Today we’d like to introduce you to Ennedi Shtanko.
Hi Ennedi, so excited to have you with us today. What can you tell us about your story?
Looking back, I realize every chapter of my life prepared me for the next one. I just didn’t know it at the time.
When I was a little girl, being raised in Paysandú, Uruguay, I couldn’t have imagined that one day I’d be painting murals across Virginia. My story didn’t begin with art—it began with watching two parents leave everything they knew in pursuit of a better life.
During her senior year of high school, my mom was selected as an exchange student in Casco, Maine. She learned English, experienced life in America, and returned to Uruguay with a dream she couldn’t shake. She knew that if she wanted a different future for herself and the family she hoped to have one day, she would have to come back.
Years later, she did.
When I was young, my mom, dad, older brother, and I immigrated legally to the United States. Like so many immigrant families, we arrived in New York with more hope than possessions and spent the next several years building a life while working toward becoming American citizens. My little brother was born making him the first generation American for our family lineage.
I don’t remember feeling like we had very little.
I remember what my parents created.
Our kitchen table had been rescued from a dumpster. Our living room consisted of outdoor furniture that was found on the side of the road – two white wicker chairs and a little wicker couch without cushions. One afternoon, my mom spray-painted them a rich, dark green.
As a child, I thought she was simply changing the color.
Looking back, I realize she was teaching me one of the greatest lessons of my life.
Beauty isn’t something you wait for.
Sometimes it’s something you create.
Eventually, my parents decided New York wasn’t where they wanted to raise a family. While driving to Florida, they passed through the Shenandoah Valley. The farmland reminded them of Uruguay, and although the Blue Ridge Mountains were new, everything else felt familiar.
They knew they had found home.
After returning to New York, we packed everything we owned and moved to Virginia.
For about a week, we stayed in a Motel 6 while my dad searched for work. I remember eating pizza almost every day and thinking we were on vacation! Looking back, I realize that week could have lasted much longer. It didn’t, because my dad found work on a local farm almost immediately.
Quitting simply wasn’t part of who my parents were.
Overnight, my world changed.
Factories became farmland.
Sidewalks became dirt roads.
My brothers and I traded city streets for caves, cattle watering troughs, and muddy adventures.
A few years later, my parents opened “The Battlefield Restaurant” in New Market.
When my parents went to work, so did us kids.
Between the ages of seven and nine, I spent countless afternoons there doing homework, learning to play the piano between lunch and dinner, riding my bike through the back parking lot, and taking orders for many of our beloved regulars.
Looking back, I wasn’t just helping at my family’s restaurant.
I was learning how to listen.
I was learning how to talk to people.
I was learning that everyone has a story worth hearing.
I didn’t realize it then, but those lessons would become just as important to my career as learning how to paint. Every mural I create begins with listening before I ever pick up a brush.
In April of 2008, after fourteen years of waiting, I proudly became a naturalized citizen of the United States. I graduated from high school at seventeen and soon left for U.S. Navy boot camp.
By the time I graduated basic training, I had already advanced to the rank of E-3. That early promotion meant more to me than the stripe on my uniform—it affirmed that I had found exactly where I was meant to be. For the first time, everything made sense. I wasn’t just serving my country; I had found purpose, direction, and a mission bigger than myself.
Serving the country that had given my family so much was one of the greatest honors of my life.
As an Aviation Boatswain’s Mate (Handler) aboard the USS *Wasp* (LHD-1), I helped launch and recover aircraft, became certified in shipboard and aircraft firefighting, managed my division’s maintenance program, and worked with leadership throughout the chain of command to ensure critical responsibilities were carried out to the highest standard.
By the time I was nineteen years old, I had received Letters of Commendation from Admirals, challenge coins from senior leaders, and had earned a reputation as someone with tremendous potential to become a military leader.
Ironically, one of my favorite jobs was one almost everyone else dreaded.
Painting.
I loved repainting equipment, safety markings, and spaces throughout the hangar bay. There was something incredibly satisfying about taking a worn, hardworking place and leaving it better than I found it.
Looking back now, I think painting had been quietly finding me long before I realized I would one day need it.
When my military career unexpectedly came to an end, it felt like I had lost my identity overnight.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t the person others leaned on.
I was the one who needed help.
Reaching out was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
Eventually, I found myself sitting in a room on the fifth floor of the Behavioral Health Unit, barely clinging to life.
