carved mixed media oil on wood
32 x 48 inches
2024
carved mixed media oil on wood
40 x 40 inches
2023
carved mixed media oil on wood
40 x 40 inches
2023
In the age of the internet, we often interact with people we have never met face to face. This feels strange and unnatural to me yet opens the door to a vast world of opportunity and promise of connection. All Eyes On You is a visual exploration into the complexity of this phenomena and the often-conflicted feelings that have taken residence in my mind.
I routinely find myself on guard with conversations I share over virtual platforms in a way that I don’t experience with in-person dialogue. Among many other things, virtual dialogue is often lacking in social cues and the ability to recognize sincerity. It is frequently a challenge to distinguish who and what is real and what is a farce. With this in mind, it was of prime importance to me that the identities of the eyes could be anyone. They exist in a cloud-like atmosphere where they are sometimes connected and sometimes not. Where these connections take place are meant to be hubs, channeling true bonds between individuals. The connective veins between the eyes are representative of the potential for these connections to be transformative and life-giving. I have used gold leafing as a means of establishing value to this live-giving blood running between, through and beyond all twelve central eyes.
When viewed as a whole, all of the eyes can be read as a single being or as a cluster of individuals peering, watching the observer from all angles. It’s meant to set the viewer on edge, much like I feel myself being when interacting on a digital platform. I am being watched by countless strangers at any given moment. This is both empowering and unnerving all at once. Empowering, because these digital platforms enable us to connect with others in a way that is otherwise unattainable. Unnerving, because it’s often difficult to determine what is real and what is not and who is being disingenuous. It’s meant to be beautiful and captivating, because virtual connections can be profoundly life-altering, fruitful, and healing.
carved mixed media oil on wood
40 x 40 inches
2022
I often regret looking up the meaning to a song I have already ascribed my own interpretation to. I am more often than not, severely disappointed and/or thrown aback by what I discover in my unearthing. Much for the same reasons, I struggle with my decision to share my thoughts and heart behind my work. Nevertheless, my pieces are intended to be felt and not just seen, so I’ve made the difficult decision to share a bit about where my mind, soul, and heart are at. This is me attempting to further humanize myself and share my experiences in the most altruistic way I am capable of. I want to create a safe place in my work for honest dialogue and experience to take place. I want to remove pretension and be real and tangible. “2o2o Vision” isn’t exclusively about the following experience I had, but I share this chapter of my life, because these life altering experiences were where my head was at during the conceptualization of this work.
2020 was a year when I felt the darkness closing in. I was struggling - perhaps more than I’ve ever struggled before. 2020 was such a difficult year for most all of us. In my personal life, I was dealing with a second incalculable loss. I carried a planned and much desired second son to term only to watch his radiant being pass in my arms, on my chest. The cause? The same condition our firstborn Eleanor had. An incredibly rare genetic disorder that we now know, is always lethal (at birth) when present. After the birth of our firstborn son, we thought it was unlikely to happen again - we were wrong. Thankfully, our first son, doesn’t carry or have the genetic disorder.
I spent much of the early part of 2020 faithfully praying and hoping for his sweet, wild self. At 18.5 weeks, I went to his anatomy scan. Alone… Thanks to Covid regulation. At first, everything looked great - a second healthy, beautiful baby boy… but then some measurements here and there appeared slightly off. The tech left the room for the doctor’s opinion. I paced the dimly lit room repeating “this cannot be. I cannot do this. No, this isn’t real. This cannot be happening, again.” Back and forth. In between. Up and down that dimly lit hospital room. After what felt like an exorbitant amount of time, the tech came back in for another scan and more meticulous measurements. I waited. Desperately hoped she had made a mistake. My voice wavered, with each passing moment. My eyes studied the screen full of dreadful anticipation. All the while, attempting and failing to hide my welled-up tears threatening to burst out from behind my surgical mask.
I went home that day. I cried the entire drive home and then placed myself in the beige chair on my back deck and stared up at the great big leafy boughs of my neighbor’s tree for what could have been 5 mins or potentially 2 hours. I’m not sure. I stared endlessly and began to lose an enormous chunk of my anchored being. The ground beneath my feet felt transient. I remember waking from this trance-like state enough to walk to the park with my beautiful family. I remember forgetting the weight of the afternoon’s scan for a glorious 5 minutes while we skipped around the park’s path. I remember that but can’t seem to remember half of the rest of the next 5 months.
