The following pieces are, themselves, cativating, but it's the stories behind the pieces makes them shine.
My hope is recognition; that, upon reading the background stories, a part of you recognizes itself in a part of them.
KUSTOS
2014
Wire, Paper Flowers -- At the time I created Kustos, there was no deeper meaning behind the choice of a rhino… I simply decided to make one simply to see if I could. That spring, I entered the piece into an art show. Sadly, whomever was charged with setting up the piece ended up bending its legs out to the side, effectively crippling my rhino. Heartbreaking. Upon seeing my ruined piece on its pedestal in the show, I burst into tears. Since I was in school, I hadn’t the time to sit down and give my piece the attention it needed to be fixed. During this same period, I was dealing with my own physical injury—a mysterious, debilitating hip pain—and hadn’t had the time to devote to properly addressing it. |
Finally, summer arrived, and I had both the time necessary to see a physical therapist about my hip as well as take the time to re-fashion each rhino leg. Curiously, once fixed, the rhino just didn’t look finished… something was missing… so up on a shelf he went, and I let the idea incubate.
That same summer was the first time I dabbled in any sort of real romantic intimacy. And the emotions that simple gestures elicited were unexpected and confounding. He showed me physical affection in ways only people who had loved me unconditionally, and for a long time, had shown me—a kiss on the forehead, rub of the shoulder… but… you couldn’t possibly love me like that…We don’t know each other well enough… This was emotionally perplexing and really made me feel exposed, like there was a backdoor to my heart that I had overlooked. It was frankly terrifying to think that someone else could affect my emotions, my thoughts, my sympathetic nervous system the way he had. I didn’t like feeling out of control like that.
Like any good artist with an emotion that was eating away at me, I brainstormed. I wanted to depict protection of that which is most vulnerable, innocent, and emotionally-charged— the idea of a heart guarded. Of course, anatomist that I am, the ribcage came to mind… it LITERALLY guards and protects the heart. But I don’t want to do anything Frida Kahlo-y, that’s just too grotesque for my style… I stared at my ceiling a bit longer, then sat up. And my eyes landed on the rhino armature.
And, like that, it clicked.
Kustos means “Guardian” in Greek. It's a self-portrait of sorts; the exterior of this authoritative animal is inherently tough, protecting the fragile jewel which it holds inside—a joyful, innocent, budding heart (symbolized by the paper flowers).
That same summer was the first time I dabbled in any sort of real romantic intimacy. And the emotions that simple gestures elicited were unexpected and confounding. He showed me physical affection in ways only people who had loved me unconditionally, and for a long time, had shown me—a kiss on the forehead, rub of the shoulder… but… you couldn’t possibly love me like that…We don’t know each other well enough… This was emotionally perplexing and really made me feel exposed, like there was a backdoor to my heart that I had overlooked. It was frankly terrifying to think that someone else could affect my emotions, my thoughts, my sympathetic nervous system the way he had. I didn’t like feeling out of control like that.
Like any good artist with an emotion that was eating away at me, I brainstormed. I wanted to depict protection of that which is most vulnerable, innocent, and emotionally-charged— the idea of a heart guarded. Of course, anatomist that I am, the ribcage came to mind… it LITERALLY guards and protects the heart. But I don’t want to do anything Frida Kahlo-y, that’s just too grotesque for my style… I stared at my ceiling a bit longer, then sat up. And my eyes landed on the rhino armature.
And, like that, it clicked.
Kustos means “Guardian” in Greek. It's a self-portrait of sorts; the exterior of this authoritative animal is inherently tough, protecting the fragile jewel which it holds inside—a joyful, innocent, budding heart (symbolized by the paper flowers).
ADDICTION
2017
Wire, Paint swatches, Cheese cloth
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Having a proclivity towards addiction and realizing that I'm even enamored by the hi-low yo-yo dance of addiction itself, I knew I wanted to somehow depict the allure, the pain, the rumination, the rush that characterizes any addictive behavior, whether it comes from a substance, a behavior, a person, or even the ride of addiction itself. When considering how to depict this in a sculpture, I polled various friends for descriptions or words that embodied the emotional and psycho-physiological state. Overwhelmingly, I received wholly negative terms—dark hole, abyss, despair, isolation, etc.
But if that were only what we experienced when dancing with addiction— a deep dark hole— we wouldn’t jump in. There wouldn’t be a pull to experience the abyss. There’s a reason why we jump in that hole, a reason we get captivated and drawn in. There’s something intoxicating and seductive at play.
That’s the side I wanted to depict. The seductress of addiction.
I consider the jellyfish to be an extremely entrancing and seductive animal. The slow, fluid way in which the tentacles and body undulate in water is hypnotic… but jellyfish are also known for the horrific pain and damage they are capable of delivering to victims.
The opposition of my two jellyfish speak to this dichotomy of addiction—the high as well as the low—like two sides of a coin. And, like the tentacles that almost seem to zig-zag between the two animals, the two extremes, so, too, we experience this psychological “rollercoaster effect” of shuttling recklessly between peak and valley, hot and cold, euphoria and desperation of addiction. We careen from the valley of pain, isolation, and unwelcome sobriety to an elated (though finite) peak, propelled unstably by some sort of hit, be it numbing painlessness, craved attention, or an altered state of consciousness meant as an escape. But then the plummet inevitably occurs, plunging us back abruptly into despair only to think, just as a passenger on a rollercoaster would, “But look-- the peak is just ahead. I can see it. I’m almost there...” And on and on we ride. This ruminous state not only taxes the psyche, but also begins insidiously to take over one’s life, tunneling their vision and slowly drawing them further in.
