How do we locate ourselves in the spaces we inhabit, and how much of what we perceive is shaped by the memories we carry?
I have a memory, one of the first images I ever painted. I must have been around four years old. The picture hung for years on the inside of my grandmother’s dining room door, held up with strips of tape. Each year, the tape would peel off, replaced with new, yellowing strips. And as the tape changed, so did my memory of the image. I’m sure I was trying to paint the inside of a stone. I had asked my grandmother, 'What does the inside of a stone look like?' I must have imagined that a stone had a thin outer shell, like an orange peel, and that its inside was something completely different. That stone, and what it might hold inside, has stayed with me ever since.
In addition to acrylics and inks, pigments found in nature are used, literally bringing the landscape into the picture.