I DO remember staring out at my neighbor’s tree more than anything else. I think I stared lost for two months straight before I began to feel the ground beneath me again. I had been on autopilot for those two months. Going through the motions. Smiling when appropriate. Empty smiles. Pain seared through me. I was angry. Broken. I’m generally a very peaceful person, so this person I was becoming felt foreign.
I remember the parking garage I utilized every other week for updated scans and more bad news. I remember walking into most of my appointments alone due to Covid restrictions and I remember trying to hide the tears behind my mask. I remember watching other moms come in with their swelling bellies with the promise of a radiant light at the end of this dreadful, difficult year while attempting to hide my face behind that mask. The dreaded mask somehow became a necessity to survive my appointments. After two months of being quite lost, I remember deciding I had a choice in how I spent the rest of my pregnancy… so, I chose joy. I remember going on a very much needed family trip to the beach at this point in my journey, thanks to my incredibly thoughtful sister-in-law. She knew we needed that trip much more than I did. For the rest of my pregnancy, I chose to focus on the time I did have with our son. I’m so grateful that I did. When I made that decision, I found strength where I thought I had none.
In September of 2020 at 39.5 weeks pregnant, I moved into my first professional art studio with my neighbor, Cathy. The evening after we’d gotten completely settled into our space, my water unexpectedly broke. After a traumatic journey from my basement to the car and from the car into the ER (to the ambulance entrance, because due to Covid we couldn’t find the correct entrance in our frenzied trip to the hospital). I’m so thankful for my calm husband on this less than peaceful drive. Shortly thereafter, our beautiful, fiery boy came into this world with a shocking force, followed by a very tranquil, peaceful exit to the beyond. Our Cassidy Jack pulled the very fire out of my soul when he left this earth. I felt broken and empty.
Thanks to my studio being set up prior to his birth, I was back to painting within two weeks’ time. My firstborn son and I had the wonderful opportunity to heal in this place. It was about 6 months, before I felt true joy behind my smile again and about a year before I felt I could truly breathe again… but in this space, I experienced healing and my passion returning.
At some point in the following month after Cassidy Jack’s birth, it began to feel strange to be painting people without masks. My mask had become a veil of sorts and it felt odd to suddenly be free of the regular emotional need for it. I dwelt a lot on how the mask had altered the way in which I communicated with others. Initially it masked my sorrow and then later, I realized it made me aware of how much I use my face to verbally communicate. In my darkest moments, I found the mask humanized me, because it drew attention to my innate desire to connect. It hindered my ability to relate with others in a very detrimental way. I portrayed multiple sets of eyes in this piece, because I found myself increasingly prone to attempting to communicate with others via visual clues. I felt impaired, because I frequently found myself unable to understand what people were saying to me. I realized I utilize lip reading much more often than I was aware of. In the months following the heavy grief, the mask became an ever-increasing nuisance. I suddenly felt incapable of connecting, when I finally and desperately felt the need to interact with others again. In this piece, I portrayed three expressions I found myself and others using repeatedly and often simultaneously. I also wanted to highlight the uneasiness we all felt during the year 2020, by creating a piece that looks and feels unnerving and unnatural. I know many of us want to forget what the year 2020 did to us, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. It didn’t feel safe or appropriate to talk about my struggles a year or two ago, because there were so many other big things going on in our communities and world that affected more than a handful of people. Now it feels safe to talk about. I think this year took its toll on all of us and now that some time has passed, I believe reflecting on the ways 2020 impacted us and unpacking the trauma will help us to grow and to heal so we are capable of moving forward.
carved mixed media oil on wood
42 x 60 inches
2021
This piece is about life after loss. It’s a portrait of one of my dearest friends here in Indianapolis. Kelly and I met at the Broad Ripple dog park back in 2016. Our dogs were good buds and we liked each other and began hanging outside of our dog’s social hour. Sometimes people are put in your life for a reason and I like to think Kelly and I crossed paths, so we could help each other through some of the most difficult periods of both of our lives. I’ll never forget the morning I received a message about Kelly’s firstborn son, Leo. It was his due date. I was about to send her a “happy due day!” message, but instead... I awoke and saw something I couldn’t acknowledge. Leo didn’t make it. No, no... NO. It couldn’t be. I kept hoping I would wake from what must be a nightmare. Leo is gone. I wept. He passed before he even entered this life earth-side. We don’t know why. My son Lewis and Kelly’s son Leo were supposed to grow up together - we had already bought homes across the park from one another. Now, this would never be. Despite what many may think, grief never actually goes away. You carry that grief with you. You grow around that grief, but it is still there. At some point, you laugh again and you begin to move toward the future, but you always carry that with you. You carry the loss of your loved ones with you always. Sometimes, I feel like I catch glimpses of my lost loved ones in the corner of my eye. Ghost-like, but there and present. Not at the age that I lost them, but at their appropriate age – present, whole, and with me.
