https://www.bridgetobrien.art/contact daily 0.75 2025-09-05 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/5d49e476-6006-4128-9a1c-cd85d3d4f866/IMG_0434.jpeg https://www.bridgetobrien.art/home daily 1.0 2026-02-28 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/0a0e47fe-97eb-4e5e-9c88-bd88d07a80b8/Stay+With+Me.jpeg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/0a0e47fe-97eb-4e5e-9c88-bd88d07a80b8/Stay+With+Me.jpeg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/80058c2f-e933-476f-b761-e4dcf3a1a4e7/Unfolding.jpeg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/cae253a3-07c5-48fc-bf61-c640e8b40606/Becoming+Narcissus.jpeg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/320cf6e6-d326-4847-a762-bcd276c31308/We+Were+Never+Sleeping.jpeg https://www.bridgetobrien.art/https/wwwbridgetobrienart/about-1about daily 0.75 2025-09-04 https://www.bridgetobrien.art/gallery-5-1 daily 0.75 2025-09-21 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/d57f5558-820a-4c91-b2f3-1e70dac4f63a/7A1318E6-54CF-40B9-B138-6D83428E7FED.jpg Portfolio https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/80058c2f-e933-476f-b761-e4dcf3a1a4e7/Unfolding.jpeg Portfolio https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/7044271c-248e-4834-8e6c-8c2e4adeefea/D0FA5105-AF32-42AC-915E-A82C40C6CF6D.jpg Portfolio https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/63ac12d5-cfad-40e3-aeac-f721fda8bf23/Sublime+Surrender.jpeg Portfolio https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/0a0e47fe-97eb-4e5e-9c88-bd88d07a80b8/Stay+With+Me.jpeg Portfolio https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/cae253a3-07c5-48fc-bf61-c640e8b40606/Becoming+Narcissus.jpeg Portfolio https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/320cf6e6-d326-4847-a762-bcd276c31308/We+Were+Never+Sleeping.jpeg Portfolio https://www.bridgetobrien.art/form daily 0.75 2025-09-05 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/de7880f4-5c6b-4bd7-9a8a-225979322afa/IMG_0649.jpg https://www.bridgetobrien.art/gallery-5-2 daily 0.75 2025-10-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/0a0e47fe-97eb-4e5e-9c88-bd88d07a80b8/Stay+With+Me.jpeg Gallery 5 Stay With Me Watercolor on Paper, 2025 There is a moment when you realize that love has already taken hold — not with a rush, but with a quiet inevitability. You feel the pull, and you know the risk: to reach is to be exposed, to be seen, to possibly not be met. Stay With Me lives in that breath between reaching and retreat. This painting is about the courage to remain open even as fear begins to whisper. The soft bloom at its center is not desire but trust — the fragile kind that forms when you decide to stay, even knowing you could be left waiting in that space alone. As the layers of watercolor settled, they became a record of that tension: the pulse of longing held against the steady calm of acceptance. It is not a plea to be loved, but a vow to love anyway. Because love, in its truest form, asks us to stay — not because it’s safe, but because it’s real. — Bridget I. O’Brien, 2025 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/320cf6e6-d326-4847-a762-bcd276c31308/We+Were+Never+Sleeping.jpeg Gallery 5 We Were Never Sleeping The story behind the painting I painted this in the days before the first No Kings rally. Everything outside my window felt restless—streets filling, voices finding each other, the air beginning to hum. People called it “waking up,” but I remember thinking: some of us never slept. We’ve always seen what was happening, always cared, always tried to hold the small good things in a world that can turn away too easily. At first the eyes in the painting appeared by accident. As I built up the washes of color, faint shapes kept surfacing—watchers beneath the surface. I leaned into them, letting more emerge, until the whole piece felt alive with quiet witnesses. They aren’t judging or shouting; they are simply open, refusing to look away. This work became my quiet protest and my promise: to stay awake, to keep seeing, and to honor everyone who already has. The good people were never sleeping; we were only waiting for the world to notice that our eyes were open all along. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/cae253a3-07c5-48fc-bf61-c640e8b40606/Becoming+Narcissus.jpeg Gallery 5 Narcissus Watercolor on Paper, 2025 I always thought the story of Narcissus was about punishment — a warning against looking too long, too lovingly at yourself. But when I began painting, the reflection shifted. What if seeing yourself isn’t vanity at all? What if it’s recognition? This piece became an act of looking — not in the mirror, but inward. The water’s surface, soft and tremulous, became a threshold between who I thought I was and who I had always been. Each brushstroke felt like a quiet unveiling, an acknowledgment that worth is not something granted, but something remembered. For so long I had measured myself by what others saw, or didn’t. Narcissus became the moment I stopped searching for approval in someone else’s gaze. I began to meet my own eyes and not flinch. It’s a portrait of that stillness — the sacred instant when the reflection finally looks back, and you know you’ve come home to yourself. — Bridget I. O’Brien, 2025 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/67c774e7e35d667d22c6b46e/c6cea2f9-f8ad-4df0-93da-4aad61e937aa/What+Remains+of+Her.jpeg Gallery 5 What Remains of Her (for display at the Poetry Brothel Séance) Maureen O’Rourke escaped the hunger of Ireland— the famine, the poverty, the endless grey. She and her husband crossed the ocean, chasing the promise of a better life. They found it, for a while, in the rough gold veins of Colorado. He worked the mines; she kept a small room, their hands stained with dust and hope. But when the mountain took him— as it took so many— the world offered her no gentle place to land. She lived by her wits and her will, an Irish woman surviving on the edge of Denver’s boom-town nights— where women traded what little power the world allowed them. When the world turned its gaze toward younger faces, Maureen simply stepped out into the cold. And there, the frost took her. Buried in potter’s field, unnamed and forgotten. For more than a century she lay in silence— until a séance called her name. And when she spoke, it wasn’t in terror but in fire. Her voice rose through the veil: I was not empty. I was not gone. You simply stopped seeing me. This painting is her ghost — and mine. Maybe it’s yours as well. Because how many of us still carry that same fate? Told our worth withers with age, that our bodies betray us, that we are vanishing. What remains of her is not beauty lost, but presence gained. Her eyes burn on. She lingers as a question: Will you see her? Will you say her name? — Bridget I. 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