my books

erin faith allen author

Someone complained recently that my books are too expensive.


Well, they are 344 and 408 pages, and 8.5x11 inches. They weigh between 4 and 5 pounds.

Full color, front to back, and filled mostly with sizable collections of my art. 

Additionally, they are filled with deeply personal stories about my life, and the lives of some pretty amazing people mine has intersected with.

I don’t mess around in life. In art. Or in being transparent and real. Or in research. Or in creating. In anything, really.

I split myself open in order to grow personally, to act as a guardian, or a guide, or a mirror. 
On a good day, my books are a kind of a muse for any person on a mission to live a better life. 
Ya know, the kind of life in which you live, feel, and heal all the sh*t that’s holding you back.

Sorry for my potty mouth. Just keeping it real. I swear in my books occasionally, too. 
On a practical note, these babies are mothertrucking expensive to print. Like, whopping.

I suppose I could just make puny little books; black and white pages filled with just words because that is cheapest to print. 

I could produce books that are sparse on the art + life + soul divulging side of things.

That’s not how I roll. 🤷‍♀️ How I roll is knowing that by opening myself, I provide a space for others to find the parts of themselves they’ve pushed down or left behind.

How I roll is complete and utter devotion to the causes I believe in. Humanity. Healing. Creating. Being a benevolent force of balanced good. 

How I roll is following my visions wildly, pursuing what is true for me, and offering my full self in return for anyone who is interested in cracking open one of my books ... I get it that if you are expecting a ‘normal’ book with words on pages, these books may seem expensive.

But. My books are anything but normal. All things considered, $45 and $55 seem a fair enough price.


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Well, sometimes I forget to brush my hair. That’s usually a good sign though. It means I’m in full creative bloom, lost in other worlds, and not really interested in surface-y things. I mean ... I’m me ... so the surface of life is kinda ‘meh’ regardless yaknowwhatimean?

This is good news for all my friends in DEEPER. This week I’ve been ALL IN, creating course content that beats the pants off of anything I’ve done before. Like, ever. 

So. Now that I’ve just posted the content in the classroom ... maybe I’ll go find my brush. 


Fevers and Prayer Books

I was up all night with a fever, and feel pretty crappy in all the ways. I decided to use my ‘sick day’ to come down to my studio and make art. Ya know. Just like, turn off my phone and dive in. 
Then I found this. It’s a Czech bible or prayer book. I purchased it on Resslova Street in Prague a couple years ago, then tucked it away for a rainy day. I forgot about it til today. 

Oh my heart. 

It’s been a super successful arty day already in spite of body aches (ugh). I’ve made some amazing new stuff, so I’m gonna shut off the world for a few days and make some more art. 
Maybe like, a week. I need this. I’ve been spinning my wheels and lemme tell ya, there’s nothing better than a mixed media cocktail to make it alllllll better.

Too ...

erin faith allen

Too female to be a military historian.

Too pretty to actually be smart.

Too artsy to be a historian in general.

Too emotional to be objective.

Too ‘dark’ to be ‘marketable’.

Too American.

Too girly.

Too skinny.

Too wrinkly. 
Too curvy.

Too sexy.

Too blonde.

Too vocal.

Too liberal.

Too conservative.

Too sensitive.

Too indulgent.

Too evocative.

Too provocative.

Too willing to go ‘there’. Too diversified.

Too much.

Too little.

Too everything. ***Actually though, I’m just me.*** I am who I am.

With or without your permission.


texas liberators erin faith allen

On the left: Bill Kongable, who liberated Ohrdruf concentration camp. 
On the right: Chick Havey, who liberated Dachau. 

They were honored today at the Holocaust Museum of Houston. Those medals you see were placed around their necks by Holocaust survivors who wore their gratitude with beaming hearts and smiles.

Nine survivors. Four liberators. A room full of people in awe of time marching on, and palpably honored to be in the presence of some of history’s most important players.

(In the middle, a woman who can’t believe the immense honor of being sandwiched by two of her heroes from the Greatest Generation).