The tentacles also loosely create an enclosure, forming a cylinder of bars connecting the two jellyfish. In the midst of addiction, we may feel empowered and—especially at peaks— safe and secure, even. But only from the outside looking in can we see our “shelter” for what it truly is—a cage—and only in the absence of its shackles—an unencumbered, fulfilling breath of air; the clarity of a quiet, settled mind; or sustainable, bright energy driving each step— are we able to clearly identify our seductress and the prisoner we had become.
GRACE
2018
Wire, Notecards
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Wire, Notecards
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When returning to physical therapy school for Spring semester in 2017, I was also returning to what had been one of the darkest holes of my life. Those that make just getting out of bed and facing consciousness a chore. Upon my arrival, I realized that if I were quite literally to survive the semester, I would have to put my mental health first.
To arm myself, two ideas came to mind. Firstly, I thought about something my father always told me: “Seek out those who are succeeding at that which you want to succeed, emulate their actions, and you, too, will succeed.” People who I consider successful, happy, and satisfied with life, I noticed, all had morning rituals or habits of some nature—meditation for some, reading the morning paper for others, and taking a walk for still others. Secondly (and quite aptly timed), David Steindl-Rast’s TED talk “Want to be happy? Be grateful” fell into my lap. I may be known to miss little signs here and there, but that right there was a billboard.
Knowing I wouldn’t keep with a “ritual” that took longer than five minutes of my morning, I decided on something simple: Upon waking, I would go to my desk and take out a simple, lined notecard. I titled the lined side “Gratitudes” and then filled in the ten spaces. Flipping the notecard over, I would write either a short pep-talk/love letter to myself from my inner “little girl”, that part we all have (but don’t nourish), our inner unconditional supporter and biggest fan. Some days it was very short. Some days it was a therapeutic journal entry, sans intimidation of an entire page to fill. Some days, it was an inspirational passage or thought gathered from close friends, speakers, pastors. No matter, I saw the quality of my mornings shift.
I saved all the notecards, keeping them in a cigar box on my desk, each day deriving a bit of satisfaction from the accumulation of what would be around 200 days of gratitude cards. And it’s those same notecards that I used to make the feathers on the wings, sort of symbolizing how my morning gratitude became a “saving grace” during that time.
Additionally, during the nights of that period, I rediscovered my fear of the dark. I’m convinced it’s that time, lying in bed, that our demons do their best work. This feeling, this state, is what I hoped to capture in the man, head hung low and struggling to just push himself up. The second part, the wings, obviously has spiritual undertones. I’m religious and St. Michael has always symbolized “guardian” and “protection”, for me. There were many nights where I just wished and bargained and prayed that, just for one night, I could borrow those archangel wings, just for one night, I could be shielded from the darkness. Interestingly, many of those same nights were the nights I got my most fitful sleep. Perhaps it was sheer exhaustion, but the idea of guardian angels is comforting to me, too.
Together, this piece comprises the despair we encounter, but also the Grace that invariably finds and sustains us through it, in whatever form that may take— for me, some sort of divinity, as well as the thousands of gratitudes and love experienced, remembered, and collected at the beginning of every day.
To arm myself, two ideas came to mind. Firstly, I thought about something my father always told me: “Seek out those who are succeeding at that which you want to succeed, emulate their actions, and you, too, will succeed.” People who I consider successful, happy, and satisfied with life, I noticed, all had morning rituals or habits of some nature—meditation for some, reading the morning paper for others, and taking a walk for still others. Secondly (and quite aptly timed), David Steindl-Rast’s TED talk “Want to be happy? Be grateful” fell into my lap. I may be known to miss little signs here and there, but that right there was a billboard.
Knowing I wouldn’t keep with a “ritual” that took longer than five minutes of my morning, I decided on something simple: Upon waking, I would go to my desk and take out a simple, lined notecard. I titled the lined side “Gratitudes” and then filled in the ten spaces. Flipping the notecard over, I would write either a short pep-talk/love letter to myself from my inner “little girl”, that part we all have (but don’t nourish), our inner unconditional supporter and biggest fan. Some days it was very short. Some days it was a therapeutic journal entry, sans intimidation of an entire page to fill. Some days, it was an inspirational passage or thought gathered from close friends, speakers, pastors. No matter, I saw the quality of my mornings shift.
I saved all the notecards, keeping them in a cigar box on my desk, each day deriving a bit of satisfaction from the accumulation of what would be around 200 days of gratitude cards. And it’s those same notecards that I used to make the feathers on the wings, sort of symbolizing how my morning gratitude became a “saving grace” during that time.
Additionally, during the nights of that period, I rediscovered my fear of the dark. I’m convinced it’s that time, lying in bed, that our demons do their best work. This feeling, this state, is what I hoped to capture in the man, head hung low and struggling to just push himself up. The second part, the wings, obviously has spiritual undertones. I’m religious and St. Michael has always symbolized “guardian” and “protection”, for me. There were many nights where I just wished and bargained and prayed that, just for one night, I could borrow those archangel wings, just for one night, I could be shielded from the darkness. Interestingly, many of those same nights were the nights I got my most fitful sleep. Perhaps it was sheer exhaustion, but the idea of guardian angels is comforting to me, too.
Together, this piece comprises the despair we encounter, but also the Grace that invariably finds and sustains us through it, in whatever form that may take— for me, some sort of divinity, as well as the thousands of gratitudes and love experienced, remembered, and collected at the beginning of every day.