I paint still lives: fruit peeled and rotting, flowers, my body.

Arranged in stillness, but seemingly on the verge, these combinations are meant to conjure verbs. The effects of touch, past or imminent, are accented. Objects are coupled, tied, mashed. Fruit decays, disfigures; flowers wilt as I work. Beauty plays repulsion plays beauty plays narrative plays abstraction.

Proximities are acknowledged or denied; hierarchies, notions of the physical and psychological, are confused. This is the point—one plus one—a still life as a whole life. Not, one plus an appendage. Not, one and its prosthesis. Growths. Organic descriptors that coax the viewer to understand, not identify. 

Growing up in Latin America, I often witnessed how religious images became sites for emotional and even physical projections. This intimate dynamic made a lasting impression.

I blend (ap)perceptions of novels read and things seen: Mexican votives and impressions of Delacroix, Samuel Beckett’s characters and saintly halos. I construct misfits: characters turned inside-out, raw and carefully abject. Their armor is grossly pretty, pieced and pulled, adjusted until identities emerge.

I borrow stitches from couture and hope that my monsters will sashay.