Real Life

erin faith allen

Walking my dog. Chasing my kid. Writing content for classes. Saying goodbye to tanlines, humidity-soaked skin, and freckles. Trying to remember to go the supermarket. Oh yeah, and shuffle the clothes from the washer to the dryer. Fending off a cold. Dying to paint a masterpiece ... really get lost in my process and sing at the top of my lungs while doing so. Juggling three new book ideas. Holding yet another separate big project in my whole. entire. being. Worried about the future. Oh crap I forgot to get gas and there are only like 10 miles left before I hit empty. I need to send those signed copies of my books out, too. My car is overflowing with crap that needs to be thrown out / cleaned up / put in storage. Haven’t made it to my emails in days. I just want to be a good human. I’ve made so many mistakes. Am I kind? What am I going to make Poppy for dinner. I need to go to the supermarket. And fill my car up on the way. Don’t forget it’s almost the 1st and bills are due. I totally forgot to write that book review. When am I going to start that YouTube channel with all my films. When I find the films. They are somewhere ... I need to clean out my hard drives and organize them. But first I need to do that book review. And make all the other films circulating through my brain. Right? What I’ve done isn’t enough. But first I should finish unpacking. I moved two months ago. Still haven’t hung pictures on the walls. But I need to get that other stuff done first. And and and and and ....


deeper prague art

My work table is set up. Like an altar, it holds some of my most hot and holy memories in these little stacks and bundles of things that are not just things. This is my inspiration for DEEPER, right here. I’ll be using these things that aren’t just things in my process, technique-wise and emotional-wise. I’ll guide and inspire you, and we will hang out together for 12 weeks making some beautiful art and great friendships. 

I get so close to my art ...

Ravensbrück art

I get really super close to my art. Like, we kinda become one. Like synonyms, or symbiotic organisms.

I suppose that’s true for all artists, right? Full throttle saturation is kinda inherent in what we do. 
How much of yourself do you give to your creative expression? 
Or your *anything*? Do you give a little? 
Do you give a lot?

Or do you just kinda float and flit? 
Take what you can and give enough to just get by?

I’ve done that, too. But it eventually sucks. Things dry the eff up. People leave. (Why would they stay?!) Shit just wears out and everything falls flat.

We’ve all been on all sides of that coin. 
Here’s the amazing thing about life: we can dive back into full absorption, full presence, full beingness, full givingness at any time. 
If we sucked yesterday, we can be awesome today.

True story.

I’m gonna choose awesome today. What about you?
This is a painting based on the women of Ravensbrück concentration camp. I have a lot to say about that place, and these women.

Ravensbrück and the Schwedtsee

ravensbrück and the schwedtsee

One year ago today I was in the middle of my week spent researching at Ravensbrück concentration camp for women. 

I think a part of me is still there. 

I’m standing on the edge of the camp, with the crematorium just behind me; it is so close I feel it’s phantom fires hissing on my neck. 

In the distance you can see the steeple of the church in the neighboring village. 

From the church you can see the chimney of Ravensbrück’s crematorium.

Below is an excerpt from my book about the camp, and the lake on it’s shore:

We drive north from Sachsenhausen, through the pleasant little town of Fürstenberg and along the road that winds beside the Schwedtsee, the lake Fürstenberg shares with Ravensbrück. We turn right at the KZ Ravensbrück sign and go up the road until a fork splits off; we take another right. There the road turns to cobbles that bump and jiggle your body as you drive over them. 

The bump and jiggle are dark souvenirs of a road laid in winter by bare-fingered women. They were among the first prisoners who arrived at Ravensbrück in 1939, months before Germany began its invasions of other countries. Thick walls of trees rise as we pass the Soviet tank on the left, positioned as a memorial for the liberators of the camp and a stoic reminder of the scope of world war. Fragile remains of pitch-roofed SS barracks are nearly swallowed by overgrowth. And still, the bump and jiggle.


Some survivors have said the Schwedtsee was used as a dumping ground for the ashes from the crematorium. There are historians who dispute that claim, saying that couldn’t have been a regular occurrence because the wind constantly blows everything back to the western edge, where Ravensbrück sprawls, and the ashes would have blown right back onto the thrower and returned to the shore. It has also been said the Germans would not have contaminated their own water in such a way. 

