 A few days ago I hit publish on the collection page for my painting series Breathing. A series about five characters unapologetic in their zest for life, springing from the canvas in beautiful vibrant color. This series means the absolute world to me, and the initial icon image has become the logo for my business. The color scheme, created accidentally at the time, became the keystone in my branding. Now, as I move forward towards my next series, I would be remiss not to explain how the concept of Breathing came to life. I had just taken a two year break from painting while working a 9-5, and now I was gearing back up again to make my art career a reality. I sat in my bedroom surrounded by tons of canvases, old sketchbooks, and drawings, a question of what happens next? looming over me. I knew I didn’t want to continue my old style, but had no idea what to do next. All I knew was I wanted to be an artist. I was burning alive with so many new ideas, and I felt spread thin and directionless. How was Breathing born? With one question, asked and answered. Tuesday morning, I got ready in a rush. Searched for coffee in the house, and put the grounds into a tea bag. I didn’t have a coffee machine back then, but I wanted caffeine. They say where there’s a will, there’s a way, so I filled up the tea bag and started the kettle for boiling water. These days, I wake up with my mind racing. Things I want to do, things I’m uncertain about, and the entire expanse of the world opening up to me all at once. All because of one fateful decision where I chose to leave my career in property management and run full force into my art business. That particular morning I sat out on the patio with a book, eying the clock. I had therapy in about an hour, so that meant just one more half hour with my coffee and book. I remember a sinking feeling, sad and fearful, curled in my chest which I consoled like a baby in a blanket. I knew then that I wanted to be an artist, but I was not entirely sure how to proceed moving forward with my practice. Back then, I also didn’t know if it would work out. Between the “starving artist” messaging lingering in my brain and the “what do you create next” question, I had my hands full. I was wandering through an ocean of doubt, just hoping for a distant shoreline to make itself apparent.  The “what next” question was the heavier out of the two, though. You see, I had spent my entire life establishing myself as a figure painter through solo and group art shows, as well as online publications. I knew that artists “should have” a clear trajectory forward, and one body of work should lead into the next. You don’t paint landscapes one second and portraits the next, right? I felt this intense pressure to continue painting in my “old style” in order to be perceived as an artist with discipline and focus. I wanted the world to know that I wasn’t a hobbyist. Yet, I knew that the “old way” was no longer what I wanted to do. The art I created four years ago, which earned me recognition from my university and established me as a painter in my area, was no longer something that I resonated with. It felt like the work of a friend. I was happy for it, and liked it, but it was no longer mine to talk about. I’m not the same person now. The messaging didn’t sit with me anymore. But if I didn’t continue that line of work, what would I create instead? You can see my issue here. There was a back and forth tugging between the work I thought I needed to create versus the work I wanted to make. My half hour was up, and I rushed back inside. The half-empty coffee cup made its way into the kitchen sink, and I grabbed my car keys, slip-on sandals, and purse. I called up the stairs to my partner that I was on my way out, and then closed the door behind me. I drove to downtown Columbia, South Carolina, and pulled into a self paid parking spot. When I arrived at the door for therapy, and my therapist asked the inevitable, “How are things today?” questions, I couldn’t keep the wobble out of my voice. “I’m very. . . overwhelmed,” I said.  Good Girl II (2020) Oil Paint, House Paint, and charcoal on stretched canvas. 36x48'' We spoke for a long time about my old art, and about what I want to do now. I showed her pictures, and we brainstormed. I vented for a long time about how the reasons I made art back then are not the same reasons I make art now. Back then, I created artwork because I had no other means to understand myself. I was very introverted, and kept my emotions close to my chest. Four years ago, painting daily, my personality was small and performatively happy. Back then, I made every effort to be likable and nice. In a way, I felt like I was in constant hiding. In the early part of my art career, I created these ambiguous, (“scary” as my boyfriend calls it,) self portraits. The series was titled Dissociation, and centered around mental health. I worked from my subconscious, processed feelings, and discovered myself through my art. Through painting, it was like I came out of hiding. I remember taking several photos of myself crouching low to the ground, hiding away. I called these my Crouching Figures. I composited several photographs into one image, and used a combination of drawing and painting techniques to create the final result. There was often a dance between representation and abstraction of the source image.
