I grew up in a small, remote northwestern town in Canada called Amos. Empty streets and a lot of boxes. As far back as I can remember, I felt extremely alone and isolated. I just couldn’t fit in to any of the boxes. Late into lonely nights under my grandmother's roof, where I was being babysat more often than not, I would stare at the paintings hung on her walls and be lifted into fantasy, leaving behind a grey, villagey monotony. Ripe with blissful innocence, somehow the two-dimensional souls understood me more profoundly than the three-dimensional ones in my actual life.
When I was 14 years old, my parents took me on a trip to Mexico that would shape me irreversibly. All of a sudden, I had a purpose. My life had revealed its meaning to me. I was going to travel. More than anything, I needed to connect with people of a different background and culture. Evolve as a human through living the world.
Only three years after that trip, at 17 years old, I managed to leave what I called home with empty pockets and full spirit. I moved to Banff, Alberta and learned some english before hitchhiking through the U.S down to the border of Mexico, followed by Central America. Since then, I managed to “stay” on the road. I never knew what sort of a living would sustain that, but I found ways to stay free, from waitressing night and day to working with an NGO.
In my free time, I would draw portraits of people around and away from me. The constant has and always will be young women. The most self-evident yet the most strained, my connection to the inner child has become my sole mission. Finding strength hidden in fragility's creases, in courage shouting louder and longer than fear. My brushes serve as crutches to walk the bridge between childhood and womanhood. I usually begin lightly and subtly, using a simple crayon and just enough acrylic and oil paint to scratch the surface. No matter how hard I push back, I always lose the waged war against minimalism. Once the carnage subsided and my spirits collected, the remaining gore is the charged memory of countless layers and sleepless nights, adorned by highlights of gold leaf. Nothing inspires me more than a blank canvas, explaining why I tend to paint over finished pieces far too often.