Either way, an estimated fifty thousand women died at Ravensbrück, often at the hands of the female guards, and many of their bodies were burned in the crematorium. After the war, a pit of ash was discovered just a short walk from the shore of the Schwedtsee, in front of the camp wall. It has been turned into a bed of roses in memoriam.

You can read more about my book HERE.

You can see the visual journal I created at and after Ravensbruck HERE.



This video was taken a year ago today, exactly. In Berlin. 

I’m standing on the site of my ancestors’ home, listening to the bells of the Berliner Dom, seen in the background. My ancestral home was destroyed by Allied bombs in the war.

Four months later I would return, in the dead of winter (and in the dead of myself, truth be told) to research and write my book ‘The In Between’

Below is an excerpt from my book. It’s a stream-of-consciousness love letter to Berlin, written in a hotel room somewhere along the way: 


Berlin and I are two peas in a pod. 

She has her scars, I have mine. 

Together we rise up from the past with a fierce gentleness easily taken for granted. 

Underneath the glistening architecture, the pulse of trauma beats. Self-inflicted wounds mingle with monsters. 

Fire-bombs and bullet holes pierce the skin of Berlin, but like Persephone she’s risen again. 


Layered with darkness, crimes, and penance. Holy with the whores of resilience.

Coming home to herself after decades of lingering lostness ... tossed in between lines of time marching on, and beyond. 

Berlin is reinvention, eternally, in a city with skin.


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Dablice, Prague, Heydrich, and the Parachutists

The ground at Dablice is holy. 

And at the same time it is rather unholy. 

Here, headless, lay buried the seven heroes who fought the SS in the crypt and in the loft of a church on Resslova Street in Prague.

They were in hiding among the ancient bones and bibles after their plot to assassinate SS Obergruppenführer Heydrich worked out in the end, and the tyrant died of sepsis from his wounds.

Between the time of death of the Obergruppenführer and that of the heroes in the crypt, the town of Lidice was razed in one of several acts of retaliation. Its inhabits were shot, gassed, or sent off to a camp. 

But back to the church, and the bones, and the bibles, and the Nazis, and the brave parachutists who died there.

 Those men lay here, in this mass grave under or near where I stand in silent worship of their heroism. Among them are other Czechs executed for their roles in the assassination.

Mingling in eternal sleep, or eternal decomposition, or eternal juxtaposition with them all however, are the bodies of the men who ordered their death, and the traitor who betrayed their location to the Gestapo and the SS.

Unholy and holy. All at once. 

I write much more about this layered story in my book ‘The In Between’.


Why ...

erin faith allen

I am committed to telling the stories of history: my own as it unfolds, and the stories of the humans who lived before me. 


All stories connect, heal, and teach. We have to reach into ourselves to be worthy of telling them OR receiving the lessons they offer. 

The stories reach into us while whispering - sometimes quite loudly - a longing to be told. They can’t just be told, though. The teller has to fall all the way in. Feel it. Breathe it. Become it.

The stories, when received fully, strip us bare and invite us to gaze at our own naked reflection. Who are you *really*, they ask. What will you *do*, truly. Where are you *going*, actually.

Doing the telling or the receiving requires a symbiotic relationship of depth, honesty, and growth.

Connection. Healing. Teaching. Reaching. Depth. Honesty. Growth. That’s powerful stuff. And I know I can bring these ingredients to the table of humanity.

Soul-searching is my thing. Because of it, I am certain of what I am able to contribute in a time of uncertainty.

What about you? What qualities or characteristics are you certain of within yourself? What are the ingredients you can / do / will contribute to humanity?

prague castle and heydrich

heydrich and prague castle

Silhouette of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich at Prague Castle. 

Little did he know that he would eventually die in a chain reaction of sepsis, horsehair, a handmade bomb, and a small yet fierce handful of parachutists.

Architect of the Holocaust. Brutalizer of humans. Dead.

And the price the Czechs paid? It’s quite a story.