 Good Girl I. (2020) Charcoal, house paint, oil pastel and oil paint on stretched canvas. 24x36'' I created several paintings called Good Girl. When displaying these paintings in a group critique, one of my classmates said she looks like she’s full of hurt. Anytime we spoke about my work together, it felt I was slowly learning more about how “normal” these feelings I held were. Or rather, how lacking in normalcy they were to others. My simple and daily afternoon, to others, was a sad moment. Why was it sad? I didn’t know anything else. Commence: more introspection and healing. Adjusting to the world. Growing into myself and filling up the shape my body held. These paintings reflected my fears, insecurities, and worries. The mark making was rough and frantic. Busy, like an anxious thought. And yet when I stepped back and looked at these paintings, I learned to understand myself. That was all four years ago. Four years of healing later, I no longer identify with those feelings. I no longer need painting to understand myself, because I’ve come to find love for myself through living more life, making real friends, and having good relationships. When I look at those paintings I made four years ago, I sometimes think to myself: Did I really feel that way once? And I feel such strong compassion for that past version of myself. The version of myself which had no other means to understanding than to tap into their subconscious with a brush in hand. But I don’t need that anymore. I don’t need to use painting that way anymore. I’m a new person with new desires, wants, and dreams. Painting, instead of being a microphone and mirror for my anxiety and hurt, now means something else. Painting now means connection and healing. Rather than depicting the image of pain, the image of what I’m too afraid to face, I wanted to create the picture of what I wanted– out there in the world. A painting like a vision of the future just within my reach. I wanted to paint pure desire. The window into a moment, a memory that brings love and warmth.  Breathing. (2024) 12x16'' Oil paint on loose canvas I wanted to create an experience where once the viewer gazes upon the painting, a memory surfaces– and suddenly it’s like you and I aren’t all that different. But still, how do I connect these two very different and opposing ideas as a streamlined choice in my art career? That day when I visited my therapist, we dove deep into all the different possibilities. We talked fears, anxieties, desires, and hopeful dreams. Soon, she asked one very important question. “What if you reworked your older paintings?” I stopped for a moment. Initially, I resisted the idea. The thought of working with my older paintings felt like picking at scar tissue. That chapter was done, and while I held great respect for the work I did, I didn’t want to work with those paintings, or concepts, anymore.  Gaze (2024). 12x16'' Oil Paint on loose canvas The question rang around the room a little longer, and I mulled it over. It rephrased itself slowly, saying, Remember how you made those paintings? The approach, the mirrors, photo compositing, and line work? What if Jennifer today made them? Same approach, different outcome. And so I got to work. I sat there in my home art studio, looked at my painting Good Girl I and Crouching figure V, and asked: what if Jennifer today were encouraged to create a painting of the same subject and approach? What would the portrait look like? What would it feel like? I chose several photographs of myself to draw and paint. The painting started with the same line drawing as I had done four years prior, but this time with vibrant red oil paint instead of vine charcoal. I continued working, and created a body work from which I selected the five oil paintings as prints. While the approach to Breathing and my college style, Dissociation, were the same, the outcome is so different. One is cold, gritty with desaturated colors. The other is warm, joyous with vibrant colors. Breathing, for me, is the antithesis to my older style. When I look at Breathing, I really do see the same painting made by a new version of the same hurt girl. Only this time, she is empowered, blissful, and no longer hiding away.  There are some clear similarities in the application of paint, the shallow depth of field, and focus on drawing qualities. While I use images of myself as a reference, I don't consider Breathing self portraits. These paintings became characters of their own, and are symbols of bliss and joy. I want the viewer to see the painting, and imagine their own self experiencing that bliss and joy. They don't look into the painting and see me. They see the warm possibilities for themselves to achieve everything they want in life.
It was a journey to get here to this point. And now I’m so excited to walk in life as someone who is so connected with themselves. I’m excited to be an artist, to foster connection and love through my work. To show someone a mirror of possibilities in their future– desire and pleasure– should they walk towards it. When I think about the road that led me here, I think about how much pressure I put on myself to do things “perfectly.” I think about the boxes I created for myself. I think about the “should’s.” Then I remember that when things feel hard, it might be because we’re overcomplicating things. When I’m frantic or anxious now, I ask: How can this be simpler? How can I make this easy on myself? How can I make this more fun? After all, sometimes life really can be as simple as breathing.
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