Acrylic and Chainstitch Embroidery on stretched linen
16” x 20”

This is the view from “The Desk” hike in Alpine, TX looking north at sunrise. It is perhaps one of my favorite views of all. It’s stark and simple, yet contains every color in the universe, especially at sunrise. It takes my breath away every time.

This piece is one of two misfits that didn’t make it into my solo show at Wrong in Marfa this spring. It was one of my favorites that I created for the show, but in the end didn’t fit in the space the way I had hoped.

More on the show:

Landscapes can hold it all, I think. Mountains and plant life, sure, but also memories, dreams, wishes, and grief. I’ve been chasing the wonders of the West Texas landscape through various artistic mediums since my first trip out here many years ago. Like so many artists before me I have been swept out of my boots by the dusty-yet-brilliant hues, the ever wistful skies, the unearthly cactus hanging from the side of the lonely canyon. These landscapes just beg us for the canvas, it seems.

After losing my mother-in-law (the inimitable Patty Manning, native plant queen of West Texas) last year, these desert scenes suddenly felt different: cavernous, unfamiliar, and fundamentally unknowable. I felt entirely confounded by them. How could I possibly portray the desert now, as I have for years, when there was such a giant hole in the middle of it? I wrestled with it, I avoided it, I tried many failed attempts at it. Eventually, though, I settled on it: portray the giant hole.

And so these paintings and stitchings became a way for me to move through my grief. The giant hole became a portal, a small way to find what I had lost. The landscapes became bigger than their immediate scenes, my grief began to encompass more than just my own loss. The portals became perhaps more of a collective concept, allowing us access to that which eludes us. What can we do when the world around us becomes changed and unknowable? We can look for small portals.