Oil on canvas collaged with papers from a vintage shorthand manual

I was raised in the alpine desert of the Southwest. My mom taught me to dig trenches to plant our seeds in, to increase the chances of a raindrop reaching some thirsty roots.

I think she planted me in a trench. I’ve been dusted by the passing winds, and caressed by the autumn sun. I’ve been tended to with patience and plucked by hungry passersby. And I’ve also been submerged in torrential storms so devastating that I oftentimes instigate conflict and fabricate drama to leave my body and escape this world.

This summer squash blossom is a momentary manifestation of the forces that nourished me.


My weaving practice encourages my mathematical, structured personality. It can get very serious and intense in my weaving studio. Painting offers me an escape from my disciplined, analytical self. When I step up to a canvas, all my other parts are invited to express themselves through my paintbrush. When I allow my designs to be free of meaning, and my color palette to develop for itself, the forces that have formed me as a person appear before my eyes in physical form. During the creation-process, I am reminded of the colors I associate specific with friends, my favorite children’s books, that harsh project critique in college, tracing Tlingit Formline as a kid, collages made by my husband, that Billie Holiday song, my mom’s summertime table cloth. The finished product is a pure conglomeration of all the little bits of insignificance that have gifted my life with deep meaning and wonder.


In a world where art is expected to speak profound stories and move mountains with socially transformative concepts, I find myself seeking work that brings me back home to my essence — back home to my heart.