My work examines the reliability of memory– its idealization and its faults. I explore my presence in nature, as a daughter, as an artist, as someone who feels deep love, and deep empathy.

Being one with the landscape functions as an escape from my identity. Just like memory, an escape from physical being. 

Though I’ve learned, memory is a fickle thing. Not something to suspend, but something to embrace.  

Allowing the clouds in my mind to conceal some and reveal others. 

Where does this leave me?

What makes me real? 

Could it still be imagined comforts, talismans, or the small ladybug that lands on my shoulder?