90 x 60 cm — original sold; prints available.
Inspired by the Drake & Rihanna track, reimagined by Florence + the Machine: “I’ll Take Care of You.” The canvas wears a grounding swirl of brown acrylics with whispers of gold and flashes of blue. A plastic butterfly dangles from a metal string, knitted into the weave — a tiny, fragile emissary of care. The sprayed text, layered and slightly imperfect, reads in a trio of colors — orange, soft pink, neon pink — “I’ll take care of you” and the echoed, almost-incorrect “I’ll take care off you, I’ll take care off of you” a deliberate slip that opens up the piece to tenderness, contradiction, and the human propensity to fumble language when feeling deeply.
The butterfly isn’t just ornamentation; it is the work’s heart. After a difficult process — the scraping back, the repainting, the long waits between decisions — the butterfly embodies transformation. It sits there like proof that vulnerability and repair can yield something delicate and airborne. The tiny wings suggest fragility, yes, but also emergence: what was once bound to the ground has learned to float. That motion mirrors the slow, stubborn recovery that follows strain, and the way small, careful acts can alchemize pain into presence.
Care in this piece is both universal and intimate. It gestures toward those who need constant, gentle tending — like children, nature, who deserve our eternal, unconditional attention and protection. The butterfly’s tethered flight calls to mind that responsibility: we hold them, we steady them, we teach them to trust the lift. At the same time, the work is a reminder of self care. It contains the quiet promise to tend my own wounds with the same patient, unflinching devotion we give the most vulnerable among us.
This was the last piece I made for the Earworm exhibition at Cool Beans. I pictured it on a wall in a home where a dream life is both accomplished and protected. While making it, pauses to work became moments that seemed to speed the universe’s own choreography: unexpected messages and calls, small accelerations toward the kind of healing and pause I try to build into my days.
The work is a meditation on care — its forms, its limits, its surprising arrivals. Care appears in quiet gestures, in obligation, in the messy mix of wanting to protect and needing to be protected. It’s about how something beyond the physical — a sign, a coincidence, another person — can make you feel watched over. It’s about how that feeling in turn makes you want to care for others. The piece asks: how can we care? how can we not? when should we try, and when should we step back?
Prints available.
90 x 60 cm — original sold; prints available.
Inspired by the Drake & Rihanna track, reimagined by Florence + the Machine: “I’ll Take Care of You.” The canvas wears a grounding swirl of brown acrylics with whispers of gold and flashes of blue. A plastic butterfly dangles from a metal string, knitted into the weave — a tiny, fragile emissary of care. The sprayed text, layered and slightly imperfect, reads in a trio of colors — orange, soft pink, neon pink — “I’ll take care of you” and the echoed, almost-incorrect “I’ll take care off you, I’ll take care off of you” a deliberate slip that opens up the piece to tenderness, contradiction, and the human propensity to fumble language when feeling deeply.
The butterfly isn’t just ornamentation; it is the work’s heart. After a difficult process — the scraping back, the repainting, the long waits between decisions — the butterfly embodies transformation. It sits there like proof that vulnerability and repair can yield something delicate and airborne. The tiny wings suggest fragility, yes, but also emergence: what was once bound to the ground has learned to float. That motion mirrors the slow, stubborn recovery that follows strain, and the way small, careful acts can alchemize pain into presence.
Care in this piece is both universal and intimate. It gestures toward those who need constant, gentle tending — like children, nature, who deserve our eternal, unconditional attention and protection. The butterfly’s tethered flight calls to mind that responsibility: we hold them, we steady them, we teach them to trust the lift. At the same time, the work is a reminder of self care. It contains the quiet promise to tend my own wounds with the same patient, unflinching devotion we give the most vulnerable among us.
This was the last piece I made for the Earworm exhibition at Cool Beans. I pictured it on a wall in a home where a dream life is both accomplished and protected. While making it, pauses to work became moments that seemed to speed the universe’s own choreography: unexpected messages and calls, small accelerations toward the kind of healing and pause I try to build into my days.
The work is a meditation on care — its forms, its limits, its surprising arrivals. Care appears in quiet gestures, in obligation, in the messy mix of wanting to protect and needing to be protected. It’s about how something beyond the physical — a sign, a coincidence, another person — can make you feel watched over. It’s about how that feeling in turn makes you want to care for others. The piece asks: how can we care? how can we not? when should we try, and when should we step back?
Prints available.
