Scratchboard

2019 5” x 7” gold leaf, ink

I follow the soft voices floating up from the valley.

2019 — 1” x 2”

2018 — 5.5” x 6”

She pulled out her book and thumbed to Chapter 3 - Red. She eased the wilted flower into position and smiled.

2018 — 5.5” x 6.5”

She watched them float up one by one, hovering above like confused clouds.

2018 — 5.5” x 6.5”

The circles grew louder and needier until they choked the sky with their pulsing.

2019 — 5” x 6”

It was softer than she’d expected.

2019 — 5” x 7”

She pushed forward carefully, remembering to not look too far down or too far up.

2018 — 8.5” x 11”

Some nights her dreams tilted down. Some nights her dreams tilted up.

2018 — 5.5” x 6.5”

The bubbles stared back at me from the pot like tiny eyes.

2018 — 5” x 6”

They screamed so no one could hear.

2020 — 5” x 5”

To see and be seen.

2019 — 5” x 6”

The crown pressed into her silver hair. It was always heavier these nights.

2017 — 6” x 8”

The things of the night are best left apart from the things of the day.

2017 — 5” x 8.5”

They always wear black. They always bring someone wrapped in blankets.

2018 — 5” x 6”

No one remembers when it was carved but we still light it each night.

2018 — 5” x 6”

I’ve been getting better at holding my breath.

2018 — 5” x 6”

The kelp brushed against her skin like wet silk.

2018 — 5” x 6”

The kelp brushed against his skin like wet silk.

2019 — 8.5” x 11” (commission)

2018 — 5.5” x 6”

2019 — 5” x 6”

They walked, feet crunching against the wheat shafts. One carried a bottle of wine and the other two glasses.

2020 — 4” x 5”

I am visiting you.

2020 — 5” x 7”

Some nights a voice, others a weaving melody.

2018 — 8.5” x 11”

You call to me, a lovely siren. But will you harbor my broken body, if I crash against your shore?

2017 — 8.5” x 11”

2018 — 5.5” x 7”

She waits, fixed in the water, for pieces of her memories to wash ashore.

2019 — 5” x 6”

She stepped into the ebbing water and smiled as gravity hugged her.

2018 — 5.5” x 6.5”

When her arms tired, she began to slip down into the darkness, floating only by her lungs.

2018 — 5” x 6”

It reached out into the void, searching for what it knew must be there.

2018 — 5.5” x 6”

It tugs at the silk with each thump.

2019 — 3” x 4”

Inspired by the “Art of Doubt” album by Metric.

2020 — 5” x 6”

100 days. Zone 8. These hearts are hardier than other varieties. Featuring improved honesty and vigor, Golden Heart can survive temperatures as low as 20˚F before giving out.

2018 — 4.75” x 5.5”

I put it in the flowerpot and promised myself to water it once a week.

2017 — 8.5” x 11”

2020 - 5” x 7” (Sold)

In storms I curl my roots around the earth. I hold tight. It will pass.

2018 — 8.5” x 11”

Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. The grass weaves softly through my fingers.

2017 — 8.5” x 11”

2018 — 8.5” x 11”

I’m almost there. Now it’s different. Now it’s just me.

2018 — 5.5” x 7”

2019 — 5.5” x 6”

The fire spits into the cool night as she waits for her wolf.

2019 — 5” x 6” (commission)

2017 — 5” x 8.5”

2019 — 5” x 6”

He found it at the end, just as the map showed, bark impossibly red and creviced. It was humming.

2018 — 8.5” x 11”

I’ve been here before, in a dream. The trees glowed just as bright.

2018 — 5” x 8.5”

My skin tingled. Tonight, it’s my turn.

2019 — 8.5” x 11”

The summers of my early 20s were the rainiest.

2019 — 5” x 6” (commission)

2018 — 5.5” x 7”

She kept the specimen on her bedside table. It glowed for nearly 35 years.

2019 - 5” x 6”

She dropped the saw on the ground. The scientists would never believe her.

2019 — 5” x 5”

Every year I grow a little closer to her. Soon we will dance together in the storms.

2018 — 5.5” x 7”

I didn’t know what to do so I chopped it down. But from it grew something even more beautiful.

2018 — 5” x 6”

Some say that when its leaves rustle just right you can smell coffee in the air.

2019 — 5” x 5”

It wasn’t until my twelfth year that I learned how to grow.

2019 5” x 7” Scratchboard, gold leaf, and ink

Sometimes, when the light catches the heart just right, I see the worn letters and smile.

2019 — 5” x 6”

Every time she passed the tree on her way home, she swore the air smelled faintly of the ocean.

2017 — 5.5” x 6”

And remember, never stray from the path after you pass the skinned tree.

2018 — 5” x 8.5”

It burns every night like clockwork.

2018 — 6” x 8.5”

It started after the tenth swing.

2018 — 6” x 8.5”

After the seventh axe broke, they gave up.

2018 — 5.5” x 6”

Every night they glow red again, just like when the lighting struck.

2019 — 5” x 6”

He dragged his fingers across the scaled trunk and then stepped off the trail.

2018 — 8.5” x 11”

It sprouted the evening of April 8th. It was just as the catalog described.

2018 — 8.5” x 11”

Sometimes, when I’m still, I can hear her humming.