Goodbye For Now

Though I am saddened that this very exciting period of my life is concluding, I am also very excited for what comes next. My brain has always worked in series. Not just in art, but in everything. My next series in life is about to begin.

During this grant period, I was able to create a fairly large amount of new work that I was very proud to show for the first time at The Gulfcoast Museum. I can't thank Creative Pinellas enough. The art show was an amazing experience, and though I have shown in a few group shows in the past, never before has my art been displayed so prominently, and which such respect. Receiving this grant has also given me the opportunity to meet a fantastic cross section of local artists that I otherwise may not have had the privilege to meet. I was so very impressed by everyone's work, and couldn't help but notice how different it all was! Not a single artist's work was like another's. This just goes to show how limitless our little community in the St. Pete art scene really is. And I am really excited and proud to be a part of it.

Thank you so much for the support, and I will catch you all in the next series of our ives.

One Line: A Video

I took this series of 4 photographs of my daughter about 3 years ago. I've always wanted to create 4 scratchboards from these and really challenge myself to replicate the amazing depth of field and resulting bokeh. And challenging it was. In fact, I did a terrible job. 

I was hoping this would be the first of a new collection. But alas, I don't have much desire to continue with this series. Oh well. You win some, you lose some. I WAS, however, able to capture an amazing video from my failed attempt.

Another thing I've always wanted to do was film myself creating a scratchboard and then play it back in reverse, ending with a single line.

So that's what I did! And thank goodness I love the video more than I hate the scratchboard. 

Video posted below. Listen with the volume UP.

On Raising an Artist

Before reading any further, please note that all art in this post is the work of my daughter, Sidney Quinn.

This is Sidney, after having spent an afternoon making origami claws.

This is Sidney, after having spent an afternoon making origami claws.

Today, I find myself thinking about my daughter. She is 12. In her short life, she has penciled, painted, sculpted, beaded, origamied, and written stories—almost to an obsessional level. I know she can draw, and I know she has natural talent, but I didn’t realize I was truly raising an artist until she turned to me during the Strawberry Fields scene in Across The Universe and said,” Mom, what do the strawberries represent?”

Of course, I should have seen it much sooner. You’d never catch her dead with a coloring book, even as a small child. Color someone else’s drawings?? Not my kid. Or maybe when she was six, and at a friend’s paint-your-own-pottery birthday party, she picked up a blank figurine like it was a dead rat and declared, “this is NOT real clay”.

On second thought, perhaps I’m raising an art snob.

All images here courtesy of Sidney Quinn.

All images here courtesy of Sidney Quinn.

When I was growing up, my mother would say to me, “It doesn’t matter if you want to be an artist or not. You just are. You have no choice.” I hated those words at the time. It sounded like obligation, and even as a kid I hated that concept. I didn’t like being told what to do or who to be. But as an adult (and mother myself), I better understand these words. If Sidney wants to torch her sketchbooks tomorrow and begin her life as a flag football player, I will support her every stumble. But neither her nature nor her nurture can ever be removed from her blood—she is an artist. She has no choice. (Sorry hun.)

There are things I know to do, and things I struggle with when it comes to raising an artist. Let’s discuss.

This is a small sampling of her growing sketchbook collection. There are many, many, MANY others. Every single page is covered in pencil and marker.

This is a small sampling of her growing sketchbook collection. There are many, many, MANY others. Every single page is covered in pencil and marker.

Though I have nothing but respect for the artist who creates masterpieces on modest cardboard, or uses recycled materials, I am the kind of artist who is made giddy by oodles of glorious bright and shiny art supplies, and so is my kid. What is better than going to the art store and coming home with bags of new brushes, pencils, pristine erasers, blades, canvases, whathaveyou? For me, it can’t be beat, and I see the lightbulbs in Sidney’s eyes every time we are at the art store. And so I load her up (finances permitting) as often as possible, with the best supplies available, to keep her creativity and inspiration in full swing.

Her bag of markers. She carries this like a purse - anywhere and everywhere she goes.

Her bag of markers. She carries this like a purse - anywhere and everywhere she goes.

