Hope in the Balance 36x60
When I launched The Light Returns Residency, I shared small glimpses of my process—little videos posted across social media—where I explored why I needed to search for light. One of the reasons, I shared openly, was that the new administration feels dark and oppressive to me. I need to believe that good things can still come.
After posting one of these videos on YouTube, a viewer responded. She reminded me that she and half the country voted for Trump. She also told me, as an experienced art teacher, that art should be free of politics, that it has no place for negativity.
I wholeheartedly disagree.
Art is deeply personal. Art is emotional. If I strip my emotions from my work, the art suffers. If I ignore what I feel, I betray the creative process itself. I believe in holding space for different perspectives—not with name-calling or division, but with the belief that honest conversations are necessary. That walls come down when we allow ourselves to truly see and hear one another.
This piece was born out of a reckoning—a moment when I could no longer ignore the injustice I see: the erosion of laws meant to protect the most vulnerable, the dismantling of our democracy.
Hope in the Balance holds both my rage and my clarity, the chaos of my emotions and the certainty that what is happening is wrong.
And yet, even when the balance feels precarious, hope endures.
A friend suggested another name for this piece: Cassandra, after the figure in Greek mythology who could see the future but was never believed. That name lingers in my mind because that’s how this moment feels. But even if the warning goes unheard, I will keep creating. I will keep believing that light returns.
This piece, in many ways, represents my backbone.
February Thaw 6x6 (Mini)
During the two and a half weeks I spent working on The Light Returns collection, winter felt relentless. The days were cold, the landscape oppressively gray, the earth bare of blooms. Rain fell steadily, seeping into everything. And yet, suddenly—almost impossibly—we had a string of warm days. The sun returned, bright and insistent, burning off some of the heaviness.
That warmth cracked something open in me. The weight of darkness was still there, but I could believe again that I was part of the good. That maybe, just maybe, I was a helper. That this residency, this work—raising money for CA wildfire victims and Western NC flood victims—might hold meaning beyond me. That impact could feel like a 70-degree day in the dead of winter, when the sun kisses your skin, when a good conversation with friends reminds you of what’s possible.
February Thaw carries that same feeling—the slow, almost imperceptible shift of winter yielding to the first breath of spring.
On the left, a moody wash of deep purple emerges, born from the mingling of soft black and delicate pink—colors still caught in transition. The weight of winter lingers there, rich and introspective, before yielding to an airy expanse of pale light on the right. Warmth begins to break through. Hints of electric blue and flickers of gold dance across the surface, small yet certain reminders of renewal. Scribbled pencil lines and vibrant oil pastels in blue and violet echo the restless stirrings of life beneath the frost.
February Thaw is a meditation on contrast—the quiet weight of winter meeting the first glimmers of something new, something brighter, just on the horizon.
Outta The Ashes 36x60
This piece started with a vision—a rarity in my process. I knew I wanted to pour watered-down acrylic onto the canvas to create the illusion of light in motion. I also envisioned oil pastel scribbles dancing across the surface, capturing the frequency of light itself.
But having a vision and executing it are two very different things. Taking a creative risk can be terrifying. Sometimes, it leads to something even better than imagined. Other times… it doesn’t work out at all. But if you don’t risk wrecking the whole thing, you’ll never reach what’s waiting on the other side.
This piece was one of those risks.
When the light acrylic washes settled on the canvas, I could have stopped. It was beautiful as it was. But something in me knew it wasn’t done. I had imagined those oil pastel lines from the beginning, but now, standing in front of the piece, I hesitated. I felt almost frozen, afraid to ruin what I had already created.
And yet, that quiet pull—the whisper to just see—was stronger.
I took a deep breath and went for it. And I couldn’t be more pleased with how it turned out.
If you put my feet to the fire, I’d have to say this is my favorite piece of the entire collection.
I hope that wherever it finds a home, its collector will feel inspired to be brave, to take risks, and to trust that what’s on the other side might be even more beautiful than they imagined.
