I have spent so much of my life planning and organizing chaos as an attempt to feel in control. Thus, my studies in Buddhism, and specifically the Taoist art of wu wei have felt like a rewiring. Infusing wu wei into my practice, I am along for the ride while also driving. The lines, shapes, and colors have a conversation, a song, a dance that I look for and honor—it’s a slippery in-betweenness just outside my grasp. As I attempt to balance the scale between intention and nonsense, I meet myself wherever I am on my canvas. My pieces, too, come with me: into my bedroom as I sleep, next to the kitchen table as I eat. Like a dissolving effort that moves forward, the colors become “of course” and the lines wax “okay” in a quiet, ecstatic optimism.
Pastels are irresistible to me. They are the only element I choose outright. The soft blues, pinks, yellows, oranges, and greens undeniably bring me joy. They call to me in whispers from the shelves of art supply store, capturing me with ease. I don’t question the attraction. I pull the lines from behind my eyes, back out the top of my head, and down to my hands, the space between them dictating their existence. Above all, when I am making my pieces, I think of my mother’s hands. They were often attempting to grasp at something that existed only in her voice, twisting and flicking about in a search of understanding.