One-of-a-kind mixed media pieces made from encaustic photos, film positives, found images, found objects, found papers, monotypes, and lino prints.

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Like stepping into a mirror, this portfolio explores my inner worlds.

Nothing in this life lasts. Roses wilt. Flowers become fruits. Leaves fall from the branches. Seasons change. We grow older.

On the cusp of turning 50 years old, I began to seriously think about what aging meant to me. This was the same year that I lost my uterus and headed into menopause. I found myself greying, thinning, and drying out. Desiccating like flowers do. Arthritis weaves a patina on the bones. And yet, my inner life is exuberant. My friendships are fruitful and rich. My laughter is full-bodied and authentic. Aging has hidden blessings.

Women over 50 are largely invisible in our youth-obsessed culture. They often can sometimes fade into the landscape. This project celebrates the process of growing older, the wisdom that comes, the beauty that remains. In creating this ongoing portfolio, I hope to bring visibility to women over 50.

A visual exploration of wonder as a tool for healing. Wonder as beauty, hope, resilience. These images were created as I was struggling to find meaning in long-standing gynecological problems, failed procedures, fibroids, adenomyosis, and endometriosis, which ultimately resulted in a modified radical hysterectomy. This is a story of recovering from trauma.

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On Finding a Child’s Rosary on the Sidewalk That Day

It’s cold and grey,

the sky, limpid, lifeless,

flat as an eggshell.

Another spasm,

another pair of white underwear,

ruined,

another geyser

erupting from somewhere

deep within.

There is blood all over my hands.

This hot, viscous river,

flowing, flowing,

is making me sick to my stomach.

An overload of red,

a trigger,

a warning,

danger.

Please,

someone,

make it stop.

I run to the pharmacy down the block.

seeking another box of protection,

The fifth one in five days.

And then I see it there

on the beige sidewalk,

as if it’s been waiting for me,

a bolt of blue, somewhere

between turquoise and cobalt,

renaissance blue,

Virgin Mary blue,

A circle of small plastic spheres,

Eternity interrupted

by a dangling cross.

I drop it into my coat pocket.

Later that day,

in the white-walled emergency room,

when the bleeding wouldn’t stop,

hours later, waiting,

thirsty and alone,

scared,

I plunge my hands into my pockets.

And there it is,

beyond dogma and tenets,

beyond belief and faith,

something tangible,

silky, smooth, comforting.

Little blue vespers,

I twist and roll them rhythmically

between my fingers.

As if someone knew

I would need something

to hold onto.

Minuscule, often unnoticed points of passage, thresholds occupy space and time at the crossroads of memory and dream. Every blink of an eye, every respiration, every new, dangling thread of thought becomes a stepping stone that ushers us forward onto something new. We are constantly crossing over— if only from one moment to the next, standing on the edge between what was and what will be. I’m drawn to the subtlety, the ambiguity, the intimacy that lives on the cusp of things, on frayed edges, on words lingering in the air, on kisses that burn the skin long after the passion fades. “Thresholds” is an ode to these times and places that exist in-between..

Pénombre

This portfolio grew out of the loss of my son in 2008 but took root and really blossomed during an artists retreat on a wild barrier island off the coast of Georgia. It includes images taken on the island, as well as photos from travels to the coast of Brittany and others taken near my home in the suburbs of Paris . This is a collection of images that speaks to universal themes, while also probing the archives of my dreams and memories. The visual narratives are rooted in my personal mythology and in my ongoing quest for encounters with the sacred. The photos are little journeys into lands that exist outside of time and space, where shadows walk, where swans hold sway, where light waltzes, and just when we think we may have lost our way, when we become weary with grief and the heaviness of the world, we encounter protective, gentle spirits who guide us home. Having spent most of my life being homesick for a place that now only exists in the shadowy recesses of my memory, the notion of Home is something I reach for again and again. I have lived in many houses, most of them, however, were tainted by the shadow of loss or trauma. When I was a child, the garden was my sanctuary. Some of my earliest memories are of the bluebells that grew behind our house when I was three years old. Wandering among the flowers, I would watch the birds and dream of flight. I would make meals from the blackberry and rhubarb patches. I would play house beneath the low-hanging bows of the white pine trees. Their fallen needles served as a carpet where I would spread my blanket and lay down, looking forever skyward, searching for infinity in the whorls of their branches. I have always been at home among the weeds and the trees, among the foxes and the crows. My connection to all of nature is rooted in the deep, loamy soil of the heart, thriving there, in a shade garden of evergreen and memory.

“Magic is always pushing and drawing and making things out of nothing. Everything is made out of magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people. So it must be all around us. In this garden— in all places.”

__ Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

“Home isn't where you're from, it's where you find light when all grows dark.”

― Pierce Brown, Golden Son

In 2019, I had a modified radical hysterectomy for uterine fibroids and endometriosis. This was on the heels of a different, failed procedure, which was traumatic in and of itself. In the weeks leading up to the surgery, I had an episode of bleeding that was so intense, I ended up in the emergency room, fearing that I was going to bleed to death. It’s terrifying to feel that one has no control over what the body is doing. And so, the surgery, while technically elective, seemed to be the only choice I had. I was petrified. My pelvic region had been the source of numerous traumas. And when my son died in 2008 at the age 18, my insides ached and my scars twitched from the loss. Every previous trauma I had experienced in my life was reawakened by the hysterectomy.

And so one April morning, I took my fear in my anemic hand, and we walked together into that hospital and went through with the surgery. The procedure was an additional trauma. Some of my organs were literally stuck together. I hemorrhaged when they were being separated and needed a blood transfusion. When I awoke, the first thing I saw was a unit of blood hanging from the IV pole. I have never known such searing physical pain and such a sense of helplessness, powerlessness, or utter lack of bodily autonomy. There are times when I still can’t believe that I actually went through with the surgery. Yet, the aching deep within my pelvis affirms that reality daily.

It’s been over almost 3 years since then. My life and my body are inevitably altered. I struggle with chronic pain, with adhesions, with nerve damage, with menopause. Nothing is the same. This hasn’t been the godsend that many women experience. That being said, there have been little gifts given to me as I have made the journey back to myself. I have learned that I can face my fears, that my body possesses an infinite wisdom. Its capacity to heal is a source of wonder. I have found peace. I have a deeper relationship with forgiveness and acceptance than ever before. I have learned just how strong I am, how resilient I am. Lastly, I have learned that there is infinite beauty in the surrender.

This gallery shows several hand-made artist’s books, representing different bodies of work. The original Pénombre is shown here. It began as an artist’s book that had 70 images and poems in it. This was edited down to 30 in the mass-produced version. A book entitled MEND is shown here. It’s a book of cyanotypes from the Elegy portfolio. There are also several small books, each containing just two images and a window overleaf page between them.