Unconsciously, I have been exploring themes related to memory through my art practice for years. I choose to paint the landscapes of my childhood not because they’re “pretty,” but because they help me pull apart time and moments. Every now and then I need to set aside recognizable imagery, the adherence to
line, and the preoccupation with “getting it right” for abstraction.

What is a core memory? Where is the moment when even a photo doesn’t prompt a connection? Embedded in this work is a photograph of my father and me in the Chickahominy River encircled by the rippling current. It was buried deep in a drawer for forty years, only shades of umber and sepia remain. I have plenty of feelings and memories from my preschool years, but I did not keep this one. I am confident my father, who is progressing rapidly through the latter stages of Alzheimer’s, no longer recollects this day.

Now this forgotten memory holds special significance. As I’ve worked on this piece, adding layer upon layer of cold wax and oil paint, I have scrapped back this one section, preserving the image, rescuing the memory.

Each morning, I’m gifted with 30 minutes to drink my coffee, write in my journal, and read scripture. I sit in a spot that faces east and a few weeks out of the year (because I’m a “later riser”) I get a peek at the sunrise. The sky warms up right above a shrub turned tree that morphs into a fuchsia pompom in March. Once the flowers fade and fall, this bush is pedestrian, but for one week color and light create a show just for me.

“…the paintings are deep articulations of attachment to the living world. He is showing us how to locate a thing’s meaning in how it interacts, cohabitates, counterbalances.” The “he” from this quote is Piet Mondrian. Jason Farago (in an interactive piece from the NYT included in my stories) introduced me to a new side of Mondrian, one who was deeply connected to what was living. Alongside, his stark paintings of line, form and primary color, he painted dozens of flower portraits. The pieces are intricate and tender. I can hardly believe he toggled between these two ways of communicating his love of the natural world.
And yet, I do the same. Some feelings are better communicated through the play of color and form than through line and imagery.

lenten prayer vi | 14x11 | prismacolor and cold wax over encaustic collagraph

“…’bittersweet’: a tendency to states of longing, poignancy, and sorrow; an acute awareness of passing time; and a curiously piercing joy at the beauty of the world. The bittersweet is also about the recognition that light and dark, birth and death—bitter and sweet—are forever paired.” Susan Cain, Bittersweet

I’ve been told my whole life that I lean toward melancholy. Often, it’s been couched as a joke (cue Debbie Downer from SNL). After reading Susan Cain’s book, Bittersweet, I’m choosing to recognize this unique temperament as a super power. I have the ability to couple the dark and the light, deep grief and unfettered joy. My work is a reflection of this pairing. What better place to recognize this dichotomy?! The sky, the movement of clouds, the constant passage of light and dark can often be captured in one single frame. So yes, often my paintings can be read as dark or moody, but there is always a moment of light - a small sliver of hope.

Finding a groove with commissions…For me, initially saying no to certain projects and determining my narrow path has been a helpful part of the process. I love the dialogue with the client. And I love creating a piece that not only bears my mark but has special meaning in the home. Thanks
@westtradeinteriors. Hadley, your home is lovely!! Check out this month’s issue of @hddmagazine_clt to see this Eastover cottage.