It wasn't the typical college spring break.  We originally talked about doing the traditional girls-gone-wild, Panama City Beach, bikini-clad trip you see on T.V. and all over Instagram feeds, but fate pulled us towards something much more relaxed and wholesome. So instead of Daytona or Miami, the nine of us piled in to vans and drove in to the night on our way to St. George Island, a tiny recluse in Apalachicola Bay. 
 We happened to find an OSU alum that was willing to rent out his home on the boardwalk for the week, despite the fact that we were all under 25 (most of us under 21 at the time).  As it turns out, we were perhaps the youngest adults on the island. Our new home for the week was surrounded by retired neighbors waving to us from their porches, and the beaches were only lightly scattered with sunbathers or families.  Most of the time, it seemed as if we had the whole island to ourselves. 
We spent our days in the sand and the sea or exploring the tiny surrounding ghost towns further up on the panhandle. We spent our nights cooking elaborate family meals (though pasta night turned out disastrous - another story for another time) and playing music by the ocean under the moon. There was a neighborhood dog that followed us around, digging up crabs and playing fetch with our frisbees. We spent a day hiking in a nearby national park, and we frequented the local ice cream parlor almost as much as we did the beach.

One morning when we were walking in to town, we ran in to an older man on his bike. He stopped us to ask where we were coming from, and if we were there on spring break. He told us about his first time on the island - some time in the 70's when he was on his spring break from college. He fell in love with the island - and with a girl he met that week. Long story short, he and that girl got married, had kids, and are now blissfully retired in the very place that they met. It was a sweet, almost unbelievable story - just one of the many quiet moments I'll always remember from that trip. 

Whenever I think about that spring break, and as I write about it now, I feel that terrible tug of nostalgia at my heart. I know that we, as flawed human beings, have a tendency to remember things as better than they maybe were - glorifying what we no longer have; but there is a big part of me that believes the softness, the serenity and the peace we felt that week is as true and as pure as I remember it to be. 

A lot of things have changed since then. We grew up, we graduated. Couples broke up, friends drifted apart. And we lost one of our own, taken too soon by cancer. It is impossible to remember that spring break without remembering Tyler - his sunburn from that week as bright in my memories as the shining sun. Much like the week itself, his presence was always quiet, calming and comforting. His effect on people was perhaps one of the only things permanent and lasting from that trip, and undoubtably, the most unforgettable. 

As the Boston winter sets in, I've been thinking more and more about our escape to the beach. I wonder what it would be like to go back - if I could ever be like that man we met on the boardwalk and his wife, always trying to return to that spring break magic. It hurts to think about, but I know it would never be the same. Too much has changed, too much has been lost. 

Memories such as these are the ones that pique my artist interest. A memory so pure, so vivid and happy and calm in its entirety, is tainted - not by the instances held within the week itself, but by the fallout and the emotions accrued over the passing years. Our perceptions, our reflections, our past realities are largely constructed by the passing of time and the changing of seasons. 

Believe it or not, I've always enjoyed going to the dentist. 
​
My dentist was really nice, with a big smile and wide eyes. All of her helper dentists wore Tinkerbell scrubs and had big smiles too. The waiting room had a PlayStation and the only game it had was Crash Bandicoot, but I loved it. Whenever I got my teeth cleaned, I could pick a fluoride flavor - my favorite was called Cherry Cheesecake. After we were all done, she would lead me downstairs so I could pick from the fully-stocked prize shelf while she updated my mom on how everything in my mouth was still bright, white and in line. 

The ceilings of the exam rooms were painted in pastels - soft blues, pinks and whites, murals of castles, flying horses and puffy clouds. Reclined in the exam chair, my dentist would be staring in to my mouth as I stared up at this magical, pastel sky - mesmerized. 

Okay, so maybe some of this dental hygienic magic has faded with the years.
The fun of it all probably started to slip away when I was eleven and had to come in every month to get my braces adjusted. Somewhere in the fall of seventh grade, I remember dancing through the middle school halls, telling whoever I could that I was getting my braces off that afternoon. 3pm came around and I was all situated in the reclining chair with the wire adjusters glaring at me from the table for what I thought was going to be the last time. My dentist and her Tinkerbell-clad assistants buzzed around me, just as excited as I was. She began removing the brackets on each tooth, one-by-one. She finished the top set, and waved over a Tinkerbell to see. They walked out of the room, whispering. When they came back, the buzzing had stopped, and I was informed that the metal in my mouth would actually have to stay on for another month at least. Everything they had just taken off had to go right back on. And that extra month turned in to three.

