Over the 10 years of working on this body of paintings, there were sustained starts and sudden stops. Turns out one can’t be near a whale’s gaping jaws during a pandemic. Or after a death. Or while a child is suffering. You might just climb right into that belly and never come out. No, you need to swim, count breaths and repeat mantras. Maybe paint flowers and things that stay still. Keep your head above water.
When my second child flew off last Spring, I was determined to give these paintings one last try. .
I call the series “Out to See”, paintings returned to over and over, when I was able to sink below the surface and open my eyes.
They are my attempt to tell an old story in the way that I know it to be true.

It all happened just this way:

She swims out into rough waters with the stinging jellies and the assaults of industrial waste.
She wears goggles. They keep things in a fog, encapsulate her vision, send it inward.
She has walked for a time on land, been taken as wife, made mother, given of body: milk, muscle, fat. Maybe a bit of her sense of humor.
The mind, her ego, the last to go. Stubborn.

She has collided with her ancient ancestor. Their body is as worn as hers. Scars showing history. Thin skin that was not meant for land or sea.
Flesh shape shifting in response to the pull of the environment.
Their teeth are smooth and free from etched illustrations of conquest and love
No longer for chewing, they are anchors for her.
She is swallowed whole.
She kicks. She thinks. Tries plotting her escape. More kicking.

She’s been here before, in her domestic bubble, at the window at night, gazing up at the moon (or was that a street light, a searchlight?).
She didn’t climb out. She didn’t jump. She didn’t blow all up, like at the end of Jaws.

This time is different. She starts to feel her body go still.
Not like in the car, with that man/boy when she was 13. She didn’t surrender then. She froze.
It’s more like when she swaddled her colicky baby, wrapping her shaking limbs to let her know she is safe.
It seemed wrong to constrain her. But she did calm down-for a while.

The creature seems confident in its hold.
They’ve got her. It’s for the best.
She waits.
She’s gaining her sea legs now.




These paintings are made in memory of my mother, who bravely swam the wild shores of the outer Cape with grace and ease.