Behind the Frame: An Interview with Carrie Cantwell
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Time to read 8 min
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Time to read 8 min
Honestly, I think I’ve had the story backwards for years. I used to say my film and television career taught me how to be organized—but the truth is, I gravitated toward that career because I’ve always needed order around me to feel comfortable.
My days now are built on systems. I use calendars, databases, and spreadsheets to track my pitches, licensees, and artwork. I’m essentially running a mini agency for myself: I’m the artist, account manager, and archivist all at once. That structure frees me to be loose and playful when it’s time to draw. The rigidity lives in the back office so the art doesn’t have to carry any of it.
Right now I’m deep in the second set of my Meowsterpieces of Kiterature series—cat puns on classic book titles. The first set struck a nerve in the best possible way; I had multiple licensees essentially competing over it, and I already have several waiting for the new pieces to be released.
This series is quintessentially me. Bright colors, cats, hand lettering, silly puns, and quirky plays on the familiar book titles we all grew up with. There’s something really satisfying about taking a title that lives in everybody’s memory and giving it a whiskered twist—you get that half-second of recognition, then the laugh. It’s the exact reaction I’m always chasing. Expanding the series has been a joy because I already know the world it lives in; now I just get to keep filling it.
Whenever I see a trend or subject I like, I ask myself: How would I draw this in my own style? Not how everyone else draws it or how it’s “supposed” to look—how does it look filtered through me?
It’s a bonus if I can work a cat into it. If I can make something familiar a little weirder, funnier, or more feline, that’s usually the version worth making. The quirk isn’t a garnish I add at the end—it’s the reason I picked up the pencil. If an idea doesn’t make me smile while I’m working on it, it probably isn’t mine yet.
Most of my creative roadblocks aren’t about running out of ideas—they come from trying to force an idea that isn’t mine. The fastest way out is to return to what I love: cats, color, and a funny pun.
Color is usually my way back in. I might rebuild the palette brighter or look for the joke inside the piece; once I find it, the rest often falls into place. I also keep an ongoing archive of ideas and puns, so I’m never left staring at a blank page.
And if none of that works, I go pet a cat and come back later. That one’s undefeated.
Cats. Always cats. My own cats are my biggest source of inspiration—their expressions, absurd sleeping positions, and slightly blinky faces when they wake up. You can’t invent that stuff; you can only observe it.
Beyond that, it’s simply how I see the world. I don’t decide that a piece should be vibrant; bright color is the register I live in. My influences are less about following what’s current and more about noticing what delights me. If something makes me laugh or look twice, it usually finds its way into my work.
It wasn’t a strategy. My signature style emerged after years of making the art I wanted to see in the world instead of art aimed at a market.
For a long time, I tried to make work that looked like what I thought art was supposed to look like. Once I began following what genuinely amused me, the colors got brighter, the cats multiplied, and the jokes got worse in the best way. Suddenly, the work was recognizably mine.
Since then, the evolution has been less about changing direction and more about getting braver. Each year, I lean harder into the parts that are unmistakably me instead of sanding them down. “Artwork with quirk” isn’t a brand I invented—it’s simply the most accurate description of what kept coming out.
This is going to sound contrarian, but I threw a lot of it out the window.
Graphic design for film and television demands structure and a need for everything to make logical sense. That discipline is valuable, but embracing my own style required giving myself permission to break those rules. Letting go of “correct” allowed my voice to come through.
Still, you never fully unlearn the instincts for hierarchy, balance, and making a piece read clearly from across a room. They’re doing quiet work underneath the chaos, allowing my art to be loud and busy while still feeling intentional. The training is the floor; the quirk is everything I built on top of it.
I want them to laugh. That’s the whole thing, really.
I hope someone walks past a piece on an ordinary Tuesday, catches the pun for the hundredth time, and still gets a little flicker of delight from it. So much of what we put in our homes is meant to be tasteful and quiet, but I’d rather create the piece that makes a guest stop, lean in, and grin.
If my art makes someone’s home feel a little happier and a little more like them, I’ve done my job.
Don’t be afraid to be weird. That’s the short version.
Embrace your inner nerd. If you’re into something—no matter how strange or niche it seems—double down on it. The things that feel too odd to share are often what make your work impossible to mistake for anyone else’s.
Life is too short to make art for someone else—or for an imaginary buyer you hope will like it. Make the art you want to see, and trust that the people who love it will find you. Just make sure there’s something distinct enough for them to find.
The same goes for collecting. Buy the piece that makes you feel something over the piece that matches your couch. You’ll live with it much longer than you’ll live with that couch.
Carrie Cantwell is an illustrator and pattern designer known for bright colors, whimsical humor, and a particular fondness for drawing animals—especially cats. Before becoming a full-time independent artist and Skillshare Top Teacher, she spent 16 years creating graphics for major film and television productions. Her work has been featured by NPR, TED, UPPERCASE Magazine, and CreativeMornings.