I revolve my work and practice around storytelling. I am specifically interested in the history and processes of storytelling, as well as the folklore that relates to my own history and Scottish heritage within the context of the Ozarks.  

     There is something rich and valuable about the practice of storytelling. There is something tender and intimate about the vulnerability required to tell a good story. I think this practice is innate to us, and it is a practice which becomes lost and buried in the confusion of adolescence. What a mistake! As children, storytelling is a phenomenon to be treasured! In fact, I can recall some of the most endearing moments of my girlhood revolving around this practice. 

     I often reminiscent on listening to stories from my grandparents about monsters and fairytale, especially those of Scottish folklore, passed down from their own parents and grandparents before them. I remember the timbre of their voice slow as molasses and deliberate— zestful and dynamic when enraptured in what they deemed to be the “best” part of the story. But what I remember most of all from these moments of fable is how desperately I wished to share these stories with other people, to pay it forward. What is joy without someone to share it with? How I longed to laugh alongside the harmony of another. And what is perhaps most empathetic, though, arguably ornery, is that I wanted others to feel the heartache I did when a story hit a particularly sorrowful valley. These were emotions; I was feeling them for the first time, and I wanted to know that someone else felt them too.  

    What makes a good story above all else is relationships. Specifically, I would like to focus on the duration of relationships, context thereof, and most importantly girlhood. There is a distinct relationship between the characters in the chronicles of Scottish folklore and Ozarkan folklore, and as I’ve grown older, these connections have become increasingly ever evident. The Cryptid adoringly named the ‘Cù Sìth’ becomes our ‘Ozark Howler.’ The ‘Loch Ness Monster’ becomes our ‘Gorow’ or ‘White River Monster.’ What I find even more compelling than these connections alone, is the bounds of which they reach. Who else knows of these stories, creatures and mythologies and what diversities are present? Which elements do they hold most near to their heart? What a joy there is in the preservation of a good story.  

     Disparities between folklore and preservations thereof are numerous and unique. The traditional practice of folklore requires a word-of-mouth delivery— and I recall once more the slow molasses of my nana’s voice, a slight pause before an exceptionally outlandish addition of fact. When she wasn’t preaching the magnificence of Scottish legend (or simply preaching, which was remarkably frequent too) it was the triumphants and pitfalls of her own girlhood. But that slight pause was a resonance I found to be especially curious. I began to wonder recently how many of her stories were “bigfished” or exaggerated for the purpose of a good story. It was that pause that led me to believe she was thinking of something great and mischievous to say next.  

    Beyond exaggeration is the confines of memory. Towards the end of her life, her affliction with Alzheimer's altered what I imagine was most of her stories. The only thing that truly harps on my conscious is how long these alterations were occurring unnoticed. She used to tell me that if I cried too often (which I did—as I was and remain to be uncommonly sensitive) that the iris portion of my eyes would burst greatly into a real-life blooming Iris. Straight from my eye socket she claimed would grow the illustrious indigo petals of spring watered by my own tears. This was of course extremely concerning to me not only as a sensitive child but as a firm believer in the power of folklore. On the day she passed, I expected a bountiful harvest, and in the following spring they finally arrived on the edge of the cemetery grounds where she is buried.  

     When I think of things such as Irises and bodies returned to earth, I am reminded of the influence the land has on storytelling. This is substantially expressed within the Ozarks. I principally recognize myself as an occupant of native land and how this characterization changes the narrative of the land and its interpretation of folklore. I strive to respect this notion and acknowledge these histories when reviewing Ozarkan culture and its folklore. Stories of Scottish legend are not birthed from the land of the Ozarks but transformed by its enigmatic nature, landscape, and allure of adventure. What is even more metamorphic to these stories is the diversity of peoples that encompasses these lands, their histories and their processes of storytelling. When considering these components, I am led to investigate: What does it mean to be an Ozarker? Or better yet are the ‘Ozarks’ a product of a physically enclosed environment on a topographical map? Or is it the people that define the region?  

