Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
24”x36”
Acrylic on Gallery-Depth Canvas
*Side edges are painted black
After my sister’s brain tumor diagnosis, I felt drawn to old orchards marooned in hydro fields and subdivision parks. The trees were visibly aged, some diseased, and many hollowed out in parts. And yet, their gnarled trunks sprouted in new directions, their leaves unfurled, and fragrant blossoms opened. Sometimes birds flew in and out of the holes in their sides. Nearly a year later, when my sister died, grief ripped me apart and left a roaring absence. I thought a lot about those trees. If they could keep going—left behind, hollow and ailing—then I could too.
24”x36”
Acrylic on Gallery-Depth Canvas
*Side edges are painted black
After my sister’s brain tumor diagnosis, I felt drawn to old orchards marooned in hydro fields and subdivision parks. The trees were visibly aged, some diseased, and many hollowed out in parts. And yet, their gnarled trunks sprouted in new directions, their leaves unfurled, and fragrant blossoms opened. Sometimes birds flew in and out of the holes in their sides. Nearly a year later, when my sister died, grief ripped me apart and left a roaring absence. I thought a lot about those trees. If they could keep going—left behind, hollow and ailing—then I could too.