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Looking back at the dates, I realized the painting that I call Stacy quietly documented the unraveling of my marriage. This painting is magical, and painting it was transformational—she, and the song she came from, got me through a lot. Playing melancholy songs that somehow made us feel a whole lot better is this whole experience in a nutshell.
Reflections and images of ancestors were there in her layers whenever I needed to see them most.Â
Looking back at her evolution, I see mine, too, in every layer. Her first layer says Let there be love and on the chair behind her were two early drafts of our matching painted wooden sketchbooks—blank at the time, with the plan to fill them daily with things we were grateful for in each other.
I’m still grateful for the love.
Let there be love.
Hard turn.
Jackson and Mae showed up.
And there was music.
In the thick of it.
Always there.
Always there.
Always there.
Always there.
Different light?
Messier and messier.
What does this say?
I've been here before.
Finding gold.
Then letting go.
Under water.
What if my soul was still?
There are many stories to come about Stacy. She holds so much.
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