Everything I make emerges conceptually from the anatomy of a painting: stretcher, canvas, pigment. This is the foundation on which I built my studio practice years ago as a conventional painter who found more meaning in materials than pictures. Working within this framework has allowed my process to be open-ended, provisional, indeterminate, and often eccentric, breaching the conventional infrastructure of “Art” both formally and institutionally.
Like my own history, I claim a practice that is fiercely gendered but that has roots in garden variety middle class values. My glossy car finishes, wood panels snapped by force, and textiles tufted thick like animal hides proclaim a femininity based on the hardened hands of working class women like my Eastern European grandmothers. Yet, in rueful acceptance of my whitewashed middle-class upbringing, I speak the visual language of consumerism. My projects include panels pigmented with furniture lacquer that come flat-packed to one’s home for DIY assembly (instructions not included); contemplative color panels I commissioned from an auto body painter; rag rugs that display wage gap infographics; and paintings that function as neti pots for the eyes. Two years ago, I began weaving my own canvases, which provided a gateway into wearable pieces that shape experiences in daily life.