collections in Delicately Strong

the last of the wildflowers

My work reflects the delicacy that is associated with women, porcelain and flowers, but it also reveals the natural strengths of these three as well. Women have historically been compared to delicate flowers; I reinterpret that symbolism by allowing the porcelain wildflower imagery to represent a woman’s  inner strength. I apply my drawings as transfers similar to a seamstress overlaying patterns and designs on a dress form. The individual within the identical is found through surface design.

Hexagons embody the human desire to control the organic. The hexagon verges on circular, but still upholds rigid angles. Similarly, the organic female silhouette adapts to cultural beauty standards through rigid stays and corsetry. My experiences with scoliosis corrective back bracing and surgery allow me to empathize with my corset-wearing ancestors. Metal rods and boning are ingredients for both corsetry and scoliosis surgery. My back brace was painful, but designed to correct my form. Surgery straightened my spine permanently with metal screws and rods. Similarly, the Victorian corsetry was designed to “perfect” the female body through constricting boning. My “S” curve needed to be straightened, while Victorian women used their corsets to enhance their curves.

Inner strength has a different meaning for everyone. For me, it is learning from my female ancestors and mentors, relying on my Faith, and building from my own experiences. 

This is the work I expected to fill this exhibition with. For years, this work was my signature image. It was represented in various galleries across the south, many exhibitions across the nation, and featured as illustrations in my book, God the Artist. Hurricane Helene flooded the studio I worked out of in September 2024. I had moved into that studio before I even had found a place to live in Asheville. To me, my studio was “home” more than any 

 place I lived in Asheville. The studio was where I was truly allowed to be myself. It was freedom. It was safety. It was where I came to commune with God. It was my business, my passion, my classroom, my hangout, my personal space, and my place to entertain. It was always bursting with creativity and life, until September 27th when the 2 story building was filled to the roof with river sludge, bursting at it’s metal seams. For me, nothing was salvageable. I lost everything I had in that studio, from my sketchbook going back over 5 years, to my apron from college, the drill my dad had given me for my birthday, all my finished pots for this show, every piece of equipment I saved up money to buy, cookie cutters my grandmother had given me, 500 pounds of brand new porcelain clay, and all of my handmade, one-of-a-kind plaster molds. 

The bittersweet beauty of this collection is that it will never be made again. I had custom made my plaster molds and lost the blanks as well, so physically I cannot continue the series. Mentally, I can’t continue the series either. Unintentionally of course, I think this adds to the delicate strength of wildflowers: they’re here and gone before you know it.

hurricane prayers

Waking up in a hurricane is scary. Having no electricity in a hurricane is scary. Having no water in a hurricane is scary. Not having cell service in a hurricane is scary. Losing all contact with family and friends in a hurricane is scary. Simply existing in the aftermath of a hurricane is terrifying. These sculptures include excerpts that I wrote during the first 4 days of Hurricane Helene. This is part of my real, unedited, raw conversation with God.

I start by rolling out a thin slab of porcelain clay. I manipulate it to look like crinkled paper. Then the clay gets fired to 1,945 degrees Fahrenheit. I took each piece and buried it under wood, leaves, sugar, orange peels, etc. and created a bonfire on top of it. The bonfire gave each piece its unique coloring and texture. The fire also shattered the porcelain, so after it had cooled, I glued each piece back together and wrote excerpts from my prayer journal on them. This body of work was created in a basement in SC during the weeks I was displaced after Hurricane Helene.

10 PIECES

trinity

Father. Son. Holy Spirit. Fortress. Wings. Candle. Same and separate. During the weeks and months in the cold winter that followed Hurricane Helene, creativity was hard to find. It’s an indescribable feeling to want to express painful emotions, but not have the capacity to do so. Over the weeks, showering in the homes of friends and strangers, driving past destruction every day, and dealing with a stalker, I had to remind myself of where to draw my strength from. Oh, so easily do I forget that the Trinity is my protection, that the God who made the mountains and the rivers is the Son who walked among them and sent the Spirit to indwell us in the midst of their chaos. Hardships feel like life devoid of color– all joy and hope is gone. There’s so many grey areas; not everything is simply black and white. What lies am I believing? Who is safe? Where am I secure? Only in God; always in God. God is my refuge and fortress. God is a strong tower where I run for protection. Jesus is my shepherd and protector. He reaches out to draw me close to His side while He covers me with His wings. I find direction and rest in the shade of His guidance. The Holy Spirit is a light amidst the darkness. Even when my heart is poured out like wax and my mind feels like it has melted, the light of the Spirit burns away the night.

Fortress: Proverbs 18:10, Psalm 34:19, Psalm 59:16, Psalm 62:2&6

Wings: Psalm 17:8, Psalm 91:1, Psalm 91:4, Psalm 57:1

Candle: Psalm 18:29, Psalm 27:1

votive 161

161 days passed from my last working day in Southside Studios to my first working day in my new studio. How do you collect and quantify the days you don’t want to remember? How do you represent all of the days you hate? Why should I remember myself at my weakest? Each day was a cry to God. Why? What now? Where are You? Each day, like a votive, was a tiny prayer asking for comfort and clarity. Just like votives in cathedrals, each light of a candle signifies a hope and a prayer, but what if your prayers are raw wordless cries? Votives symbolize the desire for God to intercede into earthly affairs. These dark and dormant days represent a fractured existence where light seemed lost.

THIS LITTLE LIGHT OF MINE 

I wish people would stop asking if life has "gone back to normal." What does that even mean? That normal doesn’t exist any more and never will again. That’s the thing about complacency: we love it too much to the point that it is expected. Normal implies safety, routine, and stability. Normal means I know what to expect from tomorrow before it has come. Normal is a lie. Some people will call life after trauma a “new normal,” and in a way I can understand that– the idea of life returning to a different, yet stable state of complacency. My old “normal” is somewhere downstream. My new “normal” is yet to be discovered. How should I spend the days of my “new normal?” People tell me that everything happened for a reason and that I’ll come back stronger, making bigger and better pots than ever. What is “better” work? I was already working my butt off with the pots I used to make…That’s a lot of unintentional pressure on someone who is grieving, and besides, that’s not the point. I make art because I just simply have to create. Naturally improvement is the goal, but what if, instead of returning to a heightened state of my old normal: making even better pots, my “new normal” is really a change in perspective? 

I don’t make pots just to make money. Making the pot that will sell for the most money is not my goal. My art tells stories. Through my work, I can connect, in some small way, to others living a similar human experience. I’d much rather make more meaningful work, art that reaches and inspires more people, than to just make “better” work. 

I think it took a hurricane to teach me that. 

The funny thing about light is that it doesn’t take much to illuminate a room, but when the power is out, you miss it more than anything. It can be such a little thing, but something very difficult to smother. 

Deep deep deep inside my childhood memories there lay a fragment of a song. The smallest spark of hope, hope in something bigger than myself. A song and a light that leads to a hope and a prayer that sparks a vision and a pot and an artist with a story that must be shared. 

and just like that

surprise surprise

wonder of wonders

believe it or not

the earth still turns

another day goes by

and that little Light still shines