became my solace, my escape, my saving grace.
I learned to sew at four or five. By seven, I was crocheting and knitting. Northern winters meant long snowed‑in days with no electricity — just oil lamps, a fireplace, boredom, and my hands.
I grew up surrounded by 30+ aunts and uncles, the Aunties, taught me “women’s work,” while my Uncles taught me to fix things simply because I wouldn’t stop asking questions, and holding hammers.
My mother demanded perfection — posture, grades, silence, beauty. I spent most of my childhood in my room, drawing, writing, imagining worlds no one else could see.
But I also had my great‑grandmother, my young step‑grandmother, and my aunt who was only five years older than me. They were my safe places — even though they, too, tried to shape me into a perfect little lady. But I was the girl who wanted to climb trees, skateboard, hang upside down, and spin in circles.
People ask how no one realized I was autistic. Simple: Autism wasn’t a household word, and I was forced into the "normal" mold until I masked enough to fit it.
It was the constant “sit up straight” and “stand up straight” that make me self conscious till today..
Because I was standing straight.
Head up. Chest out. Back aligned. Shoulders back.
Every auntie, every grandmother, every parent — every single day — correcting a posture that I thought was already perfect.
I say my childhood felt like that little girl in Titanic, the one being scolded at the dinner table while her mother pressed a napkin into her lap. The stiff lace, starched white dress, the tightness, the pressure to be composed and proper — I felt that scene in my soul. I lived it.
And then, years later in the military, I learned the truth:
I had scoliosis.
So much for “stand up straight.”
The Birth of The Storyteller
My father collected cameras — film, Super 8, black‑and‑white. I performed constantly: singing, dancing, acting, creating. But the one thing I couldn’t be was the quiet, delicate girl everyone wanted.
I talked too much. I asked too many questions. I daydreamed. So I did what my dad did: I picked up a camera.
He gave me his old 110 Kodak camera for my 10th birthday — flashbulbs, film, everything. It was the greatest gift of my life. Film was expensive, so I learned to “take pictures” with my eyes first — framing the world through an imaginary lens.
I wrote and illustrated stories for school, 4‑H, Girl Scouts, church. I won awards. I entered beauty pageants (mostly for the costumes). I designed my own outfits. People thought I was a poser — but really, I was just an artist trying to breathe.
In high school I was in band, color guard, rifle line, saber line — anything involving performance and costume. My mother and I made costumes for half the girls. I made flags. I made Halloween costumes for myself and my brother. We even did a pantomime act at the old folks’ home.
The Moment The Egg Cracked
One year my dad asked me to draw a classic car for his bowling team shirts. I was honored — and terrified. It was the first time art came with a deadline. My autistic brain panicked.
I sat on the porch of our rented Florida room, sketching and erasing, asking questions I didn’t yet know how to ask properly:
What kind of car? What angle? What side? Facing which way? How many colors? How detailed?
I didn’t have the vocabulary yet. I didn’t know how to ask for the information I needed. The deadline approached. I broke down into panic tears. It was if my brain was an egg and it hit a 500 degree skillet and exploded into dust.
“Dad, I can’t. I don’t want to let you down.”
He said, “I don’t care what you draw. I’ll take it to the guy and he’ll make it work. Just draw what you want.”
I still have the two final car drawings. I framed them and sent them to him years later. They meant the world to me — proof that someone believed in me.
My mother, meanwhile, repeated her favorite line: “You can’t make money with art.”
Yet at every car show she’d say, “You could draw this or that for people.” My confidence wasn’t there yet.
Science, Sabotage, and Derailment
My high school art teacher put my work in a show. I didn’t win — I got an Honorable Mention. To me, that was better than winning. It meant someone saw my work and didn’t pass it by.
In college, I decided I would be a chemical engineer. I loved science. I could see myself in a lab. I earned my Associate of Applied Science from Palo Alto College. I had scholarships lined up. I was ready.
Then my parents visited.
My dad said, “You’ll make money, but you’ll be alone. You need people. You need creativity.” My mother said, “I don’t see you doing chemical science. Do fashion. Make costumes. You can’t make money in science.”
My entire world derailed.
My autistic brain spiraled. Months of panic, pros and cons lists, meltdowns. And then the final blow: one of my chemistry professors told me,
“You’ll never be a chemist. You’re not dedicated enough.”
I was standing there in my BDUs, about to deploy for two weeks, asking for my assignments in advance. Every other professor had given me the work. He refused.
I held my head high, walked to the bathroom, and cried.
Another man telling me what I couldn’t be.
So I gave in.
THE FASHION YEARS
I switched to Fashion Design & Merchandising with a minor in Costume Design & History. I did fashion shows, worked backstage, met incredible artists, and built a life while raising children and working full‑time.
My children grew up in the wings of my creative life — literally. My first daughter had to come with me to several of my design exhibitions because I didn’t have a babysitter. She was always a quiet and intelligent child, curious and beautiful, everyone loved her, luckily she loved being backstage, surrounded by fabric, models, and chaos.
