Here’s a painting that doesn’t ask for your permission. It just stands there — or rather, leans — on a salvaged cabinet door like a half-remembered prayer scratched into the floor of a temple. The figure is all hips, milk, muscle and line — part Earth Mother, part insurgent. She’s wrapped in a scarf, but it reads more as a banner. The breasts are bare, unapologetically maternal, and swarmed by sperm-like forms — not cute, not symbolic, but insurgent, wriggling glyphs of life and repetition and maybe even dread.
Rendered in a fierce, essential trinity — red, white, blue — the palette flirts with empire but spits it back out. This isn’t a flag. It’s a reclamation. The feminine is not a symbol here, it’s the ground and the weather. The lines suggest water or blood or time, drawn like someone was trying to get something out — like this whole figure might have been scratched into existence in the middle of a dream, or a revolution, or labor.
She’s both icon and everywoman — floral, fecund, uncontained. Worshipped and exhausted. Gorgeous and ghostly. This is not idealised femininity. This is worship with its feet in the dirt..
Here’s a painting that doesn’t ask for your permission. It just stands there — or rather, leans — on a salvaged cabinet door like a half-remembered prayer scratched into the floor of a temple. The figure is all hips, milk, muscle and line — part Earth Mother, part insurgent. She’s wrapped in a scarf, but it reads more as a banner. The breasts are bare, unapologetically maternal, and swarmed by sperm-like forms — not cute, not symbolic, but insurgent, wriggling glyphs of life and repetition and maybe even dread.
Rendered in a fierce, essential trinity — red, white, blue — the palette flirts with empire but spits it back out. This isn’t a flag. It’s a reclamation. The feminine is not a symbol here, it’s the ground and the weather. The lines suggest water or blood or time, drawn like someone was trying to get something out — like this whole figure might have been scratched into existence in the middle of a dream, or a revolution, or labor.
She’s both icon and everywoman — floral, fecund, uncontained. Worshipped and exhausted. Gorgeous and ghostly. This is not idealised femininity. This is worship with its feet in the dirt..