I’m not really an artist. That’s what I tell myself each time I return to my “studio” (a corner of my living room) to create something that makes sense of my internal chaos.
Chaos, color, and story. That’s what I aim to create in my art. There’s an internal harmony to my work that tells a story in between the claustrophobia of color crowding the senses.
The sensory overload I bring to the canvas mirrors the loudness of the physical world I exist in. As a sensitive and an empath the world is always too bright, too hot, too loud, too peopled, too much. I was born and raised in South Florida; I’ve lived most of my life here. And yet I’ve never felt a sense of belonging here. My home is somewhere far, far from here. I’m always looking for it. Searching for sign paths to it in the colors of life, recreating it in my stories and dreams. And in the turbulence of my art I can feel centered and grounded, while also reaching into the elusive mist of a home I’ve never seen.
Art of Hiraeth 