Coming Out of My Shell
As a first generation college student and a deeply introverted young artist, being at a university surrounded by bright, sociable creatives was a jarring experience. I kept hearing the same phrases repeated to me over and over as I hung out in studios, agonized to friends about how socially awkward I was, and even from my therapist. Frustrated at the phrase being thrown at me again and again, I un-ironically (or ironically?) began a series of still life works using shells from my mother’s prized collection gathered from world-travelling relatives. I changed the arrangements, lighting, color schemes, and stroke work to try to process the frustration and the defiance I was tangling with at the time. I painted them over and over, without explanation. In this piece, I felt I was finding my feet and allowing more of myself to show outwardly, but the process was draining and more than once resulted in injuries and tears and retreat.
As a first generation college student and a deeply introverted young artist, being at a university surrounded by bright, sociable creatives was a jarring experience. I kept hearing the same phrases repeated to me over and over as I hung out in studios, agonized to friends about how socially awkward I was, and even from my therapist. Frustrated at the phrase being thrown at me again and again, I un-ironically (or ironically?) began a series of still life works using shells from my mother’s prized collection gathered from world-travelling relatives. I changed the arrangements, lighting, color schemes, and stroke work to try to process the frustration and the defiance I was tangling with at the time. I painted them over and over, without explanation. In this piece, I felt I was finding my feet and allowing more of myself to show outwardly, but the process was draining and more than once resulted in injuries and tears and retreat.
As a first generation college student and a deeply introverted young artist, being at a university surrounded by bright, sociable creatives was a jarring experience. I kept hearing the same phrases repeated to me over and over as I hung out in studios, agonized to friends about how socially awkward I was, and even from my therapist. Frustrated at the phrase being thrown at me again and again, I un-ironically (or ironically?) began a series of still life works using shells from my mother’s prized collection gathered from world-travelling relatives. I changed the arrangements, lighting, color schemes, and stroke work to try to process the frustration and the defiance I was tangling with at the time. I painted them over and over, without explanation. In this piece, I felt I was finding my feet and allowing more of myself to show outwardly, but the process was draining and more than once resulted in injuries and tears and retreat.
Oil on Canvas, 11x14, early 1990’s still life study