Being an artist is being human. I cannot open my eyes without seeing art. I cannot breathe without inhaling inspiration. Every moment is something that deserves consideration. As my life evolves, so does my art. My primary process is one of documentation. The subject matter, however, is never static. While there remains a constant undercurrent of self-discovery, the self that lies within me is wrapped in ever-changing layers of life.
In the past handful of years, my life has transitioned from one of implosive self-destruction to one of ordinary domesticity. While I’m grateful for the saving grace of the everyday normalcy of family, I’m also afraid of its banality. Am I able to blend my artist-self with my mother-self? Will I be able to fulfill my responsiblities as a wife/mother/householder and also, at the same time, fulfill promises I’ve long ago made to myself to always see my world through the lens of creativity? I love my family. My home – in both the physical meaning and the more intangible one – has become an extension of myself. I don’t want to discount the bliss I’ve found by narrowly equating a life of art to a decadent, bohemian existence. I want to document not only my life within my family, but also the communion of the glorious and the mundane as we move through our days together.