When my son passed away six years ago, my grief was overwhelming, and it remains a profound part of my life. Over the years, I allowed only small pieces of that grief to surface. It felt as though, if I let it all come at once, I would disappear with it.
For a long time, I was unable to paint. When I finally returned to my studio, I felt lost, confused, and uncertain of who I was or whether I could even paint anymore. So when the opportunity arose to be an artist-in-residence—alone in a beautiful, peaceful place—I embraced it completely. I gave myself permission simply to be.
I began painting intuitively, allowing whatever was within me to emerge without judgment. Abstraction flowed freely, and asemic writing gradually found its way into the work. As I looked at the paintings that had emerged, I realized I had turned a corner—not only in my grief, but also in my understanding of myself as an artist. It felt as though the grief I had carried for so long had finally found its own language and was pouring onto the canvas.