I’ve been painting since my youth, and it’s as vital to my daily routine as eating or sleeping (and sometimes supersedes both). As a youth growing up in the rural Oregon coast range, I derived my artistic inspiration from maps of imaginary places tucked into the flyleaves of books; the technicolor cartoons I watched on Nickeodeon; the uninhibited colors of the evening sky; and, most profoundly, the flower-power pop art of Peter Max, whose originals brightened the home of my first ever art patron - much to my seventeen-year-old self’s astonishment. Such encounters with fine (or pop, or really, any) art were rare in the cowgirl culture I grew up in, but that made them all the more profound when I happened upon them. Like my maps and cartoons and sunsets, they went into my deep pockets for safekeeping and still emerge as references whenever I pick up a brush and begin to paint.

 

As a moonlighting abstract arts instructor in my thirties, I discovered the wonders of Hilma af Klint, Lee Krasner, Arshile Gorky, Cy Twombly, and Helen Frankenthaler, and was transfixed by their signature techniques and narratives. In my mind, these artists’ stories and approaches constantly roll around like beautiful marbles, tumbling out when I start my own pieces. Like many of these abstractionists - and particularly af Klint - my abstract work, to me, is a deeply spiritual, meditative process: it’s a daily homage in which I feel in communion with creative powers that are beyond my own imagination. In my work, I strive to create prismatic portals into meandering other worlds, many of which are as surprising to me as they are to the viewer. I suppose I am still creating my own imaginary maps, just as I did many years ago.

Instagram: @livesaymakes