wayward year

I arrived in Alexandria, Virginia as an eager 11-year old—eager for new friends, a stable family, belonging. My mom had already explained, just before we moved, that she and my dad would be parting ways, a piece of information I’m not entirely sure she had shared with my dad just yet. The first part of my sixth grade year started relatively smoothly all things considered, but ended with my mom and I on our own in another neighborhood. In order to finish the year at my school, my mom drove me to my dad’s house (which used to be ours) in the morning and then picked me up at the end of her workday. The following year, I began 7th grade in yet another new school—the sixth I’d attended since kindergarten.

Thus began my wayward year, a time when teenage hormones, my parents’ divorce, and all the angst, anger, and confusion that came with both started leading me toward a more intense level of rebellion than ever before. One of the number one rules in those days was “home before dark” until one day, as the sun started to set, I heard about a party in our neighborhood (the parents were out of town), and I willfully, consciously decided to go there instead of home. (This is a moment I remember with vivid clarity—when I declared, in my own way, I was not going to do what my parents expected of me, not when they were breaking up our family and leaving me to deal with that, for the most part, on my own.) It wasn’t too long before police officers showed up looking for me.

I snuck out in the middle of the night to run around with other such cohorts. (There was no real purpose to this other than to do something we weren’t supposed to be doing.) I got on the back of a motorcycle in shorts and ended up with a third-degree burn on my leg, passing out as a result. I started drinking and stealing makeup. If I thought it would help me fit in and find friends, I would usually do it.

At the same time, I started a lawn mowing business. We lived in a townhouse, so yards were small and manageable. I made flyers, distributed them to every house on our block, and got a couple of customers. I was a dependable babysitter and got good grades. I was acting out in some significant ways, but by the end of 8th grade I’d found my way to a different group of friends alongside a budding awareness of who I might become. My imaginings of what it might be like to be an Artist and see other parts of the world were coming into sharper focus. I wanted to be independent, have fun, live out loud.

In the talk I gave at Nepenthe Gallery in Alexandria last week, I said, “My 13-year old self is freaking out right now,” and she really was. I have been thinking about her a lot throughout this adventure, and on the night of the show she was beaming—surrounded by so many of the beauties she met and became friends with at a time when her life felt like it had been turned upside-down. These girls, now women, pulled her through, whether they were aware of it or not, and made sure she found her way to that moment at the gallery.

My work as an Artist has been expressed in a lot of different ways and inspired by an array of experiences and influences. I have been uniquely rewarded and challenged by each iteration of my career, whether it involved making art, writing a book, or planning a retreat. Whatever the offering, my intention was to inspire others not only with the work, but with the story of its coming to fruition—to convey the truism that the journey means far more than just the destination. The path that brought me to Nepenthe Gallery on a chilly April evening started when I was a frustrated young girl trying to come to grips with all the rapid rearrangements of our small family and could have easily lost my way. Instead, I ended up surrounded by a circle of lovely humans—then, and now, and always.

nepenthe gallery

I am thrilled to announce my work will be featured at Nepenthe Gallery at both of their locations in Alexandria, VA. Nepenthe Gallery hosts inspiring gatherings every week, and I’m excited to be on their 2024 calendar. See my portfolio for a sneak peek!

THURSDAY, APRIL 4th

6:00pm

7918 Fort Hunt Road

---

SUNDAY, APRIL 7th

12:00-3:00pm

108 N. St. Asaph Street

---

I look forward to seeing you THIS WEEK!!

There All Along

For as long as I can remember, my approach to making art has been to find the spark of an idea and run with it. Fast and furious was my motto, and this established a routine of working on multiple pieces at a time, all inspired by a specific theme. A quick glance at past portfolios shows work inspired by travels to Tokyo and Cuba, text-based concepts, an ethereal female character with one especially large eye, the color turquoise, and wings. For a time, organizing shows and gatherings to share this work was my primary occupation, which gave me an opportunity to collaborate with many of my favorite people.

As I began to focus more on writing and facilitating retreats, making art became something I did in short bursts, and most of those small collections were sold online and individually rather than at large shows. All of this was happening while we were living in California. When we decided to move to Wisconsin, I also made the decision to return to my art in a more intentional way, and I looked forward to seeing how our new home and environment would influence the work. I was also excited about finding a new community and sharing whatever it was that I was certain would emerge in my studio as soon as we got settled.

It ended up taking nearly five years before I was able to really get back to it. Part of that story is right here. The surprising twist was that I always felt OK about this delay in my plans, which probably had something to do with the fact that I still managed to write and publish two books during this time. I was still creating and sharing my work, but all the while my longing to give birth to a new body of artwork held steady.

When I finally reached a point of being able to begin this work, I went into it with an entirely different attitude—one of patience, curiosity, and exploration rather than fire and unbridled energy. I had an idea for a concept, which I really loved, but my intuition told me I needed to follow the example of the butterfly rather than the hummingbird.

After months of trying this and that, I have meandered my way to an entirely different artistic landscape than the one I started out in. This has me wondering what other ideas and possibilities have been hovering in and around the general area of past creative pursuits. And it feels slightly miraculous—to realize that the seeds that are just now beginning to bloom have been there all along, and could have very easily remained dormant had I not made the conscious decision to allow more space in my creative process than ever before.

So from precise, image-based compositions arranged in hexagon patterns I have found my way to loose, abstract designs, and no one is more surprised by this than I am. The path is emerging more each day—one drip of paint, one stitch, at a time.

On Time. And Space.

