As a young person I believed I’d be a completely satisfied hermitess in a turret with a tub, music, books and art supplies, living vicariously through people I watched from above.
The closest I ever came to the turret was the year Kurt Cobain shot himself in the head. I shared a third floor parkside apartment with a panoramic view. Among other things, I could clearly observe the hookers working the corner below, as well as the residents in another apartment building. I became fixated on one guy in particular with a face like a fox and sleek black hair. I’d meet him, suffer a fall one night during a party at his place. The emergency room doctor who sewed my lip inquired if I was on drugs and although I was not it turned out my new friend was, dying of an overdose within a couple of years. He, along with my maternal grandfather were the first dead people who spoke to me. My grandfather’s post mortem regrets included mistreatment of his children and wife, which explained my grandmother’s habitual silent seething at the kitchen sink. It’s a sad story, however that’s also the side of the family where art comes from.
In my work I am primarily interested in mood, followed by a sense of place. My tattooing career has aided me in many ways including forcing me to become more intimate with people than I would have otherwise. Simply put, this has given me the opportunity to shift from observer to citizen. I completed an illustrated memoir in summer 2018 and most recently have embarked on a series of expressionist/symbolic paintings using my island surroundings as inspiration. My intention is to work on larger paintings in a similar vein, continuing to trust my voice as a storyteller.