oil on wood
each panel = 40 x 40 inches, these are meant to be hung 6 feet apart
2021
This piece is of my son Lewis and one of his best friends, Quinn. Quinn is bi-racial and my son is a white male growing up in this new world. The past year and a half has really brought a lot of racial unrest to a head and I’ve been struggling to help my son understand and process during this time, while also handling a pandemic that isn’t going away. Our children are growing up in this and have been living in bubbles of our making – for their safety. My young child has been masked in public for 1.5 years and our interactions unmasked have changed dramatically. Our relationships with others who don’t share the same skin color are sometimes strange and taboo. In this diptych, I just wanted to showcase the strangeness of it all. Our children are wearing masks, being told not to have physical contact with one another, and there is so much hatred being thrown around. It’s alienating. How do we navigate this with our young children and still manage to raise humans who are loving and compassionate to all people? I don’t want this current climate for my son and I know I am not alone.
oil on wood
each panel = 40 x 40 inches, these are meant to be hung 6 feet apart
2021
This piece is of my son Lewis and one of his best friends, Quinn. Quinn is bi-racial and my son is a white male growing up in this new world. The past year and a half has really brought a lot of racial unrest to a head and I’ve been struggling to help my son understand and process during this time, while also handling a pandemic that isn’t going away. Our children are growing up in this and have been living in bubbles of our making – for their safety. My young child has been masked in public for 1.5 years and our interactions unmasked have changed dramatically. Our relationships with others who don’t share the same skin color are sometimes strange and taboo. In this diptych, I just wanted to showcase the strangeness of it all. Our children are wearing masks, being told not to have physical contact with one another, and there is so much hatred being thrown around. It’s alienating. How do we navigate this with our young children and still manage to raise humans who are loving and compassionate to all people? I don’t want this current climate for my son and I know I am not alone.
carved mixed media oil on wood
48 x 56 inches
2021
This piece has been in my head for a couple of years, now. I have painted the mother as a child multiple times, but this is the first time I have painted her as a woman and as a mother. I sketched out this piece, not knowing if she would be willing to see it come to fruition. I am so thankful she was, because this piece could only be of her. This goddess of a woman has overcome so much in her life and it has been humbling to watch her become a mother to the most beautiful baby boy. She is both the sun and the moon to her child – creating life and nourishing it.
carved mixed media oil on wood
48 x 48 inches
2021
Like many others, I experienced much hardship in the year 2020. Among the most challenging of experiences, was the loss of my second son. I lost my firstborn back in 2015 and my thirdborn in September of 2020, both after long, stressful pregnancies. Both losses were due to the same genetic disorder, which only becomes lethal at birth. As you can imagine, this last gut-wrenching loss in the year 2020 is confounded by the previous loss and all of the other heartache of 2020. We have all lost a lot this past year. During this period of grief, I realized just how important human connection is. If it wasn’t for the other humans in my community and family, I don’t know that I would have survived this past year. I wanted to showcase the life-giving nature of human connection in order to help unpack the year 2020. The women in this piece have been best friends since childhood. I don’t actually know them very well – but the pureness and sincerity of their connection is just radiant. I felt like I was witnessing such a special moment, when I photographed the pair. It’s a striking reminder that our bonds to one another give us life and are what carry us through the most difficult of times.
mixed media oil on wood
36 x 36 inches
2019
One of the most difficult things about motherhood, is trying to find the time and energy to feel capable of doing anything extra. When you welcome a child into your family, it becomes all-encompassing. It’s difficult to stay on top of things and well informed with what is going on in our world, but so necessary. Time and again, I kept hearing mothers saying they didn’t feel like they were informed enough or close enough to the situation to have a say in what was happening in our world, in our government, and on our borders. I know I feel that way sometimes, too. It’s a lie we tell ourselves. We are capable. It IS a choice we are making. It IS our responsibility. Change starts with me, and it starts with YOU.
