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A reflective essay about graduating art school, uncertainty after college, long drives, creative ambition, and the quiet desire to disappear into a life that feels more cinematic, reckless, and alive. Exploring identity, freedom, nostalgia, and the strange grief of becoming an adult.

A reflective personal essay about graduating art school, creative identity, uncertainty after college, and the tension between stability, ambition, love, and the desire to make meaningful art in an increasingly practical world.

It must have been like 3pm in the afternoon, sun shining through the window onto the brown shag rug He left a message, but you didn’t listen to it. You and Elana are too busy preparing for the march: “Take back the Night” Who would have known your daughter would grow up to fight the same fight as you. Turns out the patriarchy doesn’t give in lightly, turns out, neither do we. So stick your booty out, fight the good fight, I’ll raise my daughter to be tough as nails like yo

We call it history. But you called it love when you met the man on the bus in 1943, left your first husband for him, followed the pulse in your chest. They said a woman doesn’t do that. But you did. Whispers followed you down the street. But so did hope. Hope that the heart knows something the world never will. He became my great grandpa. Your forever. No one told you what forever might cost. At the Christmas party in 1966 they watched. Forks paused midair. Eyes lingered. You

Plate no. 20 How I Remember You, 2025, archival matte photo paper, mulberry paper, 8”x10.” We all wish we could go back in time. If you don't, you're lying to yourself. But if I could go back, would wisdom fade? The savoring that comes from knowing, would that be lost too? They say it’s not that easy to go back, but maybe it could be: Close your eyes walk backwards in a straight line, simply will it into existence. So I do. One step, then another. Time begins to tick in rever

I remember, the call of the bird clock on the kitchen wall, chirping on the hour every hour. It echoes like the ocean in the shells I used to collect. The ones I piled high on the garden table. Now, Someone else lives there. And the birds of paradise, once worshipped by wrinkled hands don’t bloom like they used to. I remember, Nana’s garden spilled over with roses peach, red, almost white, their scent folding into the air like sugar and earth. I breathed it in, not know

Plate no. 4 Grapes, 2025, archival matte photo paper, embroidery thread, cyanotype, 7" x 9." I don’t know anything about you, except how you died.1926. Grapes sprayed silver with poison, you breathed them in, not knowing. But I imagine hibiscus flowers tucked behind your ear, like I do when I get the chance. Salt wind combing through your hair, bare feet pressed into damp soil. You must have loved flowers, like your daughte

Plate no. 5 Luisa, 2025, archival matte photo paper, 6" x 8." You were born in a storm, In the California hills. Wild poppies bent the knee to you, as you emerged into the world. The year was 1920. You grew up barefoot trampling through fields of wildflowers Desert marigolds grasped between your fingers Running through the vineyard Resting under the shade of the big oak tree. That was your world. You hadn’t learned yet how to measure yourself against everyone else. Then your