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"The Fragile That Overcomes"
This painting is about resilience—not the kind that shouts or demands attention, but the kind that quietly holds on.
It began with the sea roses. I spotted them on Monhegan Island, growing near Blackhead Point, right before a Nor’easter rolled in. The wind was shifting, the sea starting to churn. The storm was coming, no question.
And there they were—these small, bright flowers clinging to life on the edge of a cliff. Not tucked safely in a vase, not admired from a windowsill, but right in the path of everything wild and unforgiving. Jagged rock below, a swelling ocean beside them, and a storm pressing in from above. It felt impossible that they’d last.
That moment stuck with me—not just for what it said about nature, but for what it said about us. We've all been there, in that place of uncertainty, feeling too small, too soft, too exposed. We look at others and call them strong, but we question our own ability to endure.
That’s why I painted this. Because strength doesn’t always look like power. Sometimes, it looks like staying rooted when you’re sure you’ll be blown away. These roses don’t know their own strength—but they’ll still be there after the storm, alive and blooming. That’s what I wanted to hold onto.
I used pastel for a reason. It’s a gentle medium—soft, quiet—but when handled with care, it leaves a lasting mark. Just like the sea roses. Just like the kind of resilience we don’t always see in ourselves.
This painting is a reminder. Not every kind of strength is loud. Sometimes, it’s just refusing to let go.
"The Fragile That Overcomes"
This painting is about resilience—not the kind that shouts or demands attention, but the kind that quietly holds on.
It began with the sea roses. I spotted them on Monhegan Island, growing near Blackhead Point, right before a Nor’easter rolled in. The wind was shifting, the sea starting to churn. The storm was coming, no question.
And there they were—these small, bright flowers clinging to life on the edge of a cliff. Not tucked safely in a vase, not admired from a windowsill, but right in the path of everything wild and unforgiving. Jagged rock below, a swelling ocean beside them, and a storm pressing in from above. It felt impossible that they’d last.
That moment stuck with me—not just for what it said about nature, but for what it said about us. We've all been there, in that place of uncertainty, feeling too small, too soft, too exposed. We look at others and call them strong, but we question our own ability to endure.
That’s why I painted this. Because strength doesn’t always look like power. Sometimes, it looks like staying rooted when you’re sure you’ll be blown away. These roses don’t know their own strength—but they’ll still be there after the storm, alive and blooming. That’s what I wanted to hold onto.
I used pastel for a reason. It’s a gentle medium—soft, quiet—but when handled with care, it leaves a lasting mark. Just like the sea roses. Just like the kind of resilience we don’t always see in ourselves.
This painting is a reminder. Not every kind of strength is loud. Sometimes, it’s just refusing to let go.