Artist Statement
For most of my life, painting has been how I survive. As a chronically ill, queer, nonbinary person who has lost contact with nearly all of my family, I turned to the canvas to process what I couldn't say out loud — trauma, anxiety, depression, the isolation of being cut off from the people who were supposed to hold me.
This body of work marks a shift. For the first time, I'm building a life where I feel connected — engaged, held, present. My paintings have followed that change. Where my work once processed pain, it now explores feminine energy in relationship with the world around it: figures merging with animals, water, and flowers rather than standing apart from them.
The self-portrait at the center of this series began with a photo from my first artist resume. I was hired as a painter, and then COVID closed that door before I ever started — finally becoming an artist, only to be shut down by circumstance. I'm just now returning to that career. Reclaiming the image into my first completed body of work felt like taking something back.
In the painting, I'm surrounded by wildcats who trust me completely — a symbol I return to often, animals as mirrors for how we're loved and how we love in return. Years ago, a child I worked with confessed he'd once hurt his mother's cat, and feared his foster cat somehow knew. I told him animals remember how you treat them, but they don't know other cats' histories. I told him about a cat who didn't much like me either. He said, “Wow, it must be true then. You're so easy to love — I thought all cats would like you.” He went on to care for that cat anyway, one who never much liked him back.
I paint in acrylic, in saturated, sometimes unnatural color, because muted realism has never matched how intensely I feel. If my work makes you feel something — moved, curious, unsettled — I'd love to hear from you.