I talk to Sidney about my theories of life. I want her to look beyond what she sees. I want her to think about why people do what they do. I want her to understand that she doesn’t have to agree with the masses. I want her to question everything - even me. I want her to dismiss the idea of beauty, not only because it is subjective and sets us all up for failure every time the standard for beauty changes, but because beauty is dull. It is boring and overdone. If every artist is striving to create the same “beautiful” thing, no one is creating anything truly interesting. I talk to her about adult ideas, things most people would think are beyond the grasp of a 12 year-old. I’ve never believed in treating her like a child. Because I am not raising a child—I am raising an adult. And I want her to be the most diverse and independent and fascinating goddamn adult possible.

I try to introduce Sidney to every medium I have access to. Every medium trains your brain to see the same subject in a completely different way. I am a better painter after I’ve sculpted. A better scratchboard artist after working digitally. It’s truly shocking to work in your chosen medium, and watch yourself improve because your brain has tapped into the knowledge of another. I could never create the work I do in scratchboard if it weren’t for a dozen other mediums I’ve worked in over the years. But it’s hard to convince a kid. She likes markers, so why should she do anything at all with that lump of clay I just plopped in her hand? Some things are a work in progress…

All images here courtesy of Sidney Quinn.

All images here courtesy of Sidney Quinn.

If there is one thing I am eternally grateful for in my journey as an artist, it is (drumroll….) my day job. Yep. I feel as though I’ve tapped into a universal honesty that most artists ignore. You’re never going to pay all your bills with your art. Yes, yes, of course there are exceptions. Of course there are artists out there who do nothing but toil away in their studios and make oodles of dough (I don’t personally know any, but I think a friend of my neighbor’s cousin knows one). But let’s be honest, it’s just not a likely outcome. When I was growing up, I was mislead to think that because I was a good artist, I was going to “make it”. I was going to be rich and successful. This was the single-most damaging thing I’ve ever heard in regards to my creative life. It goes without saying that talent plays a lesser role to hark work, learning and just plain luck. A few years ago I had a hard conversation with myself. I could live my life chasing the intoxicating art dream...or I could pay my bills every month, and have money left over to buy those oodles of glorious bright and shiny art supplies that so inspire me.

But having a day job does not mean waiting tables or working at The Gap (unless you’re into that). I love photography. And so I’ve spent the last couple years of my life building a successful real estate photography business. I love what I do every day. I’ve never been happier. Is real estate photography the DREAM? No, of course not. But I enjoy doing it, and because I’ve put effort into creating a day job I love, I’m not going to spend the rest of my life as a broke, starving, tormented artist. And I'm going to be happy. This is a lesson I talk about every day with my daughter. She sees me trot off with my photo equipment, she sees me working on the shoots from my home office, and then she sees me creating my scratchboards and building my portfolio. We talk frequently about the need for balance in all areas of life, and for an artist, this is the most important balance of all. She wants to be a special education teacher when she grows up. And an artist too, she says. But she says “artist” like it’s an afterthought. An extra. A bonus. And I couldn’t be happier about that. That’s what art should be. If art isn’t your job, it will always be fun. If art isn’t your job, it will never let you down, or fail, or cause you frustration. May art never carry the burden of success. May art always be a bonus. May art always be fun.

All images here courtesy of Sidney Quinn.

All images here courtesy of Sidney Quinn.

While looking upon my little artist, I see a flicker of my own biggest shortcoming. She is insecure about her work. She hides her sketchbooks. She is embarrassed by them. If there is an expectation placed on one of her drawing, she'll freeze up and not finish it. How can I change this behavior in her when it is so clearly a reflection of my own? I’ve been painting (or drawing, or scratchboarding) seriously since I was about 20 years old. Yet I only put my work out there about 2 years ago, when I was 34. That's when I first submitted my artwork to a book, a magazine, a grant. It took me 14 years to overcome that fear. So much wasted time, I can only shake my head. This summer, I sat in the judging panel for the Creative Pinellas Emerging Artist Grant, 36 years old, feeling like the oldest “emerging artist” in the room (though hopefully not looking like it—thanks Botox!). I just kept thinking to myself, aren’t you supposed to be ”emerging” in your twenties? Am I too old to pursue this grant? Are they gonna look at me and think, you’re 36 and you’re just now getting out there?? What a loser! 

