My work is about where my stories of growing up and raising kids in small-town America intersect with your memories of childhood.
Mine is the story of the color of sunlight on the wall, of transforming cracks on the ceiling into pictures of animals in my mind. It’s the magic of crayons, paint, homemade playdough, and turning used soda bottles into spinning mobiles. Of dress up, make-believe, block castles, and blanket forts. Of heartbreak over broken toys, outrage over the injustice of a skipped turn, and parents who scream and cry terrifyingly. Of friends who no longer want to be friends.
It’s the story of reading Cosmo and Ms., of worshipping riot grrrls, Ani Difranco, and Kate Moss, and of watching the rise of Hillary Clinton and internet porn.
It’s the story of growing up, of being disappointed and stressed out about the “real world.” It’s the story of growing up some more… having children, and experiencing childhood all over again through their eyes.
Becoming a mother, like adolescence, is a time of change, wonder, and discovering a new identity. Of course it’s also the end of protracted adolescence. I didn’t truly become an adult until I had a baby. (Well, maybe I’m still working on the whole adulthood thing.)
Making art is coping and escaping. It is play, meditation, and therapy all rolled into one. Don’t we all need a little of that?