mixed media oil on wood
44 x 64 inches
2019
The mother in this piece has endured so much heartache, but somehow remains one of the most giving, loving, caring women I know. She lost her firstborn son, Lincoln to a lethal form of skeletal dysplasia after years of trying for a biological child. She became a foster mom after the loss, is a teacher by occupation, and she ceaselessly supports others in need. She is now blessed with twins, Malcolm and Ruby, who have grown up with my son, Lewis. All three of our rainbow babes took part in the making of this piece, where I wanted to showcase the beautifully chaotic nature of motherhood with multiples, but also the darkness that doesn’t quite go away after the loss of a child.
carved mixed media oil on wood
42 x 48 inches
2018
In this piece, I wanted to show a playful glimpse into early motherhood. This is a portrait of one of my dearest friends Deanna and her firstborn, Ingrid Louise. We have experienced three pregnancies together, having the same sex every single time! You initially lose so much of yourself when you become a mother. Your identity becomes quite wrapped up into your child, you’re sleep deprived, and you’re frequently coated in some sort of bodily fluid – in this case, milk. Despite all of this, Deanna radiates life and beauty. She wears her crown of milk as beautifully as a crown of jewels and is unhindered by her child sprawling out in all directions on top of her. Motherhood is such a beautifully sacrificial role, but Deanna wears that hat effortlessly.
carved mixed media on wood
96 x 48 inches (each panel = 32 x 48 inches)
2018
This piece took me quite some time to complete. I started and stopped many times during the course of its’ production. In November of 2017, I lost my firstborn child to a very rare genetic disorder. We found out about her condition at 18.5 weeks gestation, but carried to term and gave birth at exactly 40 weeks along. I felt many emotions over the course of this pregnancy and in the aftermath of losing a much desired child. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t paint. I couldn’t make. I felt cheated. I felt angry. I felt a tremendous amount of hope and faith, only to be completely shattered to my core when I didn’t see what I desired come to fruition. Instead of welcoming our beautiful, lively little babe earth-side, we were making funeral arrangements and bleeding our dreams into the dust. Grief bored its way so deep inside me when I lost my daughter, that it created a void which cannot be fixed. My daughter’s name is Eleanor Ray. Her name means Shining Ray of Light. When I experienced this devastating loss, I wanted to alienate myself, but it didn’t work. I wanted to believe that no one had experienced this depth of anguish, but of course I was wrong. What I discovered, was that an innumerable amount of us have experienced losses much like this. People tend to avoid talking about child loss for a host of reasons, but it’s so important. Talking about my daughter makes her feel more present and that she had existed. Talking about her enabled me to heal and move forward. When you don’t bring your child home from the hospital, I can’t describe what that does to you – only that it’s utterly crushing to every cell in your body. I created this piece, because I wanted to demonstrate in a visual way, what infant loss looks like. It needs to be talked about. It needs to be seen. Without conversation, there can be no true healing.
2018
mixed media oil on wood
32 x 48 inches
2018
mixed media oil on wood
32 x 48 inches
2018
mixed media oil on wood
32 x 48 inches
2016
mixed media on wood
45 x 45 inches
mixed media oil on wood
43.5 x 54 inches
2018
This piece is all about healing. It’s about finding yourself after great loss. I used a child to symbolize myself in this piece, because I felt like a child rediscovering myself and my faith. Shortly after the loss of my daughter, I didn’t find comfort in much, but lavender helped me relax and feel slightly more alive again. Healing took place over a long duration of time, but it wasn’t until I was on a trip in New Mexico, that I truly felt a sincere sense of hope and life once again. It was on this trip, that I finally felt at peace.
2013 - 2014
carved mixed media on wood
32 x 32 inches
2013 - 2014
carved mixed media on wood
32 x 32 inches
2013
carved mixed media on wood
48 x 32 inches
2019
carved mixed media oil on wood
40 x 60.5 inches
This is a piece about sisters. I wanted to show a sense of obscured identity in the younger, because as a younger sister myself, I found myself struggling as a child to be seen and known as someone other than the “little sister.” My external identity was very wrapped up in the persona of my older siblings for much of my young adolescence. I do not think I was alone in this; I think this is a very common adolescent experience. The shared identity isn’t necessarily negative, either. It gave me a sense of security and camaraderie, but it also definitively shaped the individual I became when we embarked beyond the nest.
2016
Mixed Media Oil on Wood
36 x 35.75 inches
2018
carved mixed media oil on wood
48 x 42 inches