Kary Hess: Petaluma has developed a vibrant community of artist-run galleries and studios over the past several years. What makes The WTRSHD building and the Magic Shop Studios unique places for artists and audiences? What do you think is happening here that feels different from a decade ago?
Jennifer Mygatt Tatum: The WTRSHD building is more than a venue—it’s a living creative ecosystem. On any given day, artists, makers, entrepreneurs, and community members cross paths in the hallways sharing ideas, supporting one another’s work, and contributing to a larger creative culture. When four exhibitions open on the same evening (which is happening this weekend), visitors can experience multiple perspectives and conversations simultaneously.
What feels different in Sonoma County today is the growing confidence of its creative community. Artists are no longer waiting for opportunities to appear—they are creating them. We’ve seen artist-run galleries, collectives, shared studios, pop-up exhibitions, and collaborative events emerge. There’s a willingness to experiment, support one another, and build spaces that didn’t exist before.
When I founded Magic Shop Studios in 2020, my hope was to create a place where artists could work alongside one another rather than in isolation. What I’ve seen since then is a broader movement happening throughout Petaluma and Sonoma County. Artists, musicians, writers, and makers are finding ways to connect their individual practices into something larger. In a world that increasingly exists online, these physical creative spaces have taken on an even greater importance.
Your current exhibition at G Street Gallery is called “Between Canopy and Current”. What first drew you to the idea of connections within landscapes rather than viewing nature as separate places?
For much of my life, I’ve been drawn to places that invite solitude—old-growth forests, river corridors, mountain trails, and remote cabins. At first, I experienced these landscapes as distinct destinations, each with its own character and story. But over time, I began to see that they are not separate at all. The forest depends on the river. The river carries the memory of the mountain. Fire, weather, soil, plants, animals, and people are all part of an interconnected system.
My years spending time in the Eldorado National Forest, witnessing both its beauty and the devastation of the Caldor Fire, deepened that understanding. I saw how a single event could transform an entire ecosystem, yet also how regeneration begins through the relationships that continue beneath the surface. What appears disconnected is actually in constant conversation. The title “Between Canopy and Current” speaks to that space of relationship. My work is less about depicting a specific location and more about revealing those connections.
Your work layers Mokulito printmaking (this looks really cool!), hand carving, beeswax, ink, graphite, and other materials, including charred wood. What do these multiple processes allow you to express that a single medium couldn’t?
I don’t think a single medium could fully express what I’m trying to communicate. My work is often about the accumulation of experience—the traces left behind by time, fire, weather, and human presence. Layering materials allows the work to hold complexity, contradiction, and transformation. The process becomes a reflection of the landscape itself: built over time, carrying evidence of what came before, while continually evolving into something new. I’ve always been interested in materials that carry their own history. A piece of burnt bark, for example, isn’t just a mark-making tool—it already contains a story. When I bring these materials together, they create a conversation between place, memory, and process.
How do you see your work in conversation with the other exhibitions opening that evening, particularly “My Mother’s Garden”, which also explores cycles, growth and transformation?
Although our approaches and imagery may be very different, we’re both exploring the ways transformation unfolds over time. The exhibit, “My Mother’s Garden” reflects on cycles of growth, tending, memory, and renewal through the intimate space of a garden. In my work, those same themes are present on a larger landscape scale and are shaped by cycles like fire and regeneration. Both exhibitions ask us to consider how change is not an isolated event but an ongoing process.
What interests me most is the idea that growth often happens in ways we cannot immediately see. In a garden, roots are forming beneath the surface long before a flower blooms. In a forest, ecological relationships are constantly evolving beneath the canopy. In our own lives, transformation can be just as subtle and gradual. I think both exhibitions invite viewers to slow down and pay attention to those quieter processes.
There is also a shared thread of care. A garden exists because someone tends it. Likewise, the landscapes that inspire my work remind us that we are participants in the natural world, not merely observers. Whether we’re caring for a garden, a watershed, a forest, or a community, we’re part of a larger cycle of stewardship and reciprocity.
“There is a growing recognition that the arts contribute to the vitality of a place in the same way that agriculture, food, and environmental stewardship do.”
Jennifer Tatum
Sonoma County has long been known for wine, food and agriculture. Do you think art is becoming a larger part of the county’s identity?
Sonoma County has earned its reputation through its extraordinary agricultural landscape, wineries, food culture, and natural beauty, and those will always be an important part of its identity. But I believe we are in the midst of a significant cultural evolution. Art is becoming an increasingly visible and important part of how people experience and understand this region.
Ten years ago, many artists here were working quietly and independently. Today, there is a stronger sense of collective identity and visibility. What excites me is that this growth is happening organically. Across the county, artists are creating studios, galleries, collectives, public art projects, workshops, and community-based events that are expanding access to the arts.
Places like Petaluma’s Warehouse District have become creative hubs where artists are not only making work but also building community and inviting the public into the process. There is a growing recognition that the arts contribute to the vitality of a place in the same way that agriculture, food, and environmental stewardship do.
I think people are increasingly seeking experiences that are authentic and meaningful. They want to connect with the people who make things, whether that’s a farmer, a winemaker, a chef, or an artist.
Looking ahead ten years, how do you think the art landscape might evolve?
I believe the opening of the Eames Institute’s future museum campus near the Petaluma-Novato border has the potential to be transformative. The Eameses were visionaries who worked across disciplines—design, art, architecture, film, education, and innovation. A world-class institution dedicated to their legacy will bring national and international attention to the creative energy already present in this region. It will attract visitors, scholars, designers, artists, and curious minds from around the world.
What’s especially exciting is that this development is arriving at a moment when there’s already momentum building across Sonoma County. I don’t see Sonoma County just becoming an arts destination instead of a food, wine, and agricultural destination. I see those identities becoming more interconnected. The arts offer another way of understanding and celebrating this place.
When someone who doesn’t normally visit contemporary art walks through these exhibitions, how can they think and feel about the work?
I’d hope they feel welcomed rather than intimidated. One of the things I love about art is that you don’t need any special training to have a meaningful experience with it. You don’t need to know the history of printmaking, understand contemporary art theory, or even know what the artist intended. You simply need to be willing to look, slow down, and notice what arises. Maybe a piece brings up a memory, a feeling, or a question. Those responses are just as important as any explanation I could provide. Rather than asking, “What does this mean?” they might ask, “What am I noticing?” or “What does this remind me of?” If someone leaves feeling a little more attentive, a little more reflective, or a little more connected to the world around them, then I feel the work has done its job.