sarah

Sarah Trumpp was born in urban California but raised in Colorado farm country in a town with more cows than people.  She was always the weird girl, the supposed devil worshipper, the only mohawk in a sea of mullets and bouffants, and she spent most of her adolescence reading horror novels and trying to talk to ghosts.  She joined her first band at the age of 16 and turned her creative mind to writing soul-searingly bad song lyrics and horrific poetry.  Once of legal age, she wandered.

She spent a year hating college in Illinois before moving back to Colorado and taking up life as a waitress, writing more horrific poetry and filling journals with angst and weird little doodles. This habit followed her to Las Vegas where she once again joined a band and wrote bad songs on purpose, found her love, had a child, and moved back to Colorado where she married her love and had another child.  She spent the next few years bouncing around the country, moving to North Dakota, Arizona, back to Vegas, and finally ending up in rural New York where her itchy feet at last found solace.  She had yet another child, and her family began to grow roots.

Sarah had (thankfully) given up on the idea of being a cringeworthy lyricist and poet and had started devoting her creative energy to drawing, painting, and occasionally tattooing.  She happily discovered the world of mail art in August of 2008 and found inspiration in the most bizarre places and joy in the surreal, and the thought of little pieces of her art wandering through the world satisfied her gypsy heart.  Most of all, she found kindred spirits.

Now she spends her days working from home while wrangling a toddler, a teenager, and an in-betweener; annoying her husband; dabbling in debauchery; creating sometimes-pretty and always bizarre art; and generally making a nuisance of herself.  She’s back in a town with more cows than people and is finally home.

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