So the starting question is why do we find ourselves so timid and caught up in the trappings of worry? My artist statement from this year reflects my musings on that very dilemma:
Radiant, vulnerable, rhythmic, suspended in fear—I pack emotions of the day into each wax surface of light, color, form, and texture. Every mark I make is a synthesis of me. It’s as if
I’m saying, “Here’s a day,” and then I seal it in.
It’s not easy being an artist. I do not live without fear. But I’ve learned to sense its approach, stand with it, and engage the internal battle. To dissolve its hold, I go where fear can’t: the unknown. Still, at times I’m lured into repeating known successes—to let them influence new work. But they are not my refuge.
Delving into new territory is the antidote to my greatest fear: that the work becomes predictable, boring, and inauthentic. Those descriptors can’t survive the unknown. So I’ve no option but to pursue it and continue my contemplative journey to transcend fear—the place where intuition guides my technical skill, inventive spirit, and life intentions onto the canvas, liberating what needs to be said.
Even so, fear is sneaky. It wafts in and out of consciousness. So I’ve learned to use it as a source of energy, for the way to the other side of fear is to make a move. Sometimes a simple one is all it takes. I’ll pick up a torch or scraping tool. Move my hand across a painting, striking a simple horizontal line. With that, I am immediately beckoned into uncharted artistic territory and an expansive narrative—delineations of land and sky, weather and water.
Using the language of visual expression as my ally, I etch and scuff my way through layers of wax and explore mysterious dualities. Fear and its absence. A panoramic split of land and sky. Ancient patterns of weather and water. Unpredictable territories, all. I will experiment and watch, listen to their narratives, let them be my master, and experience them fully.