I guess it was kind of downhill after that. The monthly, and then yearly, check-ups became filled with elaborate dances of me lying about wearing my retainers even though the proof evident in my shifting teeth. Then there was always the lecture about my diet-coke consumption and how sugar - even the fake kind - erodes the enamel. And then, some time during my rebellious teenage phase (distinct from my rebellious adult phase) I had my tongue pierced, and she totally didn't think that was as cool as I did (she was right). And all throughout was the progression of my eating disorder, which undoubtedly caused the most damage to my oral health, as well as my overall disdain and dread for any doctor's office. I have not been to the dentist in three years. 

I think these experiences, negative and probably inevitable, are what caused the once soft and airy pastel colors on the ceiling to become muddied. Castles turned to dungeons, floating horses became dragons. 

I began this painting with leftover colors. I was hesitant to use them, I didn't think they worked all that well together. But my disdain for wasting paint out weighed my hesitance to use clashing colors, and alas, "Pulling Teeth" was brought forth from my brush. 

As I mixed and added white, I was struck with the familiarity of the hues. It was those pastels - pinks and blues, swirling together like the ceiling on my childhood dentist's exam room. The colors looked just as soft on my palette as they did in my memories. But when I was finished and all the images buried in the back of my mind had escaped to the canvas, the colors had become much darker, much more muddied. Like my memories of the dentist, now tinted by experience, the landscape is more indefinable. Part of me wants to cling to the soft and airy - the blues in the sky and the pastel pinks reflected below, but the disruption of the dark tower, the looming clouds and dawning midnight are jarring and undeniable. 

The broad range of emotion experienced in just one place, even something as innocuous as a childhood dentists office, is hard to capture when you come in with that intention. I've found that these rich nuances and deeper complexities emerge when I least expect it - in both life and the studio - and only become truly illuminated upon further reflection.  As I dive deeper in to my understanding of my existing painting practice with the help of new mindfulness strategies and ways of looking, I look forward to, yet also slightly fear, all of these small illuminations coming to light. I also am looking to distill these revelations of experience in to ways to instruct students, integrating our understanding of the arts as ways of documenting, reflecting on and expressing these everyday, profound experiences that enrich our complex lives.
​

There was a nervous energy bouncing around the high school theater. Although I had just completed two months of student teaching at Fort Hayes high school, I had not yet been inside the performing arts building that housed the stage where I was now dragging amplifiers and sound equipment to those who actually knew how to use it. This building was one of many on the school's campus that formerly operated as a part of a military base. Now, instead of arms and ammunition, the rooms were filled with costumes and cables, the walls were lined with show posters, and bright lights hung from the ceiling. 

This nervous energy grew in to a charge of excitement as the campers filled the front rows, looking up to the crowd to find their family and friends among the sea of faces that filled the seats behind them. With their bursts of laughters and ever-astounding energy, It was hard to believe that just a few minutes ago we were all huddled in closing circle, crying (or at least I was) as we shared moments and memories from the past week that will not be soon forgotten. 

​Soon, the lights would dim, the curtains would part, and the first band would take the stage.

If you are not familiar with the Girls Rock movement or similar camps taking place across the country and beyond, please take a minute to watch this video. My words alone really can't do it justice. 

This summer, I was lucky enough to have the chance to join the Grrrls Rock Columbus team as a camp counselor. Though summer camps have always been a part of my life, this organization is truly special in a way that no other experience has come close to reaching. This camp provided the much needed space, time and support for girls, trans and gender variant youth to make music, art and friends in an encouraging and affirming environment. Those marginalized by society often find their voices silenced in even the most progressive of mainstream music scenes, so providing a loving space for kids to grow, explore and make noise (lots of noise, really can't emphasis the noise enough here) is invaluable. 

My responsibilities as a counselor including helping in band formation, leading morning and afternoon group activities, making sure campers were arriving from lessons and band practice on time, supervising lunch and snacks, and all the fun, miscellaneous, unexpected stuff that comes with working with young people. I also ran a workshop with campers where we discussed the practices of zines and their roles specifically in the DIY, music and LGBTQIA+ communities as sources of information, art and friendship. ​Using drawings and collages made by campers throughout the week, we compiled our own zine to distribute at the final showcase. 

With the total awareness and acceptance that what I am about to say is extremely cliche and you probably saw it coming before you even opened this post: I really stand by the fact that this camp changed my life.  

