the space between the notes- a visit with angeline sARIS
I tapped out the rhythm of “shave and a haircut” lightly on the glass door and a moment later Angeline Saris opened it with a warm smile, a cup of tea in her hand in a well-loved mug that felt like part of her everyday rhythm. “Hi… come on in.” There was no shift into performance, no sense of being “on,” just ease. It immediately felt like I was stepping into her real space… it was an honor.
Most people know Angeline as a bass player. She’s been photographed, interviewed, written about. She’s played with incredible musicians, built a real career in that world. That version of her is visible and established. But this felt different right away… quieter, more internal… like peeled down to the center of an onion… but without the tears. Her space was a multi-purpose music, art, and living space tucked into a lovely courtyard loaded with plants. It didn’t feel like she made her art for other people to enjoy, like she does her music. It felt like a place she goes to work something out. Paintings lined the walls… color, texture, movement… while gig bags rested in the corner and a beautiful blue Strat hung on the wall. The music was still there, just sharing space with something more… her art.
“When did you start painting… and why didn’t I know this about you?” She smiled. “I hid it for a long time.” “I’ve been painting probably since my 20s.” It wasn’t new… just unseen. She told me how even her closest friends from way back didn’t know, until late one fateful night she started an Instagram quietly and accidentally revealed everything when it synced to Facebook. “I woke up and there were all these comments… one of my best friends from college called me and said, ‘I think your account got hacked.’” We both laughed, but it said everything.
“It’s something I’ve always kept to myself because it’s somewhat therapeutic… I just wanted to do it because I love it and it’s like a way to cool out,” she said, motioning her hand like a steady flow. It wasn’t for an audience. It was something she returned to… what seemed like an integral part of her internal growth and connection to herself.
Putting that out there felt terrifying. She said this as she walked me over to a piece a friend had made. At first it looked abstract, but then she pointed it out… two hands holding back a square of darkness, protecting a small seedling. “You have this little seedling of a piece… a piece of art or an idea or something and you have to hold back all the darkness that can come and basically squash it. You have to be very delicate with stuff when you first start putting it on the world because it’s a seedling.” We talked about how true that is… not just in painting but in songwriting too… how the inner critic loves to eat seedlings and spit them out.
That is why it’s always important to clear your mind when you begin… softening that inner critic. “There’s always a dialogue going on… and I’m like, "nobody asked you". I constantly have to tell my mind to be quiet.”
And then there’s the outside world… the trolls on social media. “You get somebody that’s eating hot pockets in the basement…you know...” she said, laughing. But it’s real… once you put something out there, it’s no longer yours alone. “It was super scary. It’s like… here’s my heart on a silver platter with a fork and knife. Have at it!” I think that this kind of exposure takes a lot of courage and true self-esteem.
We started talking about how she paints. “I intentionally always start with a blank canvas and a blank mind.” She laughed as she added, “I never want to like be like ‘I’m going to paint the fruit bowl today.’ I’m not your fruit bowl person. Like, I respect that. I think it’s awesome, but I’m not that person.” Instead, she lets it come to her. “I just look at the colors… and I go, these are calling to me today.” Up close, the paintings revealed how they were built… small, almost square or rectangular brushstrokes placed next to each other, not blended away. The acrylic paint carried weight… texture sitting on the surface. “I’m kind of obsessed with colors having them live together but not necessarily blending them… there’s a lot of different greens here,” she pointed out, “but they’re not blended. I think that sort of creates a conversation and a sense of movement in a painting.”
I told her it felt like musical conversation… like when six people play and you can hear each instrument clearly and it works and it’s not muddied. She agreed. “There’s definitely mirroring in music, especially improvisation. There’s a communication.” That word came up more than once… communication. We talked about how that shows up in improvisation… how you’re listening as much as you’re playing… how you don’t force something, you respond to it. That’s exactly how she paints.
She pointed to a painting she made during the Napa fires. “I painted that when we had those crazy Napa fires… we all couldn’t breathe. And I felt like I was trying to create air for myself.” She didn’t paint the fire… she painted the feeling of what she needed… fresh oxygen. It was green and refreshing like some fresh pressed juice.
We moseyed on to another room and my eyes were drawn to a painting. “That’s called the divide. It’s like rare for me to paint something like hearts on a canvas, but I recently went through like a pretty big breakup after eight years… and so I just was painting, you know, painting... the stuff.” The painting showed two faceless figures, separated, with hearts floating between them. She didn’t explain it further. You know, when a relationship ends and something still exists in that space… like hanging on the 9th or 11th, not resolved… you know… the stuff.
We stayed in that space for a bit… talking about how great art comes from these types of major life transitions, and that’s when my eye drifted back across the room and landed on her bass… sitting there tall and proud like it always had… except for the one time it was stolen. “This is my main… my tried and true.” It was a Fender Jazz American Deluxe from 2003. “And then it was found… kind of like with water damage.” When she got it back, it wasn’t right. “If I played like this fret and this fret…” she showed me, “…instead of being a half step, it was a major third.” She laughed, but she didn’t replace it. She had it repaired. “This is my baby.”
She pointed to a painting. “This one’s Herbie’s Clouds.” It wasn’t a portrait… it was an atmosphere… something that reflects his movement and evolution. And of course, you know who she was listening to when she painted it.
I was curious about how it all began, and this part of our conversation really stood out. Her love of jazz didn’t come from her parents like mine had. It wasn’t something handed down. She sought it out as a youngster. There was something about it that pulled her in early. She talked about her high school jazz band… about her teacher Mark Peabody… about how that environment shaped her… how they traveled to play… she was gigging early, folks. “It was one of the best times of my life even to date.” She started on steel drums, the big bass one, then clarinet, and eventually it was Mark who guided her toward bass. It made me think about how much those early moments matter… when someone sees something in you and nudges you toward it. Mark had been writing a proposal at the time to start Marin School of the Arts and has nudged numerous players over the years, but I bet he’s especially proud of Angeline and being the first person to put a bass in her hands. “Upright?” I asked. “Electric,” she answered.
“Music saved me in a lot of ways.” She said it simply. And that’s really the thread that runs through everything. Because not every kid gets that… an instrument, a teacher, a place to put things. That’s what The Aragon Foundation is working to create… access to music, art, and dance for kids who need it most. A place to go. A way through. She understood that immediately. And that day she was dropping off instruments… a bass, a keyboard, gear… not as a statement, just as something that makes sense.
The tea cup was empty and we wrapped up and stepped outside to photograph her with the piece she’s donating… The Visitation. A hummingbird suspended in motion, surrounded by color that feels both grounded and slightly otherworldly. She had originally called it the “hummingbird angel,” then renamed it The Visitation… referencing presence… something arriving, something felt. She had experienced loss around that time. The painting doesn’t explain it… but you can feel it. That piece will be part of the auction at the May 9th gala, Bridging Creative Possibilities, co-hosted by The Aragon Foundation and DrawBridge at The Art of San Francisco.
As we were finishing up, I finally noticed her boots… black leather, snakes embossed, worn in just right.
“These are my slippers,” she said, laughing. “I’ve had them resoled like three or four times. I’ll probably be buried in them.”
We both laughed, and it was a perfect way to end our interview. Life wears you down… it shapes you. Breaks you in. Leaves you softer in some places, stronger in others. And if you’re lucky, you settle into yourself. Worn in, not worn out.
Before I left, we stood for a moment near the redwoods in her yard to snap a photo of her with her painting. “Some of the oldest in San Rafael,” she pointed out… tall, thick, quiet, grounding. For years, this part of her life lived in private… something she returned to without an audience. I was grateful for the glimpse.