 I’ve been working on a new series of paintings titled Unfixed Memories. These pieces explore how memory and perception shift and dissolve, much like the blur of wings in flight. Many of the works feature white butterflies against black backgrounds—sacred messengers, carriers of souls, and symbols of transformation. The series began with memories of my mother’s love of butterflies—her sense of wonder in their presence—and how those moments have taken on new meaning over time. Some of the paintings are also inspired by the ocean and rainforest landscapes of Costa Rica, where I once traveled with my parents. Boats, tides, and flickering light surface as recurring motifs of passage, loss, and interconnectedness.   I don’t always know why I make the art that I make. Usually, I get a vision of what wants to come through me, and I follow it. There’s often a backlog of images waiting—like planes on a runway—and sometimes I have to let some go. Recently, I listened to a lecture on the Surrealist and Dada movements and was reminded that their work emerged directly from the devastation of World War I. Many of those artists had lived through the carnage and became disillusioned with the so-called rationalism that had justified it. Dada, with its anti-art stance, rejected those broken values, while Surrealism turned inward, seeking positive expression by liberating the subconscious mind. It made me wonder how the world’s current turmoil shapes my own work—whether the terribleness of everything is driving me toward gentler subjects, or simply deeper inside. Perhaps both. For now, I find refuge, or at least respite, in the act of making. Unfixed Memories is an attempt to hold what can’t be held—to paint the spaces between remembering and imagining, between what was and what we dream it to have been.  I hope that you are seeing signs of spring return to your surroundings. Like many, I’ve found this year’s relentless stream of news overwhelming—and the fact that it was winter didn’t help. So, I made this painting to try to imagine a more beautiful world, and perhaps to imagine a chorus of birdsong—one loud enough to drown out the bad news.  Song for a cruel world, 2025. Watercolor and graphite on Arches cotton paper. 79.25 x 51.25 inches As with some of my other artworks, this painting leans into beauty. That choice can have broad appeal, but it also raises questions—especially in the context of contemporary art, where “pretty” can feel problematic. Alain de Botton and John Armstrong explore this tension in Art as Therapy (2013), noting two reasons why beautiful art is sometimes dismissed. First, they suggest, that “pretty pictures are alleged to feed sentimentality,” which is seen as an avoidance of complexity—particularly the complexity of real-world problems. Second, there’s a fear that beauty can numb us, making us less critical or less alert to injustice.  Although, I would argue that this painting is also a little sad, making something beautiful as a contemporary artist is to walk a fine line. Still, I’m drawn to this discourse because it makes room for another truth: that optimism matters. As de Botton and Armstrong write hope is a reason for the enduring appeal of beautiful art, “Today’s problems are rarely created by people taking too sunny a view of things; it is because the troubles of the world are so continually brought to our attention that we need tools that can preserve our hopeful dispositions.”
I think that’s what I was trying to do with this painting—for myself, at least. Not to ignore reality, but to hold onto a sliver of hope. Even a fantastical hope: that spring is around the corner, that people might care more deeply for one another, for all living beings, and for the Earth itself—which, even in its imperfect state, gives us everything we need. And this, I believe, is one of the important roles of artists and poets: to imagine something better. Hope is a thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson “Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me. This painting and other works from my Dreamwalking in the Tender Garden/ Soñar despierta series will be on view in Palo Alto on Saturday, May 10th from 1-5 PM during the public Cubberley Community Center Open Studios. Cubberley Community Center, 4000 Middlefield Rd, Palo Alto, CA 94303
This year, I’ve been working in a generous friend’s guest house with floor-to-ceiling windows set in a leafy garden where I have been making large-scale watercolor paintings as part of a series titled Dreamwalking in the Tender Garden/ Soñar despierta In this series, I use the seemingly elemental simplicity of watercolor to articulate notions of my ancestral maternal heritage and to underscore our forgotten connection with the natural and cosmic worlds. These artworks emerge from within me through a lyrical and intuitive approach. Each one aims to be a pilgrimage towards rediscovery, a search to return to the essence of home, and, simultaneously, symbolize the ideas and feelings I have developed over time.  Here I am with I am a drop (Amor Vacui), 2024 Watercolor on Arches cotton paper 78.75 x 51.25 inches $8,700 I’m a regular lap swimmer, and at the end of a swim, I’m always in the mood to linger with a twist or spin underwater. It makes me think of our aquatic cousins and how familiar their movements feel in my body. And that has gotten me thinking about how we know what we know and how we unlearn those things. I’ve been curious about epigenetics and wondering if we can have intergenerational trauma, could we not also hold distant happy memories? There are things we call instincts. Maternal instincts come to mind, as do the thoughts of young children with their hearts full of empathy and love for other animals. This is where my work has been taking me these days. As you may also know, I am the daughter of a Mexican mother and a white father from the USA. My late mother’s family is mestiza, which is the term for people who are a mix of Indigenous and European ancestry popularized in early colonial Mexico. I have found myself returning to spirituality and exploring the beliefs of ancient Mesoamericas. What I am learning is that, at their core, there are many similarities in the worldviews of the original people throughout the Americans. Those worldviews embrace intuition and feeling and include engaging spiritually with other beings, the world, and the universe. Embracing this can mean living with more awe and wonder in the great mystery of life, which I find very appealing.  Winged Soul, 2024 Watercolor on Arches cotton paper 51.25 x 37.5 inches $6,340 Butterflies are symbols of renewal, change, magical transformation, and of lost souls in many cultures, including pre-Hispanic Mesoamerican. Their forms change from caterpillar into a chrysalis where they emerge as a beautiful butterfly. They cross borders and worlds. Do their lives continue transforming to carry the souls of the departed, as my mother said? Entertaining this recalls a quote by the Tibetan Buddhist teacher Chogyam Trungpa: “Magic is the total delight (appreciation) of chance.” So, it seems we know things and then we unlearn a lot as we grow older. We lose our wonder and awe for the world around us and each other. Or, perhaps more accurately, we bury them with notions of what we ironically think of as the “real world.” With definitions, dogmas, and ideologies that humans have invented and have papered over our understanding of the world—the names of nation-states and their boundaries, brands, titles, and all other signifiers that keep us from seeing ourselves and each other for who we are and how we exist in relation to other beings, the earth, and the universe.