​For one, I had the chance to play in a band for the first time in my life (Rugburn tape release date TBD!!!), even learning a bit of an instrument I never before held. You really cannot assign a value to the feeling of hearing your own noise amplified for the first time in front of a room of people ready to support you no matter how poorly you end up playing. (Though we actually did pretty well if I do say so myself)
​
It also kept me in check as an educator to the reality of so many students. Kids whose own families deny their identity, kids who have faced more struggles than I can imagine, kids who often feel like they have no place in the world, all found at least a week of salvation through art and music. At times, it was heartbreaking. At times, it was the most empowering, eye-opening and inspiring process I have ever had the privilege to be a part of.

Though there are many moments that touched me in ways I cannot even begin to articulate, I would like to share a moment that best summarized the power and magic of GRC in the context of my life:

​(TW: eating disorder and behavior mentions)

I have always been relatively open about my past with mental health/trauma struggles. The more experience I gain working with young people, the more I realize the importance of my transparency and honesty so that these issues do not remain stigmatized. I want to help build a world where asking for help is not as scary as it was for me when I was younger. 
However, I still love to tell people I don't have an eating disorder anymore. For one, it helps me avoid the whole "you don't look like you have an eating disorder!" bullshit and all of the other ridiculous responses people have that they think are helpful. It also allows me to convince myself that I don't have an eating disorder anymore, which is a hard thing to do when you're still throwing up 5 times a day. 

For a few years now, I had kind of accepted that recovery was not really attainable, and I became complacent with where I was in my addictions and behaviors. After all, I was extremely functional. As an excellent student, dedicated artist and friend, I didn't really see my behaviors as disruptive and destructive as they had been in the past. Therapy and groups were just a place to be; I was not fully committed to actually getting better.
Then, I got in to Harvard, I started student teaching, and I was finding myself getting more involved with a scene of creative, intelligent and accepting people where I could see myself really connecting. But I felt nothing. All of these amazing, incredible things were happening, and I felt no joy, no excitement; nothing but the deafening numbness that was a result of years of self-abuse and self-destruction. 

So early in the summer, desperate to find myself again, I started what feels like my 300th round of treatment. But by the time GRC came around, I had fallen in to the patterns of complacency again, realizing that the 12 hours of treatment a week and my own efforts were not going to do it. My therapist once again proposed partial hospitalization, and I once again said no way. I was getting ready to discharge from treatment and forget about recovery again. 

The Friday before the GRC final showcase, and my last day of treatment, we held an open mic for the campers (and volunteers) to share some talents outside of what they had been working on in band practice. It was amazing. From original songs and poems to kids PLAYING THE GUITAR BEHIND THEIR BACK, to a My Chemical Romance cover band performance - I was once again stunned by the talent and creativity these young people had. 

One of the last few campers to share was one of the youngest at the innocent age of twelve. She stood at the front of the room, visibly (and understandably so) nervous, with shaking legs and a slight hesitation in her voice. She was going to read a poem. 

"I have these legs...",
she started.

Her voice grew louder and stronger with each line, and eventually she was not reading off the paper she brought to the front with her. She spoke about her desire to run until there was no breath in her lungs or weight on her stomach, her urge to pinch the skin around her fingers until they appeared bony and slender, her wish to disappear in to thin air. But then she spoke on the strength she had found during camp - how her legs could do so much more than run away and how the width of her fingers were what helped her play the guitar. 

I didn't realize I was crying until another camper awkwardly patted me on the back and asked if I was ok. I wasn't ok - my heart was broken. Even though body image is not necessarily the largest influence on my eating disorder now, it undeniably played a part in its origin. So to think that this incredible, inspiring girl who I had watched grown over the week could potentially find herself ten years later with her own addictions, shook me to my core.

This was the one moment that finally got through to me. I was pretending to be this brave role model and advocate, but thats all I was doing - pretending. The fact that I could not look this girl in the eye and say "it will get better", and truly mean it from experience, broke me. 
I ducked out of the room, wiped my tears, and stepped outside to call my boss to quit my job.

The next week, I started partial hospitalization, a journey that is a whole other post for another day. I am currently typing this in the kitchen of the recovery community housing where I am staying until my new lease starts. Less than four months ago, the thought of mandated meal times, assigned life coaches (certified babysitters, as I call them), and a 10pm curfew would have sent me running. But for the first time, I am committed, and I am getting better. And I truly do owe it to that young woman, and the power and magic of Grrrls Rock Columbus that gave us both strength. 


