Leading up to my time at The Hide, I was constantly asked, What are you going to do during your residency? It was a valid question, but one I chose not to dwell on. I wanted to leave room for mystery and discovery.

My main goal was to play. I wanted to regain my sense of wonder and curiosity, which often seems like a luxury in the fast paced society we live in. So I packed a wide variety of materials, some paper, and raw canvas with no clear plan on how to accomplish this goal.

Each day, I drank my coffee while watching the sun slowly illuminate the garden outside. The Studio space is set up with large floor to ceiling windows and big comfy chairs. The perfect place to read and watch the neighboring sheep.

I began with some cyanotype dye on fabric I packed. Then quickly moved onto observational drawings. All the while, I was doodling and playing in my sketchbook. I found my way to the raw canvas, and stayed there the majority of my time. I had two lovely mentor sessions with Alice. I took walks. I read Yayoi Kusama’s autobiography, listened to several audiobooks, attended a local artist workshop and several gallery events. I let my mind and feet wander all over the grassy commons.

Because of the curiosity I was able to develop in my practice while at The Hide, I have been able to continue with that mindset since. It has provided me with the freedom to explore new ideas quicker than before. Now several months removed, I can confidently say that my time at The Hide has completely altered the way I work in the studio.

While at The Hide residency, I took out the bottom few inches of thread in one of my paintings. This left a ghostly impression of the painting that was there. I am now continuing to push this idea further in my practice and explore iterations of this concept of unraveling. This has solidified a series of work I have been developing centred around mending and dividing.

The last two years, I have endured a series of losses that have threatened to cripple me. The grief has been overwhelming and debilitating at times. My studio practice has been a way to carve through the grief.

During my first mentor session with Alice she asked, “Why do you make art?” I replied, “I can’t help it.” Art has been my lifeline in this time of personal darkness. I have been thinking about how the work an artist produces is usually an outpouring of their current thoughts and emotions. I have been attempting to reverse that flow. While there is grief and depression and insurmountable anxiety within me, can I produce work that is about joy and hope that defuses the darkness? Instead of making art about loss, I am making work centered on anticipated hopes in order to instill peace within me. I have made plenty of works exploring my grief and depression, and those have merit. You have to face the loss in order to also hold hope. What I am tired of, though, is not holding hope. Through my work, I am infusing that which I long for but have yet to attain. The question I seek to answer in my work is: Can I, through my artwork, inject hope, joy, rest, calm, and all the other good things I lack into my being? If I can create this effect upon myself, as the first audience of my work, then maybe I can help others who are also in need of these good things.