gripping the oar.

It has been a long time dream of mine to have a print shop, in some capacity. I suppose this initial desire was borne out of a deep fondness for paper goods -- stationary, artwork, you name it. There was in fact a period when I was about seven years old in which I would borrow my Aunt's stamp collection, then emboss and decoupage greeting cards, only to then place sets in Ziploc baggies and sell them to my (tolerant and generous) neighbors. I had forgotten about this memory until only recently and could not help but have a seriously hardy laugh at the thought; not your average child yet everything now makes so much more sense.

It was never out of the desire to be a businesswoman necessarily, or even driven by hope for any monitory gain.  It was wholeheartedly that I had (and still have) a penchant for creating and sharing.  Yet, somewhere along the way into what appears to be the fibers of becoming an adult, seams get torn and I felt less compelled to send my work out into the world. Dare I even say, fearful. That's the thing about any creative pursuit, though, and especially when you combine it with getting older in general. It can feel as though you are always paddling up stream a bit : one half of the oar being made of your hesitation, the other your trust in it all. Nonetheless, you're paddling with an indefatigable mite, only to realize you haven't moved an inch. Something's got to give, and likely it is the sheer fiction you have made up in your head; the one with a thick plot that relies heavily on a less than favorable outcome from choosing to 'put it out there'.  

Once I realized that sharing my work with whomever felt peaked to see it was not only a dream but a deep yearning, rooting clear back to a single digit age, I tossed my doubt in the trash. While it still tries to pry open the lid from time to time, telling me that there are others doing this thing too, and doing it more successfully, I'm tuning it out. 

When I look at the artwork hung in my own home, there isn't a day that goes by in which I don't grin to myself when I think of the soul that took it. Or am inspired by how every time I walk by it, it takes on a different story, letting the bones of the piece be entirely up to interpretation. It is not hung there to be ostentatious, and that is exactly what I can only hope my photos can do/be/are.

With rotating work in and out at the first of every month, my hope is that I am able to curate a shop that appeals to the hearts of many, without aiming to please all.

Perhaps you find the perfect 'just because' gift for your friend who is dealing with some ruthless emotional deamons. Or to serve as a talking piece around your kitchen island for that inevitably gaush guest, and even to give your monochromatic cubicle a story to tell.