Luckily, the jurors saw more in me than I did, and they awarded me this grant after all.

I had a big talk with my daughter recently about all of this. The talk came after a family dinner when she refused to show anyone her new sketches. With only the slightest amount of parental pressure, she became agitated and tearful. It was sad to see. The idea of showing someone her work—even just a family member—filled her with such anxiety that she nearly cried in the middle of a restaurant. I let it lie for the moment, but that night we sat on our back porch, roasted some marshmallows, and I said to her, “Hey Sid, you know how I got this grant, and have this show coming up, and I was in that magazine and those books a while back?” 

Her eyes lit up and she nodded. (For a kid, she is uncharacteristically proud of her parents.)

“Do you know why all of these good things are happening for me lately?” I asked. 


“Because I showed somebody my work.”

All images here courtesy of Sidney Quinn.

All images here courtesy of Sidney Quinn.

Perhaps Sidney will learn from my shortcomings and struggles. Perhaps she’ll create her very own. I look forward to seeing what kind of artist she becomes, all the goods and bads of it. She is a genuinely good little artist, and I think I say that objectively. If this is what she is creating at 12, I can’t wait to see what the coming years will bring. And it seems our little talk on the back porch, under the stars and among gooey sweets, was a small success - If you ask nicely, without any hint of expectation or eagerness, she may just show you her newest sketches. She even gave me permission to use photos of her work in this post. Full steam ahead, kiddo, full steam ahead.

The Collection & The Muse

As October approaches, art show prep season comes to a close.

Above, The Buchenwald Project, scratched, sealed, framed, and ready for delivery. 105 hours of scratch time, 5 hours of construction and finishing, 308,000 individual lines, and a few years off the end of my life. But. It. Is. Done.

Above, all the works complete and wrapped to protect them from the elements (read: my cats). I'm looking forward to dropping these bad boys off at The Gulf Coast Museum soon so I can stop waking to the sound of kitty claws gliding and skiing across the paper all night long.

My promotional materials printed for the show.

October 26th is just around the corner, and - holy crap! - I am actually ready. And with time to spare! When I first started working on the pieces for this show, I worried I would not be finished in time. You see, I am a slave to my Muse, and she can be a wretched bitch sometimes. I am so lucky that she chose to show up with vigor the day I received this grant, and that she stayed with me these entire last couple months. Now that all the works for the show are complete, I suppose she's due for a vacation.

I read an article once that interviewed a handful of authors on what they view as the all-important “Muse”. Does she exist? Is the Muse purely the result of nose-to-the-grindstone work? Each author had their own opinions on this topic. Some took long walks to find their muse, some played instruments, some found her through meditation and patience. The article inspired me to ponder my own muse and my answer may be a bit surprising. Yes, I have a Muse. She comes to me at times, leading to the most inspiring pieces of art. I am up all night with her, working, thinking, planning, trying new things. My brain is abuzz with creative activity when she is around. I love my Muse. But there always comes a day when she leaves me—because my Muse is the upswing of my BiPolar Disorder.

Diagnosed at 16, I'd sworn off meds forever by my mid-20s. I am who I am. I could not create the way I do if not for the manic side of my disorder. I have no choice but to embrace it - the frenzy in my mind is consumed with art and creation during these times. I work with incredible focus and I am up all through the night doing so. It is worth the trade off of her inevitable absence. 

I haven't conquered the Muse. I cannot summon her. I only know I am grateful when she is here - and when she helps me create an amazing collection like this one. We are a great team. I couldn't have done this without her. We created this collection together.

In honor of my muse, I will share with you something that I wrote for her a couple years ago. When she leaves me, I sometimes read this in order to remind myself that she will, indeed, come back again.


