Artist Statement

I’ve lived a life of responsibility as a big sister of five brothers, a wife, a mother of three daughters, a teacher and administrator for hundreds of children, and now a grandmother of six. Since I retired as an educator, I have been responsible for two dogs and a backyard of mature trees (and if you know dogs and trees, that’s not an easy task). These days, I sit in my backyard or studio with a cup of coffee or glass of wine to think, write, and draw in my own time. I walk in the woods or travel if I’m not in my backyard or studio.

My responsibility to the world has shifted from active participation to more of an observer of life. As an educator and mother, I lived in the “mess” of things. I solved a hundred problems a day and woke up the next morning to do it all again—and again and again. So, this more passive life is, to say the least, different.

Drawing and writing my thoughts and feelings as a full-time job, not merely as therapy to stay sane in a chaotic world, allows me to dig deeper into why I think and feel the way I do. The product of this new time is my drawings, reflecting my perspective of the world.   

In my life, I’ve known more than my fair share of people who have called themselves realists. They’ve usually been people who see problems with no solutions— “that’s the way things are” kind of people. When they would tell me they were realists, I would think, “Me too—but not like you.” Therefore, I’ve concluded that there are two types of realists: the pessimistic realist and the optimistic realist. The pessimist sees problems as unfixable; the optimist sees the same problem but sees how it can be fixed, and that change can occur with a plan and work. 

 I am an optimistic realist. My art tells the stories of the problems we face as individuals and communities, but I see none of these things as hopeless. I believe in us and the future. My task as an artist and observer of life is to create an image that communicates the problems I see. And seeing the problem is halfway to a solution. Some ask if dreams inspire my drawings, and I tell them, “No.” When I draw, I’m wide awake.

I call myself a surrealist, a symbolist, or simply a storyteller. Having Kentucky roots, storytelling seems most appropriate but not complete. Therefore, I’ve fashioned my term for my art, reflecting the relationship to problem-solving I mentioned. As an artist, I am an Optimistic Realist. This fundamentally makes me a social critic, which may be a byproduct of being raised in a religious home, being an educator, or both.

We seem to be taught or conditioned to see the world in binary terms. Maybe this is how we learn to understand ourselves and fashion an identity. We constantly compare ourselves to others. These others who are different from us are the antithesis of ourselves. We learn to understand ourselves by who we are and who we are not. There is a positive and negative pull to this understanding of ourselves.

Religion amplifies this positive and negative pull, defining it as a morality of good and evil. However, the “good” and “evil” of religion muddies the water in finding an authentic identity. With religion, we are not looking at the positive and negative of ourselves; we are looking at the positive and negative of our place within religion as defined by a bunch of “holy” dead men. Religion morphs the “other” as the enemy, the enemy of good. After all, in binary terms, “we” are good, and “they” are evil. Within this overarching battle of good and evil, individuals lose themselves, never finding their authentic selves. I write this as part of my artist statement because religion once defined so much of me and how my version of good and evil was then so simplistic and, in many cases, cruel. I am now unraveling this entanglement with my lines and symbols—my meanings about a world that needs empathy and understanding, not an iron fist of theological doctrines. I have a strong need to disentangle myself from the injustice of a religion that sees only itself as having “truth.” This “truth” has caused so much social misery, unhappiness, and death that I must address in my art. We need new mythologies about what is good and evil to move toward a truth that includes everyone, not just the “chosen few.” I don’t say this to persuade anyone from religion but to draw attention to religion’s imperfection and divisiveness.  

Religion and society give us roles to play—whether we’re suited for the role or not. This is true for men and women but much more confining for women. My art reflects the binary pull from the perspective of a woman. I am more sensitive to this pull as a woman because my journey in finding my artistic voice has been so convoluted by what society and my religion labeled as my “should be.” I have no choice but to be optimistic because it’s the only way to dig myself out of the deep hole religion has dug for me—and others who may see a different path other than the one society or religion has reserved for us.

As an Optimistic Realist, I document humanity's sadness, struggles, and disconnections from nature, which are bound to my perspective. I want the viewer to consider and think through my representation of these human imperfections. My work is for those who see a world bigger than themselves and empathize with others. Seeing how we are alike is essential in understanding the differences that often divide us. We humans are deeply rooted in each other and nature. If we could learn to see the artificial barriers we build, we could solve the problems that deter many from participating in a just life.

My art is a process of going from a vague idea to a detailed complexity of lines and values. The direction my lines take is dictated by the rhythm and balance of the composition, which is bound to the contrasts of positive and negative space. By embracing uncertainty and letting go of perfectionism, my creative process involves finding symbols representing emotions and imperfections within myself and society. My symbols emerge into definitions of my ideas, orchestrated to tell a story.