One afternoon, an art therapist walked into my room pushing a cart full of art supplies.
She had no idea she was placing my future in front of me.
The first thing I painted was a sailboat.
Underneath it I wrote, *”Smooth seas never made a skillful sailor.”*
At the time, it was simply a quote that spoke to me.
Looking back, I realize it became the compass I would return to every time life asked me to weather another storm.
Art didn’t become my career because I wanted to be an artist.
It became my career because it taught me how to survive… and eventually, how to live.
Life slowly found its rhythm again.
I got married, became a mother, bought a home, and built a career in the legal field before eventually joining our local Department of Social Services.
For a while, I hardly painted at all because life finally felt… normal.
Then life changed again.
Painting found me when I needed it most.
Money was tight, so I started painting Christmas gifts using my children’s craft paint. Friends encouraged me to submit my work to a local art exhibition. There were over one hundred submissions, and only eleven artists were selected.
Two of my paintings made it in.
That felt like another door opening.
Maybe painting wasn’t just helping me heal.
Maybe it was showing me where I was meant to go.
In May of 2023, I registered my business and received my EIN.
My first year wasn’t glamorous.
I sold a handful of paintings and painted a few murals.
Then, by the end of 2024, my life changed once again.
I was a newly single mother with two young children, a brand-new mortgage, and a business that was still finding its footing.
Every decision suddenly carried more weight because two sets of little eyes were watching how I responded to uncertainty.
One afternoon, I remember sitting in my office at the Department of Social Services thinking,
“I’m one bad phone call away from becoming a full-time artist.”
About twenty minutes later…
That phone rang.
I packed my office.
Turned in my badge.
Loaded my trunk.
And drove away terrified.
But I also drove away hopeful.
There’s another quote that has stayed with me over the years:
*”Experience is what you get when you didn’t get what you wanted.”*
I’ve found that to be true.
The hardest chapters of my life were never the ones I would have chosen, but every one of them prepared me for the next.
Today, when people see one of my murals, they see paint.
I see every chapter that came before it.
I see a little girl whose parents crossed an ocean with nothing but faith.
I see a restaurant that taught me how to listen.
I see a young sailor who learned to lead.
I see a woman on the fifth floor who learned that asking for help is one of the bravest things a person can do.
I see a mother who chose courage over comfort because two little people were watching.
Looking back, I realize I didn’t become an artist because I learned how to paint.
I became an artist because life taught me how to see.
My mother taught me to see beauty where others saw something discarded.
My father taught me that hard work is an act of love.
The Navy taught me discipline.
My children taught me courage.
Art taught me that healing and purpose can become the very same thing.
Every mural I paint is simply the sum of all those lessons, layered one brushstroke at a time.
Would you say it’s been a smooth road, and if not what are some of the biggest challenges you’ve faced along the way?
For a long time, I thought my biggest challenge WAS becoming a full-time artist.
Looking back, I realize it started much earlier than that.
Growing up, I always felt a little different.
Spanish was my first language, and while I learned English quickly, becoming bilingual was much easier than becoming bicultural. Inside our home, we had one way of communicating, joking, celebrating, and seeing the world. Outside our home, there was another. I was constantly trying to understand the unwritten rules everyone else seemed to know instinctively.
I spent much of my childhood feeling like I didn’t fully belong in either world.
I was also diagnosed with ADHD later in life, in my late twenties. Suddenly, so many pieces of my childhood made sense. I was the kid who asked too many questions, noticed details other people overlooked, and struggled to understand why I never quite fit into one group. I was incredibly sensitive to rejection and became an expert at masking who I was, constantly trying to adapt to whatever environment I found myself in.
It was exhausting.
Therapy helped me realize something I wish I had known much earlier.
The very things I spent years trying to hide were some of my greatest strengths.
Today, I see my ADHD as a gift.
It allows me to notice details that others often miss. It fuels my curiosity and my love of learning. I still ask a lot of questions because I genuinely want to understand the people, places, and history behind every mural I create. Those questions became the foundation of my artistic process.
Another challenge was believing I was “allowed” to call myself an artist.
I’m completely self-taught.
The last art class I ever took was in the fourth grade.
Everything else came from curiosity.
I watched Bob Ross, filled sketchbooks with drawings wherever I went, studied books about light, shadow, perspective, and composition, and taught myself by observing the world around me. Even today, you’ll rarely find me without a sketchbook, pencils, and an eraser. My kids laugh about it all the time and ask, “Mom, why do you carry that everywhere?”