Occasionally she calls from far away, her voice faint through the fog
It wakes me from my stillness; my mind floods once again with her lyrics

My body quickly fills with her and together we howl for days and days
She dabs sweat from my brow as I lose another nights sleep to her script

My heart pounds when she is near, a ceaseless percussion
I feast on her, swallow her, consume her, for soon she will leave me

A few weeks—at most—she is mine, so I crawl upon her back and ride her
Because she never tires, not when she is with me

A neat little girl, she is, small and tight; packed inside my gut, she nests
Riddled with disease, she will be with me only a few days more and so I sing

I lend her my voice and she dances for me, her final surrender
The empty pages fill with our orchestra, our tears, and our blood

She uses me up until I am empty, spent, and weeping with exhaustion
And then one morning I wake to her vacancy, and again my mind is still

I float in a pool of impotence, emptiness; she is gone, so I go back to sleep
The sheets cling to my sticky body as the sun falls and rises and falls

But the empty pages still need to be filled, so I dutifully hum the slow, quiet words
A few weeks—at most—and I will again hear her calling through the fog

I weep for her and the time we have spent
I hope she has not forsaken me and our love, such magic we make together

Studio Tour

Like any other artist, I simply LOVE seeing the creative spaces of others. Their space, studio, desk, easel, organization, accoutrements, etc. So today I thought I would take you on a quick tour of my home studio.

When my husband and I bought our home, we had one primary criteria during our search - a great space for art, whether that be a den, formal dining or 3rd bedroom. We both work in artistic fields, and most of our date nights are at our respective desks, right next to each other, watching a movie and drinking coffee while we art out. A lame date night to some, perhaps, but it's our most perfect evening. This house gave us two extra rooms that flow into each other. The first is our collective space, while the second room is all mine. 

My desk, above left, is where I create all of my art, from scratchboard to photography (my day job), and anything else I fancy.   //   Above right, is a board of important miscellany. Clippings of art that I love. A photo of my grandfather, who always looks over my studio, my daughter's drawings and pictures of my husband and I. My grandmother's Quilting Guild pin, and my favorite photo from my favorite photographer, Diane Arbus.

Above left, this is what 100 Xacto blades look like when dumped into an itty bitty bowl.   //   Above right, my toolbox. Everything I need for my scratchboard pieces.

Some scratchboards-in-waiting.

Above left, in the second room of my studio, is a very personal space. This is where I meditate, surrounded by art, artifacts, and family heirlooms that have been passed down to me. To the left of this space (unpictured) is a cabinet where I store my photo equipment, and to the right of this space (also unpictured) is the cage/home of Otter, my ferret. She keeps me company here when she's not free-range and causing havoc, as ferrets will do.   //  Above right, a little collection of vintage cameras.

Above left, my collection of vintage photographs, which inspired my first scratchboards ever and led to a deep love of all things historic.   //   Above right, one of my favorite pieces of art. I framed this deck of tarot cards (majors only) that were hand-printed in Italy. It is hung over my meditation desk.

Above left, my newest collection, "We Shall Overcome", framed, plaqued, and ready to deliver for the Creative Pinellas show on Oct 26th.   //   Above right, a sneak preview of what I'm working on right now (in progress). An experimental blend of scratchboard and oil.

Before you go, I feel I owe you transparency. A secret perhaps. So I will leave you with one final picture. It's not pretty but it is honest. Below is a picture of my desk, photographed on any given day - not just on the day I'm going to post photos to a blog. It is messy. It is chaotic. It is active and overrun. But it is loved and it is a happy space. This is how my desk looks almost every day.

The Buchenwald Project


This infamous photograph was taken in 1945 during the liberation of the Buchenwald concentration camp. This is an image I have wanted to complete for a very long time. About 4 years ago, I attempted this piece on a very large scale for scratchboard art - it was 18x24". I was overwhelmed by the size, and I wasn't happy with the results (see my previous post for a rundown of the Ugly before the Pretty), so I put it away for nearly 2 years. When I eventually pulled it out to finish it, I accidentally ruined the entire board with a batch of bad ink, rendering it complete and irreparable garbage. I cried. I stomped my feet. I threw it in the dumpster, all the while swearing I would never attempt this piece ever again. It was my white whale, and it had gotten away. It won. I lost.

