On my walks I see thousands of organic lines that are drawn through their reflections and shadows along the way. I find in the branches of the trees an alphabet to be deciphered.
I have developed an understanding that the line—any type of line—can be a motivation to develop a body of work. The line entirely represents what I cannot describe with words and has given me the freedom to explore, through art and flowers, all its potential, beauty and simplicity.
My work is inspired by the rhythms of nature; always in transition. In nature there is slow transformation and presence of change. Life cycles calmly respect their moment of flowering. I worship nature and I get inspired by long walks or just by the contemplation of nature’s organic and geometric forms, its colors and nuances, its staggering beauty.
I find inspiration in many places. Among them is Japanese calligraphy, which I don’t necessarily understand but I’m passionate about its visual aesthetic. I’m also continually inspired by books, poetry, music, documentaries, movies, travels, food, sidewalks, stones, cracks, trees, branches, the woods…
My personal glance and passion is toward the qualities of the line as a form of representation. The line encompasses duality: the simple and complex, the subtle and sharp, the organic and geometrical, the perfect and imperfect, the infinite and finite.
I am fascinated by what is not seen but felt
My studio is at my house. Originally it was a party room and I adapted it for a studio. I have an independent entrance and I can teach my workshops without my students having to enter my home. I have three working tables and enough space to hang my works in process.
When I give encaustic workshops I divide my tables: one for the encaustic medium, another for heat (torches, iron and heat gun) and the third one for color and textures.
Every day when I finish work, I pick up and clean everything to start again the next morning. When I want to make bigger pieces on the floor, I go up to the living room, which is a bigger space and I can spread out more.
By recognizing my own rhythm, I’ve learned to nurture everything that comes my way. I’ve learned to weave the threads that I don’t like and recognize them as part of myself and my process.
I consider my work organic and gestural. I don’t sketch before I start a painting; I feel that would constrain my process. At the end, my work is the result of personal introspection, my experiences, my feelings, my wounds, and my personal glance. It is my life seen from another angle.
My creative process, as is the case for many artists, is not linear. I am multifaceted; I enjoy painting with encaustic, cold wax and oil paints, as well as teaching, weaving and making flowers with branches.
I collect roots, stems, seeds, branches, colors, ideas, materials, quotes, and photographs. I document everything that catches my attention without thinking about what it will do for me—I know I will use it in the future.
“Art mirrors our inner state in meaningful and mysterious ways.”
— Nancy Hills
At some point in the process I may get depressed because I can’t see where I’m going or what I’m trying to say through my work. I don’t like being in that stage, but I find it necessary to reinvent myself and find new meanings that make sense of my work.
Through the years I’ve learned to let go and trust that there are stages of my creative process that I can neither jump nor accelerate. To help me transition through those stages, I walk, cook, read, watch documentaries, listen to music, write, meditate, travel, watch TED talks, take online courses…or sometimes I just do nothing and sleep.
One day everything makes sense and I find the connections between my different searches. I find my words through my work. When everything makes sense and is meaningful to me, I start my stage of production and visual discourse. I set a deadline and start looking for a gallery to exhibit my work.
I love to learn from different disciplines and find the connections between them; between everything that surrounds us and in the ethereal that unites us.
In the last two years I have set up two solo shows with a body of 45 pieces in each exhibition. It is amazing to see all the work mounted and curated in a dedicated space for art.
When the show ends, I take the time to analyze my body of work, my glance, my feeling, and normally try to keep on moving to start all over again. I start knitting a blank cycle again in order to find a new meaning for me and my work.
On my walks I see thousands of organic lines that are drawn through their reflections and shadows along the way. I find in the branches of the trees an alphabet to be deciphered.
I have developed an understanding that the line—any type of line—can be a motivation to develop a body of work. The line entirely represents what I cannot describe with words and has given me the freedom to explore, through art and flowers, all its potential, beauty and simplicity.
My work is inspired by the rhythms of nature; always in transition. In nature there is slow transformation and presence of change. Life cycles calmly respect their moment of flowering. I worship nature and I get inspired by long walks or just by the contemplation of nature’s organic and geometric forms, its colors and nuances, its staggering beauty.
I find inspiration in many places. Among them is Japanese calligraphy, which I don’t necessarily understand but I’m passionate about its visual aesthetic. I’m also continually inspired by books, poetry, music, documentaries, movies, travels, food, sidewalks, stones, cracks, trees, branches, the woods…
My personal glance and passion is toward the qualities of the line as a form of representation. The line encompasses duality: the simple and complex, the subtle and sharp, the organic and geometrical, the perfect and imperfect, the infinite and finite.
I am fascinated by what is not seen but felt
My studio is at my house. Originally it was a party room and I adapted it for a studio. I have an independent entrance and I can teach my workshops without my students having to enter my home. I have three working tables and enough space to hang my works in process.
When I give encaustic workshops I divide my tables: one for the encaustic medium, another for heat (torches, iron and heat gun) and the third one for color and textures.
Every day when I finish work, I pick up and clean everything to start again the next morning. When I want to make bigger pieces on the floor, I go up to the living room, which is a bigger space and I can spread out more.
By recognizing my own rhythm, I’ve learned to nurture everything that comes my way. I’ve learned to weave the threads that I don’t like and recognize them as part of myself and my process.
I consider my work organic and gestural. I don’t sketch before I start a painting; I feel that would constrain my process. At the end, my work is the result of personal introspection, my experiences, my feelings, my wounds, and my personal glance. It is my life seen from another angle.
My creative process, as is the case for many artists, is not linear. I am multifaceted; I enjoy painting with encaustic, cold wax and oil paints, as well as teaching, weaving and making flowers with branches.
I collect roots, stems, seeds, branches, colors, ideas, materials, quotes, and photographs. I document everything that catches my attention without thinking about what it will do for me—I know I will use it in the future.
“Art mirrors our inner state in meaningful and mysterious ways.”
— Nancy Hills
At some point in the process I may get depressed because I can’t see where I’m going or what I’m trying to say through my work. I don’t like being in that stage, but I find it necessary to reinvent myself and find new meanings that make sense of my work.
Through the years I’ve learned to let go and trust that there are stages of my creative process that I can neither jump nor accelerate. To help me transition through those stages, I walk, cook, read, watch documentaries, listen to music, write, meditate, travel, watch TED talks, take online courses…or sometimes I just do nothing and sleep.
One day everything makes sense and I find the connections between my different searches. I find my words through my work. When everything makes sense and is meaningful to me, I start my stage of production and visual discourse. I set a deadline and start looking for a gallery to exhibit my work.
I love to learn from different disciplines and find the connections between them; between everything that surrounds us and in the ethereal that unites us.
In the last two years I have set up two solo shows with a body of 45 pieces in each exhibition. It is amazing to see all the work mounted and curated in a dedicated space for art.
When the show ends, I take the time to analyze my body of work, my glance, my feeling, and normally try to keep on moving to start all over again. I start knitting a blank cycle again in order to find a new meaning for me and my work.
