From the Ground Up

Still Life, but Me, with Ribbon

Before I post this, I’d like to preface with the following: I’m intentionally trying to not be funny these days. I feel like I could have written this from a much more humorous bent.. like from the perspective that maybe my mother used me for her own private performance art. Someone reminded me recently that covering things with humor all the time only covers them. So this is part of the dismantling and unraveling. It’s the untying of the bow. There is nothing exciting about this writing. I would like to see if I can be okay with that.

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Detail. I started with a sketch in charcoal and finished painting with layers of gouache. 40 x 40 in. This work will be on display at T. Mari Gallery in Chicago next month.

Yesterday in the studio, I began drawing a younger version of myself. In the image, she’s turned slightly away, seen from behind. Her hair is loose and wild, and a large ribbon is tied in a bow at the back. I gave the ribbon its own energy. Nothing about it feels still or quiet.

It made me think of the salon. Every time I plop into Dana’s chair, I look at her in the mirror and say, “You know what I want. Make it look disheveled and unkempt.” That’s all I offer. She knows it means: make it cool and full of layers. What I’m really saying is, please give me a haircut my mother would hate.

Dear Jesus, I pray Dana never leaves me. She cuts it like that every. single. time.

As I drew, I thought of the bows my mother tied around me on the first day of school. Sometimes there were bows on top of my head, but the ones tied around the neck have stayed with me in a particular way. A bow firmly sitting at the front of the neck felt like a signal, a way of saying, “Here she is.” I think it was meant to bring order, to shape me into something that could appear prepared, intelligent, and worthy of attention. The ribbon never spoke of what was happening behind closed doors. It simply offered the appearance of something finished and ready. Polished.

Later in the evening, a friend called while I was closing up the studio. I walked to the car with the conversation still going, and I left the drawing-turned-painting behind. I didn’t realize I had taken the little girl with me until morning. When I opened the closet, I felt her choosing with me. Now, as I sit and write, I look down and notice three kinds of stripes, two kinds of plaid, a worn artist’s smock, and a pair of Adidas Sambas.

Video still. Last flower cutting of the year before tubers go into storage. *pattern recognition.

This afternoon, I returned to the painting and spent more time with her. Her face remains hidden, but her presence is grounded and certain. She carries a kind of knowing I don’t remember sensing in myself at that age. I moved quickly through those early years, always in a heightened state. I was constantly adjusting to my surroundings. There was no room for stillness or a place to pause. I moved because I had to.

This morning I asked myself what she might have worn if she had been allowed to choose. I thought of my day ahead, beginning in the flower garden and taking clippings to the studio. I asked her directly what she’d like to wear for that kind of magical day, and she gladly guided the selection.

After dressing, I went to clip the last of my dahlia blooms. This weekend, the garden will come down as I’ll store the tubers over winter. This time always brings a mix of gratitude and sadness. Letting go is never easy, even when you know it’s time. This year’s garden taught me a lot. The blooms were beautiful, even though the process was sheer chaos. Because of my expanded harvest from the year prior (and a decent storage system), I was able to gift more tubers this season than ever before. Friends sent photos of what grew in their yards. Even Joe at the Butterfly House at Navy Pier, planted some. They thrived and I like to think the butterflies were happy.

Working in the garden reminds me of the process of drawing and painting. The ground is prepared. Seeds are placed and time passes. Some things grow quickly and others seem to take forever. A few of the cuttings I planted late in the season have only just begun to flower. Well, in the spirit of full disclosure, it’s a stretch to say I “planted” them. More like, I just stuck a few cuttings in the ground and thought let’s see what happens. I share this because so much of my time in the garden is trial and error. I wasn’t expecting them to root and now they’re blooming. They’re small, and I take joy in imagining what they’ll become next year.

There’s peace in not knowing exactly what will come. I trust the rhythm that lives inside the cycle. This year I added two more garden beds which I’ll plant bulbs in soon. New varieties and colors are ready to go into the dark underground. There are new possibilities waiting.

In the studio, I sit among eight finished paintings. There are many more canvases waiting. The work I’m doing feels connected to something essential. It’s as honest as could be and reflects the moment I am in, now. Present. Each piece carries energy, a rawness, and a sense of direction. I feel movement that is steady and alive. The work seems to mark a path toward something more complete.

The girl in the painting has her back turned, but she feels fully present. Even without a face, she holds something I recognize. She feels wise in a way that surprises me. Her stability feels like a message. I wonder if this means something inside of me has settled.

I say that she is me, but she is Universal. I am not alone, and many women speak her language.

The last three years have required everything I had. I walked through them without a clear map and the experiences shaped me. Deeply, profoundly, shaped me. All from the ground up. Every part of the path has brought me here. Each step has mattered.

Once again, I’m seeing the stars form their quiet pattern. Everything I’ve touched today feels like part of the same constellation. Each one offers a kind of gathering. Gardening, creating, choosing, tending… these are all steady acts that return me to my body’s own rhythm. Body as home. Home, in the Nest.

It strikes me that today, maybe for the first time, and fully awake to it, the little girl and the woman stood in the same place.

Aaaaand there it is. Fern & Nest.