It is as if we are so busy being rational that we hardly feel. Are we, perhaps, missing half the fun of being on this beautiful earth? Like our antenna is broken, and we don’t sense the energetic vibrations from life all around us to sound woo-woo, but I think there is some truth in it. So, I’ve been going inward and brushing away the veils we’ve laid over our consciousness to connect with what I sense. And I’m trying to rebalance rational thinking with intuitive feeling. I’ve enjoyed immersing myself in these thoughts and creating these worlds in my artworks. I hope that they help awaken unseen connections for you and enrich your life as well. Happy New Year! I hope you're doing well and are ready to begin anew. I wanted to share a mini-series I made at the end of 2023 (images below). Exhibiting my botanicals last fall got me thinking again about our complicated relationship with nature (and ourselves). While most of my botanicals are an explosion of color, in these new works I depict botanicals minimally⏤they are botanicals in essence only. Here, the botanicals are blackened and remind me that everything has a dark side⏤even bright colorful flowers. This darkness and mystery is part of what makes the beauty within all of us. In the Jungian sense of Shadow Integration, our shadow is the unconscious and denied part of ourselves. Working to understand our shadows can help us integrate all parts of ourselves and bring them to light. Also, I’m honored to share that I’ve been selected as an Aesthetica Art Prize 2024 Longlisted Artist based on my overall practice and my Corazones Cosidos project. Hosted by Aesthetica Magazine (based in the UK), the Aesthetica Art Prize celebrates excellence in art worldwide. It offers both emerging and established artists the opportunity to showcase their work to a wider audience and further their engagement with the international art world.   I’ve been listening to the podcast All There Is with Anderson Cooper about grief. And in a strange way, it’s helped me understand a project, which I recently finished. Cooper points out that grief and sadness link us all—that they are part of the human condition. In fact, nearly everyone has or will experience something that brings profound grief. We might not know about the losses each other is experiencing or feel we should acknowledge them, in part, because as a society we have moved away from rituals that allow us to process grief and loss together.
In 2005, I experienced a series of tragic losses. It was overwhelmingly disorienting. The many dimensions of grief washed over me for years gradually fading in intensity and frequency until those losses became part of who I am on some level. In the mysterious ways that ideas for artworks come to me, I found myself many years later, processing that terrible year, other losses, and wounds and trying to capture a metaphorical “repair” of myself through artistic rituals and performance actions that I recorded on video and with photographs. Dressed in a cloak of mourning in beautiful landscapes, I think I was trying to convey and remind myself that there is sadness but also beauty in the world. In my project, Corazones Cosidos, I use thread made of gold to mend 30 hearts on paper that I pierced with arrows. Part of my impulse for making so many hearts is to show how we all have our constellation of wounds and how in reality they are one of the things that connect us.  I thought we all might like something fresh for our walls this year, so I created this new media series. I’ve also been reflecting on our relationship to nature. After being stuck in a flat in Madrid for all of spring, and then returning to enjoy California’s beautiful beaches and parks just when the most horrific wild fire season began reminded me of the urgency of this relationship. For me, this artwork holds two somewhat conflicting ideas simultaneously: a celebration the sheer beauty of nature and on our attempt to control it. With images of flowers as a sort of allegory for the natural world, these artworks pose the question of how our actions alter or repair the living world. Digitally generated limited editions, these artworks are made with archival pigment prints on textured, 340 gsm thick, cotton paper (think watercolor paper). I’m offering some editions in larger print runs to keep the prices very reasonable. Others are limited editions of one and include details in oil and gold added by hand over the pigment print. All pieces are numbered and signed on the back and come with a Certificate of Authenticity. (Let me know if you see something you want but need a larger size.)  |
