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Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Oil, watercolor, ink and water, photographic transfer on silk
55” x 35” / 140 cm x 90 cm
This work emerges from two opposing flames: the quiet radiance of a family bonfire with my husband and children, and the volatile, untethered nights of my own childhood. Moss-soaked greens and a lilac haze seep across the silk—evoking the grounded pull of memory and the shimmer of something just out of reach. Flecks of yellow and teal surface like embers—both beacon and warning.
As a child, I often found myself on the edge of grown-up worlds. Ghosts in the Graveyard was a game—it was how we passed the time while adults blurred and swayed in the background. I remember the cold sting of muddy fields, excitement beneath the dark. One night, unforgettable: a man, naked, ran through a bonfire ten feet high.
Translucent washes over silk, fragments of photographs embedded like afterimages. The process mirrors memory itself: fragmentary, flickering, elusive. Each gesture is an echo—of motion, of fear, of the strange beauty that lingers in the margins.
Though rooted in personal history, Ghosts in the Graveyard touches something wider: intergenerational memory, the rituals that bind us, and the uneasy line between safety and threat. It is a painting of paradox—of warmth and chaos, of the seen and half-seen.
Now, decades later, I watch my own children around the fire. Their world, briefly, is only the smoke and the night.
Damp air, thick with moss.
The weight of age.
Yellow wellies sink
beneath a purple meringue coat.
In returning to these memories, I don’t seek to tidy them— breathe, distort, and hover. Yet here, around the fire with my children, I glimpse a different kind of shelter. One shaped not by certainty, but by presence. A fragile place, but ours.
Oil, watercolor, ink and water, photographic transfer on silk
55” x 35” / 140 cm x 90 cm
This work emerges from two opposing flames: the quiet radiance of a family bonfire with my husband and children, and the volatile, untethered nights of my own childhood. Moss-soaked greens and a lilac haze seep across the silk—evoking the grounded pull of memory and the shimmer of something just out of reach. Flecks of yellow and teal surface like embers—both beacon and warning.
As a child, I often found myself on the edge of grown-up worlds. Ghosts in the Graveyard was a game—it was how we passed the time while adults blurred and swayed in the background. I remember the cold sting of muddy fields, excitement beneath the dark. One night, unforgettable: a man, naked, ran through a bonfire ten feet high.
Translucent washes over silk, fragments of photographs embedded like afterimages. The process mirrors memory itself: fragmentary, flickering, elusive. Each gesture is an echo—of motion, of fear, of the strange beauty that lingers in the margins.
Though rooted in personal history, Ghosts in the Graveyard touches something wider: intergenerational memory, the rituals that bind us, and the uneasy line between safety and threat. It is a painting of paradox—of warmth and chaos, of the seen and half-seen.
Now, decades later, I watch my own children around the fire. Their world, briefly, is only the smoke and the night.
Damp air, thick with moss.
The weight of age.
Yellow wellies sink
beneath a purple meringue coat.
In returning to these memories, I don’t seek to tidy them— breathe, distort, and hover. Yet here, around the fire with my children, I glimpse a different kind of shelter. One shaped not by certainty, but by presence. A fragile place, but ours.