Watercolor on hot press
My mother is a woman of thunderous character. I can hear her singing to her dogs, swaying her hips back and forth, and I can feel the climate in the house change from warm to cold based on her mood. She is the head of the house, the rule maker, a hawk over her children, and who’s love has been saved in her written stories, the homemade leftovers, and her finger as it roughly creates a cross on our foreheads. I see her love in all the stitches found in the clothes she has sewn for her children. But most of all, my mother is a storyteller.
I sat in her closet one night, looking for a way to express a story through objects. Lifting up old boxes and paging through jewelry boxes, I eventually ran across her sewing materials. Inside the basket was a pin-cushion shaped as an armchair that was home to many multi colored needles. Something about this pin-cushion made me think of my mother’s arm chair. The one that she sits in late into the night, her glasses sitting on her breast while her soap opera played quietly on the television screen.
The painting began to tell it's own story through patterns of it's tiny threads. My mother is a storyteller, and this painting is my story of her. Starting with my mother’s chair.