I was a fool when I was young.
I did not listen to the artist
trying to claw her way out from inside of me.
Instead, I heard only a Mother who did not like herself,
and liked me less.
I absorbed her shame like a dry sponge.
But art has a way of needing to be heard.
Art just won't shut up.
So (at age 50), I stopped being what I was,
and started being who I am.
I am born again.
I am an artist.
I think about art.
I look at art.
I dream of art.
Every day, I make art.
And the art,
(I am 100% certain)
A primarily self taught artist, I eventually asked myself the questions that would come to define my work: What if paintbrushes had never been invented? What if pigment and oil had never been mixed? What if female creativity had ascended, and men’s work had been dismissed as “craft?” With no paint, how might art have been expressed, and who, exactly, might have done the talking?
All of my work is wired and stitched from artistic memory, as an ongoing call and response between myself and artists of the past. Everything I make is some sort of recuerdo; a way of communing with the painters I wish I had known by more than what was left in biographies and hanging on museum walls.
Sometimes appropriating self and photographic portraits, or by using art history as a foil, I explore the lives and work of significant artists by reinterpreting or reimagining their work through a medium that undoubtedly precedes (but did not survive as easily as) mark making with pigment.
With a provocative wink, my work explores art history through feminine – now feminist tools: needles, wire and thread. With meditative stitches and hidden structure, I imbue flat planes of shadow with visual images that leap dimensionally forward in depth that is present and unabashedly real.