I've been thinking a lot lately about why I create.
When I first walk into the studio, I notice what hasn't been finished. There are paintings waiting for me, but I also know there are new things I want to get out.
When I create, my language is color, texture, value, and form. Sometimes, in my quiet moments, I can feel it before I ever pick up a brush. I actually look forward to getting into the studio because I know that's where I can freely express myself.
To get to that point, though, I first have to quiet the noise.
I don't mean noise in the literal sense. The noise is inside. It's the many influences in my life, the artists I follow, the art critics, past teachers, and all the things I've heard over the years. Their knowing resonates and echoes in my mind.
I acknowledge those voices, but I don't let them consume me.
I turn down the volume and let them go.
Then I sit with myself and my materials, and I just let go.
Someone recently asked me how I recognize a feeling before it becomes a painting.
The truth is...I don't think I do.
That question made me stop and think because, for much of my early life, I was taught to suppress rather than express. I grew up following the norms of my Christian upbringing. Shhh... do as you're told. Don't ask questions. Follow and obey.
My inner being always felt like the opposite of that.
I think that's why I struggled so much as a child and later, as a teenager, spent so many nights sitting in the dark of my room longing to explore, longing for some feeling of simply being myself.
So when people ask where my paintings come from, I honestly don't know.
I don't know what is trying to come out.
Sometimes I don't understand it until I'm almost finished with the work.
I don't want to define it before I've even discovered it. I don't want to say, This painting is fear, or This painting is anger, or This painting is release, because then I feel like I've taken something away from the process. It almost feels like I'm being held to that definition.
Instead, I feel it while I'm painting.
I discover it while I'm making marks, building layers, and shaping the work.
Sometimes it's only after I step away and come back later that something clicks.
But even then, I don't always want to tell someone exactly what a painting means because what I see and feel may be completely different from what someone else experiences.
And I love that.
When I think about someone standing in front of one of my paintings, what I hope they experience is connection.
Not necessarily a connection to me.
A connection to the knowing that we are not alone.
That we are part of something that can't always be explained in a literal sense.
There is more to this life than we can always quantify using the language of our physical world.
Maybe that lives in the psyche.
Maybe some would call it spiritual.
Whatever we call it, I think it's part of what makes us human.
Some parts of that experience are beautiful.
Some parts are uncomfortable.
Just like life itself.
When I was asked what painting has given me that words alone couldn't, I found that difficult to answer.
I think, looking back, I started creating as a mode of survival for my spirit.
I was trying to protect it.
Keep it from being broken.
As I thought about it, I realized that's probably why my collections feel the way they do.
Root & Bloom feels like I'm growing...almost escaping.
Transmission is me reaching down deep into my emotions and dealing with the pain I felt.
Celestial Flow feels like a comforting collective presence.
Almost like being held.
The fluidity of making marks feels like a release of tension.
The repetitive marks feel like I'm taking back control of my thoughts.
When I think about memories that have been painful, I'm not trying to erase the past.
I'm acknowledging what I've been through while also acknowledging where—and who—I have become.
If someone reading this is carrying something heavy, I hope they give themselves grace.
I know what it feels like to carry guilt and shame for years.
I know what it feels like to wonder if you'll ever find your way out of those dark places.
It isn't easy.
I hope you find something that brings you joy and allows you to express yourself, whether that's art, dance, singing, performing, writing, gardening, or crafting.
Hold onto that.
And if you can, find community.
I know how lonely life can feel sometimes.
But I've also learned that when you find people who love creating, moving, building, or expressing themselves in the same ways you do, something changes.
You realize you're not alone.
Maybe that's what I've been searching for all along.
Not just through painting.
But through preserving the spirit.
