I grew up in the family machine shop, surrounded by metal, rust, weld sparks, and machinists. I also happen to come from a long line of painters. So let’s mash those two things together, shall we? Throw in a flower crown, a cocktail, and some pet hair…and there you have it: me.
I love color. I love texture. I love glitter. But I also love me a gritty, dirty, banged up bit of raw metal. I adore the unpredictable nature of oxidization. Perfection is overrated. So are clean fingernails.
Most days you will find me ensconced in my studio, making a mess. If I’m lucky, it will turn into ‘art’. If I’m really, really lucky, I’ll get a visit from one of our resident chickens and she’ll walk through paint and track it everywhere. When I’ve cleared the studio of wayward poultry, I spend quite a bit of time grinding metal in my flip-flops (my dad always yells at me for this). Sometimes a glass of wine is involved. I find it helps the ‘artistic process’. Don’t judge me, I get enough of that from those uppity chickens.
Aside from the art, I’m particularly preoccupied with living on and cultivating a flower farm. And completely obsessed with farmhouses. But since my husband’s career in television post-production keeps us tethered to Los Angeles, I have to play a lot of pretend. I work really hard at convincing myself that our 7500 square foot city lot is a wee flower farm; our restored 107-year-old farmhouse sets the mood nicely. Life here is a mad little tea party of flowers, industrial art, and animal tomfoolery. And btw, we’ll take a little bourbon in our tea, thank you very much.
10 critical things:
That is all. Carry on.