"If you could say it in words, there would be no reason to paint." - Edward Hopper
My work is as much seasonal as it is visceral and emotional -- the use of color and texture is a reflection of the visual and energetic shifts that come and go within myself, within a season; a radical increase in creative production occurs especially during times of transition. I have always been fascinated with natural patterns and aging processes, the combination of building up and stripping away as a result of the accumulation of time. I am lured in for closer looks of reflected light, rust, dust, erosion, and mold -- weathered seasonings and their stories stop me in my tracks, giving moment for pause and awe to be found in even the most ordinary of objects. Color, texture, movement, patterns of shadow and light all haunting me until I finally let them loose on canvas.
For a few years, I dabbled in different techniques and mediums trying to find the voice that would help me say those things in me that don't have words. Then one day, I spilled paint on a canvas and, just as ego clutched at my heart with fear, a voice whispered from within – "Keep going, you can’t plan this.” Which was kind of terrifying to someone who knows she can be a bit of a control freak. But ultimately, it was liberating. Because it wasn’t up to me alone anymore, there was now a co-conspiring energy at work; it had become a conversation with the canvas, as much as it was a conversation with myself. I began to paint blindly, ambidextrously, tuning in and trusting in the organic unfolding of a new work -- I could never be in full control of the outcome, only a vessel through which something I hadn’t really planned could be born.
It was the emotional equivalent of free falling.
To paint is to release. To breathe again.