The “B.” is for Brookelyn
But you can call me Taylor. I'm an artist, educator, designer, and jack-of-all-trades based out of Greenville, South Carolina.
I was raised barefoot along the briar patches and creek beds of Tennessee and the Carolinas, and have learned the value of hard work, storytelling, family cooking, and sun-warmed tomatoes.
I love meeting new people and am available for freelance work, collaboration, and studio visits. Feel free to poke me for a chat!
Until then – stay curious.
Experience
à la glance
Adjunct Professor of Art
SCSA Dept. of Art + Design
2023–Present
Fine Artist
ArtBomb Studios
2021–Present
Freelance/Contract Graphic Designer + Illustrator
Sidewalk Studio, World Finance, et al.
2021–Present
Skills
Branding, Education, Ideation, Illustration, Print, Research, Web Design
Tools
Illustrator, InDesign, Photoshop, Lightroom
Figma, CSS, HTML
Exhibitions
Dreamscapes Juried Show
Greenville, SC
2025
ArtBomb Spring Show
Greenville, SC
2025
Origin Painting & Drawing Invitational Alumni Showcase
Anderson University, SC
2025
Awards
Dwain Skinner Open Studios Fellow
Metropolitan Arts Council
Greenville, SC
2024
School-Awarded Scholarship
Clark University, MA
2024
Strauss-Mosse Merit Award
Clark University, MA
2024
A Random Fact
since you made it this far
In 1959, Jimmy Stewart and his wife Gloria smuggled Yeti remains – a finger, to be exact – out of India as a favor to his pal Peter Byrne. With the assistance of Gloria’s lady luggage, the Hollywood partners-in-crime were able to successfully transport the relic to the U.S.
Last Updated 07.08.25Almanac
For the
back pocket
Dust
In Praise of Shadows
Joy: 100 Poems
The Weight of Glory
Faux Pas.
Art + Faith
Walking on Water
Ninth Street Women
Fractals
Pacific Art
The Unseen Realm
Category Crisis
Monster Project
July
I’ve seen nearly 30 years of summer suns. Tonight’s was the first that seemed to melt in the sky, butter-soft as it dripped off the oaks.
Standing on the roof – sun above, tar below, sweat everywhere in between – I felt the breeze still for the gliding sparrows, the building sigh, gently, beneath my feet.
June
The bobby pin hit the public bathroom floor.
And there it stayed.
You momentarily look away. Surely, steady Earth will respect your absence! You return to find hands folded, colors faded, memories clinging to every surface, like mold. Did the glass shatter or are those — bones?
The residue of the senses develops into the stubbornest stains.
I need to say it – more for me than for you, so please don’t be offended:
I am not my website.
May
There have been seasons when I have been hesitant to call myself a painter. “Gardener,” on the other hand, and for whatever reason, seems more harmless. I suppose slinging dirt and dung carries less expectation than slinging paint and turpentine. If not less, at least different. Isn’t that silly?
April
As light skips across billowing shades, paper quivers.
October
The murder lies stamped into the scarred and swollen clay, sawdust pooling like blood, seedling spawn scattered.
September
The birds abandoned their gnarly post, casting their bodies against the blue – gravity shattered by their silhouettes.
March
A love like starlight – shimmery, captivating, reeling, reveling – aching bewitchment in spite of the cold. Wonder bursts into a blinding streak. The night swallows me whole. I drift in her depths.
July
What a perfectly dreary day. I wish I had savored it more. Running down for the mail in the rain was simply fantastic.
June
Soft wrinkles and Southern roads, evidence of frequent travelers – meanders and belov’d expressions.
January
The muddy pigment between expansive future and vivacious past, the streaking blaze in our ever-shifting memories. The yellows and greens and pinks and greys nestled between the setting sun and oncoming night – the twilight, the becoming.
Each moment, though seemingly static and still, is actively becoming the past even as we become our future selves. We know who we once were, the backroads we once haunted; but who we will be is rooted in the moment, the static, the still. That is the essence – the essence of becoming.
December
The shadow blinked – once without thinking then twice with a smile. It stepped from its corner, a generous gesture, but still to be questioned considering the wily flick of its tail.
November
I miss the days when we would sit on the swings, heads thrown back, falling into the sky.
A familiar space – reflective, uncertain. The delicate moment at the koi pond’s surface, crumbs kissing its face, colors emerging, mouths gaping.
October
An endless reel of memory and blinding color, billboards and passersby, plastered with voice-overs and one or two soundtracks, conversations from last night’s dinner on the patio; and red yarn, strung from building to building to billboard to person to color to noise–everything tangled and connected somehow. Standing in the center of it all, eyes out of focus, every detail meanders by in turn, intricate and precious, then all at once undefined. Eyes into focus. Daisy grin.
© Brookelyn Taylor Harrison 2025