My answer is always the same.
Because you never know where inspiration will strike next.
Of course, leaving a secure government career to become a full-time artist brought its own challenges. There were plenty of people who questioned my decision, especially as a single mother with two young children.
The truth is, I understood their concern.
They weren’t trying to tear me down.
Most were trying to protect me.
The hardest part was learning not to let their fears become my own.
I kept coming back to one question:
*How could something that made me feel so alive possibly be the wrong path?*
Looking back, I’ve realized that courage isn’t the absence of fear or doubt.
It’s choosing to move forward anyway.
Every challenge I’ve faced has taught me something about myself, and every chapter has prepared me for the next one.
Today, the little girl who once wondered where she belonged gets to help communities tell their stories through art.
In a way, I think I was searching for belonging all along.
I just didn’t realize I would eventually find it with a paintbrush in my hand.
Can you tell our readers more about what you do and what you think sets you apart from others?
My work is rooted in storytelling. While I work across several styles, I’m best known for creating immersive, large-scale murals that celebrate the history, culture, and identity of the communities they belong to. Before I ever put pencil to paper, I spend countless hours researching the people, places, and stories that make each location unique. I dive into local history, interview community members, explore historical photographs, study architecture and landscapes, and search for the small details that might otherwise be overlooked. Those details often become the hidden elements woven throughout my murals, inviting viewers to slow down, look closer, and discover something new each time they visit. I believe public art should feel like it belongs to the people who see it every day. My goal isn’t simply to create something beautiful—it’s to create something meaningful. Every mural is designed to tell a story, spark conversation, preserve history, and leave a community feeling seen, celebrated, and connected to the place they call home.
Where we are in life is often partly because of others. Who/what else deserves credit for how your story turned out?
There are so many people who have believed in me long before I fully believed in myself, but one couple in particular changed the trajectory of my life.
Sara and Dan Anderson gave me my first job after I left the Department of Social Services. Every day for months, I worked in a beautiful 1800s antebellum mansion in Luray, Virginia that they had recently purchased. My job wasn’t glamorous—I spent my days removing layers of wallpaper and preparing the home for what it would eventually become.
At first glance, it didn’t seem like art.
Looking back, I realize it taught me something invaluable.
Before there can be a masterpiece, there has to be a canvas.
Preparing a surface is just as important as painting it, and I approached that work with the same care and pride that I bring to every mural today. Sara and Dan never treated me like someone who was simply working a job. They believed in my dream. They came to every art show and festival they could, purchased my artwork for their home, children, and their short-term rentals, encouraged me when I questioned myself, and reminded me that I was building something bigger than I could see at the time.
Their belief in me came at a time when I needed it most, and I’ll always be grateful for that.
I’d also be remiss if I didn’t thank my children. Every leap of faith I’ve taken has been with them in mind. They are the reason I chose courage over comfort, and I hope that as they grow older, they’ll remember not the uncertainty of those years, but that their mom had the courage to build a life that was meaningful.
Luke, for hearing my wild ideas – and instead of joining the crowd of nonbelievers, he told me “Baby, keep dreaming…” He has helped load, unload, pack, and unpack all of my paint supplies more times than I can count; especially when I was outgrowing my space and studio. He listens to my “Brain Blasts”, as I like to call them, and is the most incredible sounding board when no one else could see my vision. He has believed in me from day one, supported my dreams from day one, and helped grow from a “studio” aka storing my stuff in a closet – to the most incredible studio that I have now. I pray that everyone has or finds a “Luke” for life. He, and I can honestly say this with every atom in my body, is the biggest reason I still create art to this day.
Finally, I give all glory to God.
I recently heard a quote that deeply resonated with me: *”I am not an artist. I am an instrument. And instruments don’t take credit for the music.”*
That perfectly describes how I feel about the work I do.
I’m grateful for the hands that can hold a paintbrush, the eyes that notice colors and details others might overlook (even though my mother was told while I was in the womb that I would be born blind), the strength to climb ladders day after day, and the mind that sees stories hidden within communities. Those gifts aren’t something I take credit for—they’re gifts I’ve been entrusted with. My hope is simply to use them well and create work that leaves people, places, and communities a little better than I found them.
Contact Info:
- Website: https://www.StudioSasquatch.art
- Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/studio_sasquatch/