It has been a minute, as they say. For nearly a year now, my website has been sitting on the sidelines, collecting dust, as I began the process of creating a new body of work in earnest last spring. This was kind of a necessity, as it has taken time to build up enough finished pieces and concepts to justify a whole new website. Until that happened, any updates wouldn’t have really accomplished much, hence the dust collecting.

In many ways, this has had me feeling like I’m getting to be an Artist for the first time in my life. Which is not to say I don’t believe I have been an Artist during all the years leading up to this, but that I am now enjoying the gift of being able to try something entirely new on every level. These are new materials that require new skills. I am also experiencing the benefits of a slower pace, one that requires a commitment to patience, exploration, and thoughtful consideration. After being an Artist for most of my life, I am still discovering entirely new methods, tools, and expressions.

Someone recently asked me, “Why now?” as in, why did I decide it was time to dive back into studio work, build a new collection, and have another show? The most fundamental answer to that question is because I can—because I am alive and healthy and breathing. And I am an Artist. Beyond that, it has much to do with the decision we made almost exactly six years ago to uproot our life from California and transplant it to Wisconsin.

In leaving California, I had to let go of many (maybe most) of the circumstances that made my work possible and relatively easy. I was close to many in my creative community and had access to all kinds of spaces for shows, retreats, and gatherings. California was also a desirable place for people to visit; it wasn’t terribly difficult to entice people to the land of near-constant sunshine and blue skies. Simply put, it didn’t take much to tap into a network of people, opportunities, and energy that offered all kinds of possibilities for creative projects and endeavors.

Before moving, I looked forward to establishing myself in a new place and bringing my talents, skills, and artistic experiences to a new community. While I have written and published two books since I got here, I don’t feel like I have really provided what I was envisioning when I imagined myself in our new city. I still have a deep longing to create an experience that centers on a body of work—something that is equal parts ephemeral and tangible, a unique and memorable gathering that centers on physical works of art.

I have held on to this vision for more than five years now—through the move and getting settled, through my dad’s illness and death, through Covid. And I have trusted it. When I was able to enjoy short bursts of activity in my studio during this time, I always went in with the same intention—to experiment, to play, and to trust that all these small efforts would converge at some point in the not-too-distant future and provide the springboard to a new, more in-depth artistic adventure.

Why now? Because it is time. And while I have time, I aim to use it in the best way I can.

About a Squirrel. And Longing

I feel like I should have something important to say, or at least specific, but my energy is rather scattered today. It is late afternoon, and while I managed to cross off all the items on my errand list, once I got home everything got a little out of whack. I didn’t clean up the breakfast dishes until—oh wait, they’re still sitting on the counter—and I haven’t done anything I thought I might do once I returned from said errands. Somehow I ended up tweaking my website, which brought me here, to a new blog entry, with no idea what to talk about.

I can share that the sun is sinking into the horizon a little bit later each day now, that winter has provided extreme temperatures in the single digits but not much snow. Our brick patio is currently an ice skating rink. And while I don’t feel the stirrings of spring just yet, I know it’s there, hidden beneath the surface of grass that looks like straw and small patches of snow.

I can tell you about one of the squirrels in our backyard, the one that knows the only way he can get to the buffet of bird seed we provide is by leaping from the fence to the feeder, where an abundance of tiny morsels await. After considering his options from the ground, he makes his way to the fence post and contemplates his leap, tail twitching back and forth. After a moment of concentration, he suddenly springs into the air, and I can practically see his tiny squirrel fingers stretching out toward the feeder.

Alas, he usually misses on the first try.

…but does not give up, and repeats this brief gymnastics routine as many times as necessary until, eventually, he has success. I think if he had a little squirrel flag—emblazoned with his squirrel family crest, perhaps—he would plant it in the pile of birdseed triumphantly before engaging in the work of stuffing his face. While my husband tends to be annoyed by the squirrel’s intrusion into bird territory, I can’t help but root for him. He works hard to get to the top. I always smile when he nails the landing.

When I last wrote, it was to share a bit about the loss of our sweet Tilda. The only update I have on that is to say that we are still missing her like crazy, that we still can’t quite believe she is gone. There are times when I am sitting perfectly still—in a car, on a sofa—and I suddenly feel so desperate to touch her and hold her I imagine myself splitting in two. I don’t mean in half, but as if my skin didn’t merely contain all my veins and organs and bones but also some ephemeral part of me that has the ability to move beyond the physical limits of my body. That part of me, for a few seconds, seems to be able to escape the confines of this world, but it doesn’t give me what I so furiously want, which is to feel the solidity of Tilda—her fur and her nose and her wiggly body.

I first experienced this strange splitting apart when my dad died, and the image is always the same: my body is not moving, but on another plane of existence I am leaning forward, arms reaching out, fingers spread apart. It is slightly disconcerting, this deep longing to pull away from my body, but also oddly comforting. There is something about it that feels….normal. This is grief, and it exists because there was—is—love, plain and simple.

I came across a small container of dog treats earlier this week. Most of what was Tilda’s has been given away, shared, or stored in the basement until we can donate it, so this was an unexpected find. My first instinct was to simply throw them away, but then I thought of our industrious squirrel, and all his squirrel buddies, and instead tossed them outside in our yard. That was two days ago, and they’re already all gone. My husband and I tried our best to give Tilda a happy, comfortable life, and we also do what we can to take care of the other creatures that wander through our yard. We keep the bird feeder filled week after week. I cut up and toss out apples that have gone soft. In the spring, we put out oranges for the orioles. It makes me happy that this last little smattering of Tilda treats fed the squirrels; it was another opportunity to keep spreading that love, to keep taking care of whoever shows up at our door.