The creation journey is sacred. In all things, fall in love with the process.
Mixed media piece as I played with different illustration styles.
This mix media self portrait was created in a full on fit of grief. After feeling as though I had lost my sparkle, I spent years praying and begging to find it again. I remember one winter day, looking in the mirror, not recognizing the girl, sad eyes staring back at me. I sat down and created this piece as a reminder to myself that no matter what my physical body feels, I am a magical soul. In my mind’s eye, I’m glowing and painted in rainbows. This day came with the decision to find myself again. A commitment. It took a few more years, but I finally started to see that sparkle once again. It was truly an incredible turning point in my own healing as I felt capable of guiding myself through the next journey of my own becoming.
This is my first pour I created during Covid. I was very much a jumping off point for me. The enjoyment of this sparked all the work that I’m doing today. One thing led to another, which led to another and here we are.
So frequently, I hear women tell me that they simply are not artists. They feel as though they lack the very physical ability to create. How did we get here? Where did the disconnect happen where women have forgotten how magical they are? You are an artist in your every day life. Maybe it’s the way you bake bread for your family so lovingly or maybe it’s simply the way you fold the laundry in very specific ways. Never forget that everything you create matters.
In the early months of Covid quarantine, I made the decision to try something new. I gathered materials, found the plan, and started. The only woodwork I had ever done was simply putting together my simple raised garden beds. I credit my mother with my audacity to believe that I could do this. Getting the top board on took me six weeks, because the amount of pressure I had to put on each screw to get them in exacerbated my autoimmune disease. It is very imperfect, and yet it is so perfect. There’s a special inscription that I put under the table to remind me that I am capable of all things.
It took me years of my mother, and I trying to teach me how to crochet as a left-handed individual. Once I mastered it, I made the most of the few stitches I knew. At this stage, I go through seasons where I’ll crochet like a maniac for a couple months. This typically falls in the winter. With most things, I romanticize the experience. Somehow crocheting just means more with snow on the ground and cozied up with a blanket, book nearby.
