The perfection of the still-life to me is that everything means everything. Because of the still-life’s simplicity, every subject matter, every composition, every stroke, shadow, and highlight become allegories for the world around me. I paint symbols of my domestic life — books, laundry, hair ribbons. My still-lifes are paintings of life contained. I paint with as much beauty as I can muster, because beauty, I believe, is the balance of pain.
The paintings are composed by intuition. A placement in a corner has a tender or shy feeling to me. A placement on a center axis has an open and direct feel. I strip my still-lifes of their surroundings — even their horizon line, and often their color — until only light, form, and shadow remain.
I paint in watercolor to represent fragility of thought and emotion. Through careful painting, the white of the paper is activated to become light. The light destroys the form of the still life. It is in this visible space of destruction that emotion is conveyed. The form hovers between materiality and immateriality. The shadow provides visual and emotional weight, darker and heavier than the form suggests.
Through paint, water, and patience, the still-lifes become an external product of an internal process, shoved out into the world, my explanation of life.