I write about this multifaceted and dramatic sequence of events in ‘The In Between’.

Deeper ... online workshop

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I am creating the most beautiful, self-revolutionizing online workshop. (And who doesn’t want a revolution?)

It’s called DEEPER. In twelve glorious weeks together we will explore personal story and mythology through art journaling. We will weave together a profound depth of creative expression with a quest for our own solitary truth.

This isn’t just another artmaking workshop. In fact, it’s almost like the art is the side-effect. 

DEEPER is more like entering a space of devotion. Exploration. A divine intertwining with who you ARE. A place you can go to retreat and renew, and emerge with pizazz, power, and sooooo many a-ha’s. When you live THAT deeply in your own self, you literally cannot NOT be prolifically creative. You can FEEL that truth, right?

I’m your guide into those places inside yourself that will make you weak in the knees. They are in there, waiting for you. 

If you know me at all, you know I am not very interested in the shallow end of life. I crave, create, and thrive on the intensity end of the spectrum. 

My life, my heart, and my art beat to a thumping drum of everything that lives beneath the surface. I flourish there. In that gooey, shadowy under-place. 

It’s my superpower.

I go there willingly because I know that’s where the truth lives. Its where the fearless, fierce ME lives. Its inside you, too. It’s where the spice of life mingles with who you REALLY are, and galvanizes you into becoming empowered AF.

It’s freaking beautiful in there. I promise. 

DEEPER takes us on a journey through our sacred + profane stories ... it’s a layered and rich course, y’all.

Art journaling is our output. Deeeeeep soul cultivation is the main event.

(That's my painting Ilse behind me. You can read more about her, HERE.)

Crimes Unspoken, by Miriam Gebhardt

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In my book ‘The In Between’ I write briefly about the crimes against the German (and Eastern European) women, which is a bit of a taboo topic. It’s a tough one, and one that I have been deeply curious about - and disturbed by - for years.

If you follow my work you know that I study, research, and make art about the Germans of WW2. I am massively fascinated with the full range of German experiences leading up to, during, and after the war.

Why? Because they were just like us, then suddenly (or not so) there was a fascist government and all hell broke loose.

I read memoirs written by German soldiers and German Jews. I read about the various elements of the Nazi party. I read about the concentration camp system and its sickening myriad of prisoners. I read whatever I can find about the Germans of that time - and I read about the women.

I’ve spoken with historians about the mass rapes, and I’ve heard varying answers, none of which quenched my curiosity. Perhaps I’ll find some answers in this book.

Why on earth would I read this? One of the reasons is because women always pay a high price for war, but nobody ever talks about it. I applaud the author of this book (before even cracking it open), Miriam Gebhardt, and my thoughts will spend a little time now with the women whose stories fill its pages.

Remembrance is an important factor in ensuring no facet of this horrible war ever happens again.


Dresden, Germany

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(Photograph of Dresden. Taken in April 2017.)

This morning I swiped through thousands of my own photographs taken on various research trips through Europe. Not sure why, really.

Dresden, in Germany, is a city I visited for a few hours last year, on a day trip from Prague. 
There is a hush in Dresden that sounds like 25,000 last-gasps for breath. That’s the estimated number of civilians killed by Allied bombing raids in 1945.

Here’s the truth: I’ve been considering stepping away from my years of work with WW2. Walking in another direction to something less heavy, more palatable.

 Looking through my largely-untouched photos made me feel a massive rush of emotion I can’t put into words. I bawled like a baby. Memories of personal encounters with geography, history and humanity / inhumanity took me from the outside in. So many stories I have yet to tell ... and even more than that waiting for my discovery.

History has chosen me. There is an intensity where geography and human memory intersect with history, and they sing through me. 

Decision made. 

Heels dug in. Tenacity on full tilt. In it to win it.

I’m not going anywhere ... anywhere but here: Dresden. Every other bomb and artillery scarred city in this worldwide war. The camps. The beaches. The forests. The Gestapo headquarters. The historian’s offices. The living rooms of veterans and survivors. 

With my camera, my notebook, my paintbrush. My heart. My soul. 

This is where I belong.