Meet Kat Nolte | Artist

We had the good fortune of connecting with Kat Nolte and we’ve shared our conversation below.

Hi Kat, have you ever found yourself in a spot where you had to decide whether to give up or keep going? How did you make the choice?
I know what it feels like to give up—because I did. As a kid, I was constantly creating. I even wrote on a school assignment when I was around eight years old that I wanted to be an artist when I grew up. Art always came naturally to me—it was the one thing I felt quietly confident in, like it was woven into who I am.

But life got heavy. I struggled with depression through my teens and early twenties, and right out of high school, I started working full-time. I let my creativity go completely. For nearly a decade I hardly made anything. That disconnection from my creative self was one of the darkest and most lost periods of my life.

A few years ago, something in me shifted. I started sketching again, just to feel something, and eventually picked up a paintbrush. A year and a half ago I started teaching myself acrylic, moved to watercolors, and then finally oil and it felt like coming back to life. Like finding a part of myself I didn’t even realize I was grieving.

So now, when I wonder if I should keep going, I remind myself of what it felt like not to create—and I never want to feel that hollow again. Creating isn’t just something I love; it’s something I need. It’s how I process emotions, how I connect with others, and how I stay grounded.

That said, I still have hard days. Burnout happens. Doubt creeps in. But I’ve learned to pause instead of quit. To rest. To listen. If the spark is still there—even faintly—I take that as a reason to keep going. Because for me, art isn’t about chasing success. It’s about staying connected to the most honest part of myself. And that’s something I’ll always come back to.

Alright, so let’s move onto what keeps you busy professionally?
My art is where I process everything I don’t have words for. A lot of it is rooted in the space between emotion and memory—grief, healing, overthinking, identity, transformation. I try to create something that feels like a reflection of being human. Sometimes soft and quiet, sometimes chaotic and tangled, but always honest.

I primarily work in acrylic and oil, and I’m self-taught in both. My style lives somewhere between surreal and emotional realism. I love layering, experimenting, and letting the piece evolve naturally. What sets my work apart, I think, is the vulnerability I bring to it. I don’t shy away from the messiness of emotion—I invite it in. I want people to feel something when they look at my work, even if they don’t know exactly why. That kind of quiet, emotional connection is what excites me the most.

The road here hasn’t been easy. I was always creative as a kid and even wrote that I wanted to be an artist when I grew up. But after high school, I started working full-time and, for nearly a decade, I didn’t create much at all. I was struggling with deep depression and I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d left behind. A few years ago, I slowly started drawing again. Then I picked up a paintbrush. I taught myself how to use acrylic, watercolors, then oil, and it felt like I was finally coming home to myself.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that the creative path isn’t linear. There are seasons of growth and seasons of stillness. Rest doesn’t mean failure, and progress doesn’t always look like output. I’ve also learned the importance of listening to my body and intuition, even when the world pushes for constant productivity.

If there’s one thing I hope people take away from my work, it’s that you’re allowed to feel deeply. You’re allowed to be messy, soft, strange, searching. There’s space for all of it. My art holds pieces of myself, but I hope it holds pieces of others too—like a mirror, or a memory, or a quite place to rest.

Let’s say your best friend was visiting the area and you wanted to show them the best time ever. Where would you take them? Give us a little itinerary – say it was a week long trip, where would you eat, drink, visit, hang out, etc.
If my best friend came to visit for a week, I wouldn’t want it to feel overly planned. Just a string of slow, grounding days—good food, creative pauses, lots of laughter, and a few little moments that stay with you long after.

We’d probably start with the farmers market on Sunday morning—wandering through stalls full of flowers and fruit we’ll carry around like we live in a slower, more romantic version of real life. Coffee in hand, no rush. That’s how the week should begin.

One morning would definitely be brunch at A.O.C—chicken and waffles, obviously—and the kind of conversation where we don’t realize two hours have passed. Another day we’d make our way to Santa Monica, eat lunch at Sol Agave, and walk barefoot along the coast, letting the ocean quiet our thoughts like it always does.

Dockweiler would get a full day. We’d bring blankets, snacks, a speaker, and a cornhole set, set up camp and let the day stretch out. Friends would stop by throughout—laughing, lounging, helping us keep the fire going once the sun starts to dip. It’s the kind of day that rolls into night without you even noticing.

Some evenings would be cozy—dinner at Hatchet Hall, ice cream at Gingers after, and drinks at Big Foot West, which always feels like the kind of spot you end up staying longer than you planned to. One night we’d get a little dressed up for a dinner at Baltaire—intentional, warm, and a little celebratory just for the sake of it.

We’d have sushi at both Uzumaki and Sugarfish at some point because we wouldn’t want to choose just one. We’d wander around Abbot Kinney, try on sunglasses we’ll probably wear the rest of the trip, step into little shops just to be curious, and maybe grab a drink at The Brig if we’re still feeling social. Another night, Wurstküche in Venice—for great sausages, cold beer, and an easygoing kind of energy.

There’d be a game night at home with friends. And yes—we take our board games way too seriously, but that’s half the fun. There’s always some spirited back-and-forth, alliances forming, silent stares during Codenames or overly dramatic moves in Catan. It’s all very serious… and very fun.

We’d make space for a quiet night in too—painting, talking, music playing in the background, just letting things unfold naturally. And we’d definitely spend an afternoon at LACMA. I love sharing that kind of space with someone—where you’re both taking in the same pieces but feeling them in your own way.

By the end of the week, I wouldn’t want us to feel exhausted—I’d want us to feel full. Like we’d had time to slow down, to laugh, to be inspired, and to really be present with each other. That’s the kind of trip I’d want to give someone I love.

Who else deserves some credit and recognition?
Absolutely—there’s no way I’d be where I am without the love, support, and encouragement of the people around me.

My partner Pat has been a huge part of this journey—steadfast, kind, and constantly encouraging me to believe in myself, even on the days when I can’t quite see the bigger picture. My best friend Audrey has also been a grounding force—someone who reminds me, through laughter and deep conversations, that I don’t have to go through any of this alone.

I’m especially grateful to my parents for encouraging my creativity from a young age. My mom was the first person to teach me how to draw, and that small act planted something that stayed with me, even during the years I stopped creating. I also owe so much to my older cousin Gaylynn who I looked up to constantly. I watched her grow into an incredible artist, and seeing someone in my own family pursue that path made it feel possible for me too.

And then there’s the creative community—fellow artists, clients, collectors, even kind strangers who take the time to send a thoughtful message or support my work. Even the smallest gestures of encouragement have had a lasting impact on me and my work.

Website: KatNolte.com

Instagram: @kat_nolte

Twitter: @NolteKat

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TikTok: @katnolte