Mixed media artworks. Created in conjunction with each other, on a single piece of paper. As the colors of marker or watercolor bled through, so I worked with the motifs on both sides. It is no secret that i absolutely love birds and they feature so heavily in my drawing/illustrative work.
The finished piece is 24 x 32 inches on 300lb. hot-pressed watercolor paper ~painted with watercolor and ink. There were a lot of components I wanted to incorporate in this piece. Then, the painting kept "going". It moved of its own accord in places I did not anticipate, and I kept going with it....people that I know/have known intertwined in my mind as I painted the tree branches. Overall, the painting took on so many meanings to me as it matured
This piece consist of 2 sheets, the bottom sheet is painted by my four year old daughter, on top of that is a orange paper which I cut the kitchenware out of.
I am an art teacher with a master’s degree—trained by brilliant professors who believed that art could do more than decorate walls. I offer safe spaces for teenagers to grow—nourishing soil where their imaginations can take root.
And yet… I am assigned to hallway duty.
This is compulsory education, after all.
So I sit—posted like a sentinel—watching young lives stream past.
“Get to class,” I say with a smile and a nudge.
The system wants attendance; I’m hungry for presence.
Armed not with a whistle or clipboard, but with a pen—
my scribble’s soft insurgency.
The hallway stretches out like a geometric hymn.
Columns and corners chant structure.
Teenagers swirl past—half-formed galaxies of limbs and laughter—
their orbits chaotic, their gravity pulling time forward.
I begin to draw.
Not their tardiness, but their motion.
A shoulder. A blur of sneakers.
A tilted head chasing freedom.
Feet flickering like seconds.
Each mark a pulse.
Each smudge a breath.
My paper becomes a seismograph of seeing—
trembling gently through the mundane.
This isn’t about making art for a frame or a feed.
It’s about refusing to leak away in the fluorescent hum of obligation.
It’s a quiet mutiny against the clock.
I do this on long car rides, too (passenger side, mind you).
Letting the lines grow wild, jagged, and unapologetic.
Not for polish—
but for presence.
This is how I remember I’m still alive.
Still growing.
Still watching.
Still choosing to see.
Because sometimes mental health looks like
a piece of scrap paper,
a moving pen,
and the simple, sacred act of
marking time with wonder.