    When considering the Ozarks as a physically enclosed environment, I think it is imperative to prioritize the preservation of the tangible presence of land over the preservation of folklore. To me there is no good story or folklore without people and there are no people without the land from which they are derived. Preservation of land can appear in a myriad of forms within my practice. I of course see value in the sustainability of materials, but I additionally find worth in the sustainability of my depictions and subjects. What I depict within my work matters to me. I find it extraordinarily important that a viewer may find an erudition of the environment of the Ozarks when viewing my work, no matter how minute the resonance. These depictions began simply with representations of my own familial history with the land. This was and is a simple jumping off point for me. I can examine the land through my experience of girlhood, the experience of my mother, and the experience of hers. I imagine how my girlhood and femininity might have changed outside of the confines of the Ozarks. I imagine how it might have changed if it were dependent on an urban environment as opposed to rural.  

    As these investigations continue, it is inevitable that I turn my attention to those relationships outside of my familial borders. Investing in individuals whose relationship with the land is routine and thus ambivalent, has allowed for a greater insight into the ecological health of the land, its effect on the practice of folklore and vice versa. These individuals, many of whom are farmers or have come from agricultural traditions—and as such are often rural—, are additionally folklorists, chronologists, and are correspondingly dedicated to good stories and the conservation of them and the land. I find success in my work if just one person is inspired to cultivate a relationship with the Ozarks, its land, its traditions and its histories.  

    When considering the Ozarks as a product of people, I find it fruitful to collect as many stories as possible. I believe that everyone has a story to tell, and I believe that it is important now more than ever that we tell them. Stories are what connect us and I seek to continue to connect to and understand my community. I feel that this is my greatest task as an artist. I find immense fulfillment in my studio-practice through storytelling both audibly and visually. I find even greater fulfillment when this practice is continued. Through this methodology, accessibility of the arts, as well as artistic expression and discourse may be readily achieved for Ozarkans, and especially those Ozarkans of rural circumstances and marginalized communities. This methodology additionally grants access to the outsider of the Ozarks (though who falls under this umbrella of the outsider to the Ozarks, I do not know.) The outsider may find an appreciation of the Ozarks and its land or culture or may as well be prompted to investigate the relationship with their own relational folklore. The outsider might also feel inclined to challenge these traditions and processes of storytelling, their content, or feel prompted to find further connection. Each of these occurrences are inspirational and precious to me.  

    When I began to fabricate my work, I see these wonderments trickle down to my process of making. As I try to replicate memories and narratives visually, I see these recollections as fuzzy in my mind’s eye, unclear and convoluted. These recollections appear often as simple blotches of color, and when I try to represent them, I find the most success in building compositions with color over line. I then wonder, just as I mulled over what made a good story, what makes a drawing, a drawing? Am I still considered to be creating a ‘drawing’ when I build a composition strictly with color?  

I regard color as a sort of entity. To me it is not just an attribute of life or of an artwork, but as a fundamental. I feel almost as if hues are alive. There is never a presence of one pure color, but many. Shades and saturations are never the same, they are constantly changing and transforming to their own desires. Fleeting moments seem to buzz with the energy of color. And when I reminiscent of times when grandparents, parents, siblings— or any storyteller in my life, I have greater memories of myself studying their skin and the blotches of color, oblong and like stained glass, that made up their features. When my Nana was moved to hospice, I can see how quickly her body drained of color. When I visit my baby niece, I can see how the liveliness of color possesses her. These instances are equally beautiful to me.  

    As stories and connections between people are ever changing so is color. There will never be a moment where a person or landscape will look the same twice, just as folklore or a good story will never be told the same or repeated exactly. I can only dream of capturing these never-failing glimpses of capriciousness. Art cannot be separated from life, and our lives are ruled by stories. Good ones, bad ones, particularly consequential ones, and every bit in between. This is what I believe is the essence of humanity, it is these connections that enable us to learn, and I want to learn all my life.