I love to draw pies and lemons and imagery related to stereotypical domestic life: laundry, cakes, beds. Items that I am in love with drawing weave themselves into illustrations and birthday cards, wedding invitations and textiles. 
When I draw, however,  it is more about prayer. Drawing and painting, for me, are about finding answers that only appear for a split second and then are gone. It is about giving voice to things that have hurt me or intrigued me or betrayed me and without having to retell the whole story. It is not in the details of the narrative, like writing is, that I find solace. It is more about the spaces inbetween the narrative and the heart that matters to me.

I rely, often, on the image of an airplane and on ladders. I cannot be certain of why they appear, but my guess is that I am interested in the idea of heaven and I am scared of dying and leaving my children behind. 

The illustration and drawings may not seem like they have to do much to do with one another, but really, they need each other. They are both a witness to my chaos. One lets the world know who I am. The other lets me know.