​If you're still reading - wow, and I'm sorry but the sappy stuff isn't over yet. Everything in this amazing experience could not have been possible without the incredible volunteers and organizers who made this all possible. From arranging food for staff and campers, to booking the lunchtime concert bands, to planning workshops, managing sound equipment and handling all of the wonderful surprises that come from working with young people - the group of people working with campers and behind the scenes are some of the most amazing individuals I will ever meet. 
I made some amazing friends, learned so much from their expertise (shout out to Julia for being so patient when I had no idea how to plug in the most basic equipment), and was empowered in a way that no other experience could match. As an educator, I have reevaluated the kinds of spaces I hope to create and the kinds of environments I can see myself working in. The power of working with a group of like-minded, yet incredibly diverse and unique individuals is not to be underestimated. 
Below are just a few of the amazing teachers, musicians, DIY experts and friends that I had the privilege of working with this summer. Thank you all, and thank you Grrrls Rock Columbus for the summer of magic and the many life lessons I will take from it.

If you are interested in learning more about Grrrls Rock Columbus and how you can support/get involved, please check out http://www.grrrlsrockcolumbus.com/ and like them on facebook!

UPDATE: THIS PAGE IS NOT UPDATED! PLEASE CLICK THE "FOR SALE" TAB FOR MOST CURRENT AVAILABLE PIECES

As you may or may not know, I am moving in less than a month! I am so so sad to leave Columbus, but I'm excited for what is coming next. Over the last four years, I have created a lot of artwork, and as much as I love each painting, its going to be a pain in the butt to move to Boston with them all. Those of you who have seen my current apartment know that I have pretty much absorbed all of the wall space with my art, and I'm hoping to live a less cluttered life as I transition to graduate school. 

If you are one of those people that come up to me when you've had a few drinks and say "hey! I love your art. I want to buy some, how do I do that?" Well, here is your chance! 

Below are some images of what I have on hand in Columbus. I've listed dimensions and tentative prices. (There really is no rhyme or reason to how I price things, please feel free to negotiate!!!) If you are not currently in Columbus, but would still like something, thats totally possible, I may just tack on a bit for shipping depending on where you live. 

Please check it out, and if you want something, fill out the contact form below the images! I'll try to get back to you ASAP and we can chit chat on logistics. 

Note: Shipping can cost anything from 15-50 dollars depending on your location!

This semester has already been an incredible whirlwind of new experiences, opportunities and excitement, and we're only about 3 weeks in. 
For one, I started student teaching full time. My first placement is in an elementary school, and I cannot emphasize enough how great of a time I am having there. The kids, the other staff, the community - even the curriculum - are all so tightly aligned with my own values and ideals for a future job that I am having a hard time imagining working anywhere else. It is truly an incredible feeling being able to wake up each and every morning actually excited about what I have in store for the day. 
​
The only unfortunate part of being a full time student teacher (other than the whole not-getting-paid-for-a-ton-of-work thing) is that I can no longer work at the gallery. (I also weirdly miss going to my favorite classes, although I certainly do not miss walking there in cold weather). I did, however, get to stop in to the Urban Arts Space this past weekend for the reception of the Fergus Family Scholarship Exhibition. I had two pieces entered in this show, and it was incredible to actually see them hanging on a gallery wall (quite different than stacked in a corner in my bedroom, I must say). 

I am optimistic for the months ahead, even as I finish up my last weeks in elementary school and prepare to go to my high school placement. Making art with this busier schedule has been a challenge, but it is an integral part of keeping my sanity at bay, so I try to budget at least a few hours a week for painting. 

I am currently working on getting all of my lesson plans from this semester online, and I'll hopefully be able to add some reflective blog posts with pictures of student work in the coming weeks. Stay tuned!

This past November, the Fresh A.I.R. (Artists in Recover) Gallery hosted their annual Art of Recovery event in Downtown Columbus. The event featured live and silent auctions of work from local and national artists to benefit the non-profit gallery that features art by those affected by mental illness and/or substance abuse issues and works to break down stigma within the community through education. I was so happy to be able donate one of my recent paintings and to be included among the works of many other amazingly talented local and nationally recognized artists. This year has marked many milestones in my own recovery journey, and I'm pleased to share this all with you through my artwork.

