Living Here With Chaos and Creation
Artist Statement: “Impermanence”
Impermanence is a visual meditation on survival, surrender, and the sacred truth that life does not move in straight lines.
I began this painting after Hurricane Katrina, intending to illustrate a symphonic system—a way to express how grief, change, and resilience move together like instruments in an orchestra. But I didn’t know how to resolve it. The chaos was too fresh, the emotions too raw. It took twenty years for the composition to find its harmony. I completed it in August of 2025.
I had only just arrived in New Orleans—three weeks before Katrina hit. I had a first-floor apartment in Gentilly, a new job, a new driver’s license, new classes, and new people in my life. It was the beginning of everything. And then it was all stripped away. My job ended. My school closed. My apartment flooded. My property became a contentious issue with FEMA and insurance—exposing how adult students are often overlooked in major disasters. I was displaced before I had even settled.
I didn’t finish my MFA because I wanted to. I was exhausted, anxious, and ready to quit. My stress level was over 700. I told my mother and therapist I couldn’t do it anymore. And my mother said, “I want this for you.” I didn’t understand then. But years later, I did—and it shattered me further. I felt the pain of so many who never finished high school because of the storm. Generations marked by grief, regret, and interrupted dreams. My mother’s request wasn’t just about a diploma. It was about honoring impermanence. About saying: even if the path breaks, you can still walk it.
I jokingly say all my paintings are about my mother—arguments, obligations, things that matter to nobody but our family. But they’re also about our ancestors, who migrated and fought wars not just with hopeful naivety, but with a deep understanding of impermanence. They knew that life moves forward, even when we don’t feel ready.
This painting is also about water—about crying, evaporation, and the emotional tides that rise and fall with both grief and healing. The environment and the body mirror each other. Tears become clouds. Clouds become rain. And through it all, we remain part of the cycle.
Americans should be embarrassed by how fragile education can become. It should never be used to judge someone’s worth or potential. Education is not a measure of strength—it is a privilege, one that disaster can erase in an instant. Impermanence reminds us that transformation is constant, and that every life contains kinetic energy, emotional depth, and sacred motion—whether or not a degree is ever completed.
The central forms evoke the rhythm of the sun and seasons—daily reminders of transformation. But the deeper message is spiritual: that there is a life force greater than us, greater than the chaos, greater than the grief. Impermanence asks us not to resist change, but to honor it. To witness it. To let it shape us without breaking us.
This work is not a lament. It is a reverent release. A celebration of the potential each life contains, even in the wake of disaster. It is my offering to the truth that healing is not linear—and neither is art. And if I could give anything to those who feel they’ve failed, it would be this: peace in knowing that impermanence will carry you forward, whether or not you finish the degree.