Hindsight is 2020

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The path to becoming an artist is rarely straightforward, and my journey has been anything but conventional. When I look back, I see a winding road, marked by unexpected detours, moments of doubt, and some very difficult experiences. My story isn’t one of an artist who grew up always knowing this was her calling; in fact, for a long time, I didn’t know where I was headed at all. My journey has been shaped by a mix of life events, some beautiful, some painful, all of which pushed me, sometimes reluctantly, into the place I am today.

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It was 2015 when painting became more than just a pastime. It became a ritual, a way of making sense of what I couldn’t put into words. My early work was lighthearted, inspired by pop culture and the meme culture that we all recognize. I painted things that were familiar and safe—images that made people smile or reminded them of something funny or comforting. These were paintings I felt good about sharing, but deep down, I knew that I hadn’t yet tapped into something real. I was painting on the surface, so to speak.

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As the world changed around me, however, so did my approach to art. My painting practice became less about capturing what was popular and more about capturing what felt urgent and necessary. I began to question what I wanted to say through my work and how I wanted to say it. Slowly, my art began to reflect my own experiences more honestly, becoming a mirror of the world around me as I saw it.

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For those who know me well, it’s no secret that my journey to becoming a dedicated painter has been a difficult one. This body of work—Forced Witness—actually began in defiance of someone who tried to tear me down. In 2018, I was in a relationship with a man who said I was never going to be a “good painter.” He dismissed my art as “basic,” and he made it clear that he thought my ambitions were laughable, as if my passion for painting was somehow a weakness. His words stung, and for a while, they were a voice in the back of my mind, creeping in whenever I felt uncertain or insecure.

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But his words didn’t break me. Instead, they gave me a fuel I hadn’t felt before. I decided that my work, my voice, and my perspective mattered. I decided that, whether or not my work ever achieved traditional success, I would keep painting, because painting had become a lifeline for me. I would prove to myself—not to him, but to myself—that I was capable. Seven years later, here I am, standing before you with a body of work that is stronger, more honest, and more resilient than anything I could have imagined. This journey has taught me to keep going, no matter how many setbacks, failures, or unexpected challenges come my way.

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And in 2020, as the world felt like it was unraveling, I saw my personal struggles reflected in the world around me. The riots in Minneapolis, the isolation of the pandemic, the tension that you could almost feel in the air—it was as if the whole world was breaking open, and I couldn’t look away. My art shifted again, this time from personal defiance to social observation. It became less about decoration and more about confronting what couldn’t be put into words. I didn’t have a traditional studio; my bedroom became my workspace. There, just two feet from where I slept, I poured my heart out onto canvas.

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That small, intimate space became both a sanctuary and a witness to the times we were living in. The walls, covered in canvases, the floors splattered with paint—every inch of that space carries a part of my journey. In that room, I painted what I saw happening outside my window and on the news, the things I read about, the stories I heard from friends, and the experiences I shared with strangers. Forced Witness isn’t just a collection of images; it’s a record of some of the most intense moments in recent history, a testament to everything we’ve endured and somehow survived.

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Each painting in this series isn’t just a scene—it’s an emotional testimony. These pieces capture not only the images that stood out to me but also the emotions that surged within me as I witnessed the world unravel. This body of work is a kind of visual journal, a way of documenting my experience, and I hope, the experiences of others who went through those same events. I didn’t paint these pieces to be pretty or pleasing; I painted them because I needed to make sense of everything we were living through.

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Themes of observation, documentation, and reflection run through this series. I’m not just painting scenes; I’m trying to understand them, to hold space for what they mean, both for me and for anyone who views them. And that’s what Forced Witness invites you to do: to ask yourselves whether we are merely witnesses to the times we live in or if we carry a responsibility to act, to respond. Art, for me, is not passive; it is a form of resistance, a way of speaking up when words fall short. In times of crisis, art becomes something powerful, something more than the sum of its parts. It’s a way of processing, of holding a mirror up to society, and of saying, “This happened. We were here. We felt this.”

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Reflecting on the recent election, it’s hard not to feel the divide in this country. There are people who cling to ideas rooted in fear and resentment, and their choices impact the lives of everyone. I think about what this means for art, for voices like mine that are trying to confront difficult truths. In a world that sometimes wants to turn away, I worry about what might happen to work like mine. I worry that my book might be banned, or worse, ignored because people are afraid to engage with its message. But that’s why I keep creating. That’s why I keep showing up, even when it’s hard.

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Art isn’t just a mirror—it’s a call to action. It’s a way of telling our truths so that others may see themselves reflected and feel less alone, less afraid. Art can stir us, challenge us, make us question our own beliefs. And right now, we need that. Change doesn’t happen in grand gestures; it happens in the small, everyday choices we make. That’s why I’m committed to showing up for democracy, even when it feels exhausting. I show up for every election, even if there’s only one issue on the ballot, because it’s my way of participating in the change I want to see. And I encourage everyone here to do the same. If we don’t show up, who will?

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Recently, I came across a quote that really struck me: “People speak of hope as if it’s this fragile, delicate thing, made of whispers and spider webs. It’s not. Hope has dirt on her face, blood on her knuckles, grit in her hair, and just spat out a tooth as she rises for another round.” That’s the kind of hope I hold onto. It’s not a soft, passive hope—it’s fierce, it’s gritty, it’s stubborn. And it’s what keeps me going.

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As I move forward, I feel a pull to explore new directions. I’m taking my career more seriously now, applying for grants and fellowships, looking to grow and deepen my practice. Part of me wants to shift to a new body of work, to evolve in fresh ways. But at the same time, I recognize that I am clearly being called to continue what I’ve started here with Forced Witness. This story, this work, still has more to say, and I’m listening.

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And so, I’ll say this—don’t be surprised if you see another exhibition of this caliber or even greater in 2028. I already have a title in mind: Forced 2 Witness. It would be another chapter, a continuation of this journey, reflecting the transformations that are yet to come.​