​On a side note - I also won $500 in a raffle I was entered in for donating art, so thats cool too. 
​
Check out the event site http://artofrecoverycolumbus.com/
for more information, photos and details. 

​

Last month, we had discussed identity in relation to materiality and location through the work of Mark Bradford. For October's Art Exploration program, we continued to investigate work in Open This End with our young artists that centered on the overarching theme of identity and the creation of self. With Halloween on the horizon, we found it would be appropriate to address some of the more haunting pieces in the show, particular Douglas Gordon's Monster Reborn. Through guided questions and conversation, students interpreted Gordon's reflection of a split personality as a signifier of the complexities in which our own destinies manifest. Gordon's reflection is based on the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, though students were able to relate to alter egos in their own scope of cultural knowledge - such as Bruce Banner/The Hulk, Clark Kent/Superman, etc. 
For the project portion of the program, students were asked to create an object, prop or extension of their own body that they felt would either enhance or contrast an element of their identity, the way a superhero may have a utility belt or a special costume to help them succeed in fighting crime. With a variety of materials, students created these extensions, and transformed before our eyes! 

Rough Lesson Outline by Hayley Lasko and Grace Galvin
Photos by Ada Matusiewicz

 Typically, our Crafternoons program is separate from the art showing in the gallery; we usually focus on a seasonal craft or something decorative made from up-cycled materials. However, because Open This End contains so many rich and layered aspects that intertwine with contemporary creation, we could not pass up incorporating the show in to this month's craft. 
   
One of the major themes in OTE and in contemporary art from the last fifty years is the idea of manipulating text and found language by removing them from their original context to alter their meanings and our perceptions of the words. We looked at the featured works of Glenn Ligon, John Baldessari and Andy Warhol for reference as we examined how we could make our own compositions from found language in books, magazines and the world around us. 

Have you ever looked at a piece of contemporary art and thought, “I could do that. Why is it art?” And yet, there it hangs on the gallery wall, probably worth more than your car and house combined. While the elites and critics of the contemporary art world may be quick to say that “you just don’t understand.”, we at Urban Arts Space understands that modern and contemporary art can be complex, confusing or just plain odd.  

This past Thursday, I hosted a discussion based tour, aiming to break down the major themes and elements of Open This End and the contemporary art of the last 50 years. Participants aged 18 and up were invited to join us in asking questions, engaging in conversation and challenging the notions of what makes art “art” within a friendly, judgement free environment, along with making their own zine-styled journals to keep notes in. 

Though we had originally designed the program to reach those who were less versed in contemporary arts, many of our participants came from the university's Arts Scholars program, and were recent freshmen. As an educator, a sudden and unexpected change in audience can be a challenge (imagine if you had written a lesson plan for a group of first graders, when suddenly, a group of high school seniors show up to your classroom ready to get to work), but it was obvious within the first ten minutes of the tour that this group of students knew what they were talking about and were eager to contribute to conversation. They engaged with our guided questions surrounding the art and themes of the show we had selected, and even challenged us with their own objections and ideas. Overall, I would say that the program ran smoothly, and I think I learned just as much from the participants as they did from the show. 


With such a dense and complex show, we had to narrow down our tour to focus on just a few select pieces and themes. Much of contemporary art, and many pieces in Open This End, are rooted in ideas surrounding identity politics, portraiture, and the ever-changing complexities of authorship and appropriation. From the self-portraits of Andy Warhol, to the conceptual museum photography of Louis Lawler, to the complex questions raised by the watercolor works of Marlene Dumas, together we explored and discussed how these works and themes remain relevant to our lives today and what impact they have had on us historically, globally and even individually. 

We often came back to the age old question of "well, what is art, really?", and also the importance of its understanding within the electronic age. Of course, we continually came back to my own personal favorite art form - the selfie - as a modern expression of many of the themes captured by the works visited on our tour. Participants were encouraged to take selfies along the way, and even left with a polaroid photograph posed in front of our very own Kehinde Wiley inspired selfie wall. Participants also left having made their own zine-inspired journals, complete with collaged cutouts from our collection of old art magazines. Though we did not necessarily get a chance to explore it in depth while on the tour, a large component of the show is based on text (and context) within contemporary art, so the exploration of found language within these magazines was really interesting to see unfold. 

This program will run again on Thursday October 1st from 6:00-7:30pm at the Urban Arts Space. If you are interested in attending, please RSVP here, I am very excited for our next tour, and to see how a new group can bring about new discussions, ideas and outcomes from engaging with this incredible show.