A child is sleeping, with a tangled yellow vine for a head. The vine unravels and travels throughout the painting. It revolves around an unfinished subject: a caregiver, abstracted by evil dynamics, who is my second mother. From a comfy bed covered with purple silky sheets, the vine weaves into an aerial view of a park at night. Then, curling upward into the grown-up scene, adults sit around a table in a fancy beige café; the vine goes back to the same bedroom where it all started, realizing an escape through a slightly ajar door from which a beam of light enters the room. Some subjects are recognizable as human, some are plant-human hybrids, and others are just empty silhouettes. Here, a type of hierarchy abstracts the mind of a child, which struggled to find hope in human nature and now looks for its meaning in the nature of plants.
What is it about
traumatic memories that make them so powerful, and overshadowing?
Do we feed them evil by remembering? Or is it remembering that will cleanse — exorcise — them? It would not transform them, and it would not erase them. I hope not. I don’t want to grasp onto the evolutionary purpose of memories. Rather, I look to bear a further meaning, a constructive mechanism instead of a survival machine.
How can I construct a place where my worst fears narrate themselves?
I draw a line to define a limit. I curve the line to where my senses guide me, through my memories, I look in, I paint, I look out, look forward.
I remember a deep blue wall, divided by a wallpaper stripe with Disney characters on it. Contained silhouettes that turned into demons at night — with time this reversed, and the brighter the daylight the more terrifying they become. There is the blue, as I remembered, but there’s also that bright light coming through the door, illuminating a path to grow by acknowledging dynamics that constructed those evil memories, and which are still present yet intangible, just as the light source; because maybe I’ll never know what’s behind that green door. That’s not important now. Now, choreograph your eyes around the yellow vine that unravels from a nightmarish sleep into a beige café
the fantasy of an uncut umbilical cord.
Roots, vines and vessels that I render