The reason art matters to me is because it tells a story. And I’m a story teller at heart. At a young age, I was captivated by stories about my family. At work, the essence of my job is to tell stories. So I don’t suppose it’s any surprise that I’m captivated by art as a way of telling a story.
I rarely write as part of a piece of art. But I love the concept of found words — scraps of text that float around on my art table, torn for backgrounds or other purposes until suddenly, at just the right moment, the right words magically show up in front of me. That seems to happen a lot, especially as I struggle to find my own voice in my artwork. I want my art to be my story, my words.
ncreasingly, I find that this struggle for authenticity has become easy. As much as I love Claudine Hellmuth’s
clean, pretty lines, or DJ Pettitt’s soulful women, I could never make the kind of art they make. My art is a reflection of me — I work, almost subconsciously, in a sort of artist’s daze, and when a piece is done, it’s a bit like waking up, coming back to my conscious self. My artwork invariably looks like, well, my artwork. Even when I try to have simple, spartan lines, my artwork is a little bit messy, obscure, full of layers and obscure portions. It’s my story.
It’s funny that I’ve spent much of the past year worrying, even obsessing, about finding my own voice and making my own art, because it’s been here all along. I couldn’t escape from it even if I wanted to.