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.
My subject matter is books and laundry. I paint wadded and tied up laundry to represent my conflicted feelings about motherhood. I paint blank-out books to represent my memory loss from treatments I received as a result of a postpartum misdiagnosis. I paint both with as much beauty and pain as I can muster.
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 a open and direct feel. I paint in watercolor on paper in order to represent fragility of thought and emotion. I strip my still-lifes of their surroundings — even their horizon line, and often their color — until only light, form, and shadow remain. 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, paper, and patience, the still-lifes become an external product of an internal process, shoved out into the world, my explanation of life.