​of the seventeenth century, their precarious placement of objects, their narratives and motifs, and the dramatic Chiaroscuro lighting through which they're revealed- along with symbols and themes from my own life- my work is as much as retelling of the ages as it is personal memoir.

 

Ranging from depictions of everyday life, scenes on the brink of happening, or, perhaps, following it: tablescapes fraught with vessels, pewter, fabric, texture, a plate of near-translucent oysters, the shell-like peel of a lemon uncoiled and shimmering, lobsters, peaches, objects known to us as they are, in this light, secretive and seductive; to visions of a world more fantastical than our own: impossibly strung blue-ribboned garlands of fruit and flowers, towering bouquets, looming shadows set against the bluest of skies, glimpses of surrealism peered at from behind the curtain of trompe l'oeil, an illusion of life. As a body, they are a dichotomy consisting of the world in which our bodies walk, and the world in which the mind wanders and dreams; as much of the ethereal as they are of this earth, carnal as such pleasures are heavenly, suspended in time as the moments themselves are quick to slip away in the inevitable lapse of it.

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Arrangement is its own form of worship with which I am obsessed; objects, placement, ledges and tables, the draping of fabric, all so much like alters; each still life an act of devotion. And to make these images is to not only elucidate the world in which they are viewed, but to call upon the act of viewing itself. Our vision is softened looking upon these objects and scenes, set against a darkened expanse; they beg of us to see, to know, to hold, to set ourselves against our own unknown; to live not in fear of death, but to gaze tenderly in the face of it and persevere despite. 

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It is my hope that they go on to act as reflections, in which not only the objects themselves are seen, but the objects as they are loved, as they are changed in the hands of time, memory, season. This bowl of fruit, just on the edge of turning, fleshy and mottled; this bouquet of flowers, ravaged and bitten-leafed and teeming with snails, caterpillars, butterflies; these tables, scenes, vignettes of life, these objects not at all objects, but mirrors; these objects, not objects at all, but you and I.