Some people do yoga; I create. Art is my haven, my therapy, and my liberation. It is how I process the world around me: from chronic pain to politics, marriage to miscarriage. I often work on at least five projects at a time with wildly varying methods, following the caprices of my mental and physical health. When my disabilities whip into a perfect storm of paralysis, art is the solution… my release. It provides a tangible, measurable sense of accomplishment. I love that art can never be “ruined” or “ugly,” just “in progress.” Unlike almost everything else in this world, I decide how much control I want to give to every piece of art, and they are only done when I deem them to be so. 

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My art took shape as a celebration of broken things. I am a klutz, and instead of crying about every beautiful thing accidently cracked and shattered, I let the pieces guide me in their evolution to something original that I can appreciate every day. A literal embracement of the post-modern mantra, “Make it new (again).”

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I have chased this satisfaction in many forms, including: mobiles, fluid-and-wax-pouring, fabric collages, sculptures, and particularly, mixed media canvases. I have a fascination with texture, unexpected combinations or uses of natural and recycled materials, and the reflection of light. But no matter the structure of my expression or exploration, the results reflect a sense of almost child-like whimsy and wonder, which is often accompanied by an undertone of sadness or shame at what the world has become in human hands. 

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Most of my work reflects my awe of nature in all its manifestations and my curiosity at the impact we as humans have wrought upon it, myself included. In their devastation and resurrection, the trees and seas, as well as things that “stream,” from raindrops to pyroclastic flows, are particularly captivating.