Portrait of the Dying Self
When you lose something—whether it’s a loved one, a relationship, a sense of purpose—you lose a part of yourself in the process. In the midst of the greatest loss of my life, I set out to make a self portrait of the part of me that falling away.
You can read more about this piece and how it was made here.
Rewritten
A circle is a continuous line without beginning or end, which is why we use it as a symbol of union. But a circle can also be constructed out of straight lines. These lines give the illusion of continuity where it doesn’t exist: a broken line masquerading as a solid one.
I made this piece as a way to reconstruct, both visually and textually, an important union in my life, after it had ended.
Liminal
liminal |ˈlimənl|
adjective
1 of or relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process.
2 occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.
At My Most Beautiful
My husband went grey very quickly during a stressful period, as presidents sometimes do in their first term. He grew self conscious and started referring to them, only half jokingly, as beige hairs. I kissed his temples, the beige epicenter, my lips always finding a home in the soft indentation that smelled of him. He was growing older, as I hoped he would continue to do for many more decades in my company, and what a blessing it is to watch time moving across your favorite person on earth.
This piece contains every grey hair that grew on my husband’s head during the last year of our marriage. It was conceived as an act of devotion: I will take what you dislike about yourself, I will separate it out from everything else, I will give it my loving attention, I will hold it up to the light.
At my most beautiful
I count your eyelashes secretly.
with every one, whisper I love you.
I let you sleep.
I know your closed eye watching me,
listening.
I thought I saw a smile.
—R.E.M.
Together Forever
I proposed to my husband with my grandfather’s wedding ring, a thin gold band which my grandfather had worn for 62 years until his death. It was an artifact of his time with my grandma, all dents and dings and shiny parts in between. When my grandmother gave it to me she said, “Just make sure you get another 62 years out of it.”
My husband made my wedding ring in a friend’s basement. He’d originally made a second ring for himself to wear during our engagement, which said Jennifer is my fiance stamped on the inside. It came out too small, though, so I wore it along with mine. Over the years, they became scratched and dented, like a topographic record of our lives.
A wedding ring isn’t just a symbol; it is an object with a history and a future that you believe will be with you forever. If you find yourself in the position of having to take it off, it aches like a broken promise.
I couldn’t bear the thought that our rings, which had been consecrated together, were now sitting in separate boxes in separate houses. I needed them to do what we could not, so I made sure they would be together forever.
Hollow Points
There are things that you think will kill you but, instead, wind up breaking you open. And in that opening, you find the part of yourself that is eternal.
This piece is made of over 1500 hollow point bullets. They are the most lethal type of ammunition available, but under the right circumstances, they flower into something beautiful. You can read more about how the sculpture was made here.