A few times she had to come with me to class due to her Grandmother canceling last minute babysitting plans. I thank The Creator she was such a peaceful baby — quiet, content, and absolutely in love with sleep. Once, when she was only a week old, my mother‑in‑law canceled on the day of my final exam! I had no choice but to take my newborn with me.
I sat outside the classroom with my exam in my lap and my baby in a snuggie on my chest. She slept the entire time, warm and soft against me, while I wrote with one hand and steadied her with the other. I aced every class. I aced every exam. Because that’s what mothers do — we adapt, we create, we carry the world on our chests and still turn in our work on time.
My second daughter made her runway debut completely by accident. She was only a week or two old, and I was nursing her backstage when I suddenly realized I was leaking through my outfit. Another designer looked at me, looked at the baby, and said, “Use her to cover the stain. Take her on the runway.”
So I did.
The crowd loved her. She stole the show. And just like that, she walked her first runway before she could even hold her own head up.
My second daughter made her runway debut completely by accident. She was only a week or two old, and I was nursing her backstage when I suddenly realized I was leaking through my outfit. Another designer looked at me, looked at the baby, and said, “Use her to cover the stain. Take her on the runway.”
So I did.
The crowd loved her. She stole the show. And just like that, she walked her first runway before she could even hold her own head up.
THE FAMILY THAT ART BUILT
I made nearly every Halloween costume my children wore — and I still do when they ask. I’ve created pieces for their friends, mended their clothes now that they’re adults, sewn couture aprons for their homes, refurbished their furniture, restored their heirlooms, and stitched quilts for them, their partners, and my grandbabies. My creativity has always been a living, breathing part of our family.
My Son was my model for boys clothes and loved every minute of it. He inspired me to create every single day. He helped me at my first ever art show and was there when I sold my first ever piece of art. He never complained about the heat, he just pushed me to be amazing.
I opened my own design studio. Clients wanted clothes that fit them — their bodies, their personalities, their stories. I remade mothers’ wedding dresses for daughters. I created high‑end drag costumes with perfect silhouettes. I taught classes. I took interns. I built a community.
My costumes traveled the world: New York, Hollywood, London, Scotland, Ireland, India, Hawaii, Italy, Australia, Canada, Alaska, New Zealand, and more.
They appeared in local theaters, Broadway, Off‑Broadway, school productions, restaurant shows, and places I can’t legally name (NDAs) etc.
Mom Rebrands Herself
My husband is my driving force. I told him, "The kids said I should sell my art. What do you think? Will anyone buy it?"
He told me do an art show! He pointed out that I kept ending up in situations where people would ask me what I did for a living. "I am disabled", was to me, a horrible answer. But I didn't know what else to say.
One day my husband stepped in and said, "She's an artist"
As my disabilities worsened, I had to slow down. I could no longer create a $1000 costume in 24 hours. Now it might take a month or two. During COVID, everything changed. My family and I made art together. We laughed. We experimented. We rediscovered joy.
Then they saw how much art I had created over the years — and the conversations began:
“What’s Mom’s next goal?”
#Goals
Goal #1 - Sell the Art
Sell the art. Let it go into the world. Let it live, that's it, simple.
Picasso once said, “Don’t price them too high. What matters is that you sell a large number of them. Your art must go out into the world.”
Exactly.
I’ve given away vast amounts to charities over the years. Now I’m embracing my new normal, my new pace, my new self, and the Artist that I have become.
Goal #2 - Exhibition
Get into a gallery or museum — anywhere. No venue is too small, too strange, too unexpected. Just an exhibition that pays me, not one I have to pay for. Art on the walls. Name plates. Maybe even a few red dots.
In acting class, someone once asked, “You’re very good. Don’t you want to be an actor?” I said, “No. But when I’m old and retired, maybe I’ll move to California and be an extra. Extras work every day. I like being part of the process.”
My professor smiled and said, “That is an actor, my dear. And that is the attitude every actor should have.”
I shrugged. “Sir, I can’t remember my lines. I just ad‑libbed an entire play in front of you.” He laughed. “I didn’t even notice.”
I’ve always been the extra — the background magic, the quiet engine, the unseen maker.
And now, finally, the artist.
It is my time to be seen. My time to show my world.
Goal #3 — Lead the World Forward
Leave the world better than I inherited it. That is my third and lifelong goal.
I am a Women’s Rights Activist, a Human Rights Activist, and an Environmental Rights Activist. I believe deeply that our actions — not our speeches — are what change the world. Words alone rarely get the job done.
We lead by example. We show another way by living another way.
Through sustainability, through compassion, through refusing to participate in harm, through choosing creation over destruction — we teach without preaching.
My life, my art, my activism, my motherhood, my survival, my voice — all of it is rooted in one truth:
Be the proof that better is possible
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Creating beauty from the discarded, the forgotten, the overlooked — one piece at a time.
-- MrsBunnyBrooks – Avant Garde Artist