Galleries > Sum of the Parts

Riparian Time Zone
Oil on wood panel
40 x 48"
2022
Nerveland
oil on Arches oil paper, mounted on wood panel
16 x 20"
2022
Who Do You Love?
Oil on wood panel
48 x 40"
2022
Dragonfly
Oil on wood panel
12 X 24"
2022
Walnut Sphinx Moth
Oil on wood panel
12 x 12"
2022
Table Altar: Sphinx Moth
Oil on 3 hinged panels, free standing
16 x 21"
2022
Table Altar: Iris, Thistle and Prickly Poppy
Oil on 3 hinged panels, free standing
16 x 21"
2022
Table Altar: Grotto
Oil on 3 hinged panels, free standing
16 x 21"
2022
Table Altar: Grotto II
Oil on 3 hinged panels, free standing
16 x 21"
2022
San Antonio Reservoir
Oil on oil paper
22 x 30"
2022
Vicksburg, Mississippi
Oil on oil paper
11 x 15"
2022
Forest Floor
Oil on oil paper
10 x 8"
2022
Twisted Tree
Oililil on oil paper
10 x 8"
2022
Dragonfly Hero
Oil on oil paper
8 x 10"
2022
Nasturtiums
Oilil on oil paper
10 x 8"
2022
Woven
Oil on oil paper
7.25 x 11.25"
2022
Split Sycamore
Oil on oil paper
8 x 10"
2022
Artichoke Leaves
Oil on oil paper
8 x 11"
2022
Vermont
Oil on oil paper
8 x 10"
2022
Riparian Zone
Oil on oil paper
8 x 10"
2022
Sphinx Moth
Oil on oil paper
10 x 8"
2022
Stamford, Connecticut
Oil on oil paper
10 x 8"
2022
Onion
Oil on oil paper
10 x 8"
2022
Yellow Water
Oil on oil paper
10 x 8"
2022
Frost Weed
Oil on oil paper
10 x 8"
2022
Hay Field
Oil on oil paper
10 x 8"
2022
Sycamore
Oil on oil paper
10 x 8"
2022
Subterranean Abstract
Oil on oil paper
6.5 x 10"
2022
Subterranean Abstract in Red
Oil on oil paper
6.5 x 10"
2022
Thistles
Oil on oil paper
10 x 8"
2022
Story Garden
Oil on oil paper
10 x 8"
2022
Abstract in 4 Colors
Oil on oil paper
10 x 8"
2022
Abstract in Four Colors #2
Oil on oil paper
6.5 x 6.5"
2022
Self Portrait on Paper
Oil on oil paper
10 x 8"
2022
Puddle Algae
Oil on oil paper
8 x 10"
2022
Poverty Weed
Oil on oil paper
8 x 8"
2022
Roy Guerrero Park
Oil on oil paper
8 x 10"
2022
Hero Iris
Oil
10 x 8"
2022

New Work. Sum of the Parts opens at Lydia Street Gallery Sept 23.
(This is not a comprehensive listing, more art to be added soon!)

I began this body of work feeling scattered, a little spent and rudderless, then walloped by unrelenting heat, the worst in my memory, and I’m a lifelong Texan. My garden became a dust bowl. Although my studio AC ran constantly, it couldn’t get below 87 most afternoons. Beyond the walls of my studio, fires and floods were happening seemingly everywhere, and the Arctic ice cap was melting four times faster than scientists had previously understood. I felt exhausted from the challenge to maintain hope.
I decided to just keep at the work, following curiosity, making pieces that reflected my scattered consciousness. Showing up in my studio daily turned out to be a hopeful act in itself. I started to see any number of directions I could take. I began a series of (30+) tiny paintings; 8 x 10” each, all oils on oil paper. I tried to just let the ideas flow, keeping my judgments to a minimum, just painting. Images that seemed more significant found their way into larger paintings. These tiny artworks are beginnings– little totems of my psyche, hung on one wall in small, intuitive groupings that are meant to be rearranged and added to over time. I imagine that every time I rearrange them, I’ll see new insights and patterns.
At the same time, I began a series of small altar pieces; 3 wood panels hinged together to become freestanding. As a kid, I was a fervent Catholic. I loved the stories and the religious pictures and the drama, but I dropped Catholicism when I knew I wanted to have sex outside of marriage. I also felt a little betrayed by the religion itself. I’ve mostly shied away from religious iconography, or even references, in my art. But it’s inside me still. I’ve always been attracted to altar-like compositions that honor a central figure– usually a tree, in my work. In some ways, I’ve honored nature the way one would a saint. Square canvases (and I use them a lot) force a centering of a subject in an honorific way. I’m ready to explore my version of religious iconography.
I’m in for the long haul, my art-making is a continuum and I don’t care if I ever finish. I guess the tally for the SUM of the parts is never final. This is my definition of hope.