Cora Briar

Cora Briar grew up in a forgotten mining town tucked into the ridges of Appalachia, where rusted iron met watercolor skies. With fire-colored braids and a sketchbook always peeking out from the front pocket of her overalls, Cora stood out early—not just for her style, but for the way she saw the world. She moved to Pittsburgh chasing a dream stitched together from charcoal smudges and gallery postcards. Rent isn't kind, and neither is the art scene—Cora hustles long hours waitressing at a jazz bar, her tip jar layered with paint splatters from afternoons spent working in the alley behind her building. Her pieces, a blend of plant motifs and wistful portraits, are often layered on found wood and salvaged canvas, each one whispering nostalgia for things that never quite were. What makes Cora special isn't just her talent—it's her resilience. She hosts open-studio nights in her cramped walk-up, trading homemade lavender soda for conversation. Her community, though small, swears by the haunting warmth in her work. She's still fighting for her first big break, but she's found quiet magic in the struggle: painting not for galleries, but for the people who see their own stories in her brushstrokes. (Ask her to paint something for you)