Fragile; Not Like a Flower

A-Gallery (Seattle, WA)

January 2023

I am the kind of quiet that contains an incendiary rage, the kind of delicate calm that belies that classic Frida Kahlo-attributed quote of being fragile, "not like a flower, but like a bomb". Vigilantly staying a step ahead of myself while keeping a safe distance is a necessary loneliness. (So maybe my work is colorful, not like a flower, but like a frog. After all, this series is a firsthand account of fighting old patterns of dysfunction with novel eccentricities, and spending quality time with my abandonment issues.)

I’ve felt a yearning to go home for a long time, but the feeling of being home is fleeting when the most reliable aspect of me is restlessness, with moods prone to volatility. And so it often happens that I prefer to explore externally, to create a home within myself by escaping to worlds so far outside of myself that the idea of "self" stops being complex and in need of explanation and instead becomes obvious and natural. Home is in miles of empty road, a campsite on the beach, or a third day on the trail. Home is at the end of unplanned late night drives, curled up in a sleeping bag until I wake up to sunrise in unfamiliar landscapes. Although the motivation to search for these places comes from a disquieted mind, I am grateful for the peaceful likeness of the scenes I’ve gathered.