Memoirs From The Studio
Othered
Acrylic ink on canvas
Figures stretch and flicker, suspended between presence and erasure. Their bodies drip and fracture—rooted, yet unraveling. There’s tension in the space between them, a silence where belonging should have been.
It speaks to the ache of invisibility, of being misrecognized, diminished, and cast aside by people who once called themselves family. Yet in the unraveling, there is also survival. The figures still hold form. They still reach. They still exist.
Othered
Acrylic ink on canvas
Figures stretch and flicker, suspended between presence and erasure. Their bodies drip and fracture—rooted, yet unraveling. There’s tension in the space between them, a silence where belonging should have been.
It speaks to the ache of invisibility, of being misrecognized, diminished, and cast aside by people who once called themselves family. Yet in the unraveling, there is also survival. The figures still hold form. They still reach. They still exist.
Othered
Acrylic ink on canvas
Figures stretch and flicker, suspended between presence and erasure. Their bodies drip and fracture—rooted, yet unraveling. There’s tension in the space between them, a silence where belonging should have been.
It speaks to the ache of invisibility, of being misrecognized, diminished, and cast aside by people who once called themselves family. Yet in the unraveling, there is also survival. The figures still hold form. They still reach. They still exist.
In every bloom and every brushstroke, the soul came home to itself.
In every bloom and every brushstroke, the soul came home to itself.
In every bloom and every brushstroke, the soul came home to itself.