When I received this grant from Creative Pinellas, my husband convinced me that it wasn't enough just to display a new body of work - I had to create a showstopper. At his urging, I agreed to give this image another go. But it wouldn't be 18x24" this time. It would be 36x48". (Thanks, honey.)

I don't know what I was thinking.

In order to look at it with fresh eyes (and an open little creative heart), I had to approach it differently. I decided to create this gigantic scratchboard in pieces. I purchased 35 6x6" squares - 7 across, 5 down - on which to scratch and then mount on wood. Basically, it will be a large grid, each square a fraction of an inch from its neighbor, all projecting from the board by about an inch. 

Below are some images of my progress so far. At this stage, I am just past the halfway mark with 19 completed squares. They are not scratched in order. In fact, I have purposely completed them in a random order so as to encourage small differences in shading or technique from square to square, only noticeable once fully assembled. This project has taken up a month of my life so far, and will likely claim all of September as well. It is exhausting. If it is a huge success, I will give my husband a big hug and kiss and thank him for suggesting it. If it is a failure, I will push him down and smack him around a bit. It's really win-win either way.

This is what 35 inked squares look like.

This is what 35 inked squares look like.

Some of the squares, taped and outlined with chalk.

Some of the squares, taped and outlined with chalk.

First finished panel.

First finished panel.

One by one, they keep coming...

One by one, they keep coming...

Finally at the halfway mark! This is what 19 finished squares look like.

Finally at the halfway mark! This is what 19 finished squares look like.

At this point, I figured I could start building the wooden panel they will sit on. Assembling the completed pieces onto the wood will start to make it look like a real image, and give a little light at the end of the tunnel.

At this point, I figured I could start building the wooden panel they will sit on. Assembling the completed pieces onto the wood will start to make it look like a real image, and give a little light at the end of the tunnel.

Half assembled, though not yet framed. The photograph it looks a bit flat, but seen in person, I have confidence this will be a great piece.

Half assembled, though not yet framed. The photograph it looks a bit flat, but seen in person, I have confidence this will be a great piece.

19 down, 16 to go...

19 down, 16 to go...

The Ugly Before the Pretty

  When I first took up this medium, it took me quite a while to get used to the ugly of it. Hours and hours spent scratching just for it to look, garbage. I gave up on many pieces in the beginning. I would have a grand idea, sketch it out, transfer it, scratch all afternoon, and it would go absolutely nowhere. I would toss it in the trash halfway done and start another one. (And that one would have a 50/50 chance of survival as well.) I cringe to think of all the amazing pieces I turned my back on. I hadn't yet learned that unlike a painting, which shows promise with a single brushstroke of color, or a charcoal drawing which starts to breathe life within only moments, scratchboard (at least the way that I create it) takes a long (long, long) time to emerge into anything resembling art.

I thought I would take this opportunity to introduce a piece I am working on for the upcoming show in October, and show its process in four distinct steps.

STEP 1, above:  This took me 6 hours to complete. Yes, this messy piece of crap took up SIX HOURS OF MY LIFE! Imagine spending six straight hours toiling away towards a final product of perceived brilliance, and at the end of that time, this is all you have to show for it. It's enough to make you want to slam your forehead into your (dirty, inky, lascerated) desk.

STEP 2, above:  At this point, 4 hours later, it is starting to look a little more like a real image. My heart rate has slowed and I'm not as twitchy as I was during phase one, although after a total of ten scratching hours, I am somehow always expecting more at this point. Nothing to write home about. Still ugly.

STEP 3, above:  Finally, I am getting happy. By the time this phase is complete, I have another 6 hours invested in this particular piece. That's a total of 16 hours, and although the image is clearly emerging, it is far from done. The shading is smooth, but flat. The highlights are still too gray, and there is little detail. Still plenty left to do.

STEP 4, above:  Completion! The first 3 phases have very defined goals as far as the scratching of lines, and the planning of shaded areas, but phase 4 is simply the best! At this point, I just scratch until it is finished. The final step on this piece took an additional 7 hours.

Above, the completed piece, finished, framed, and clocked in at 23 hours.
But damn, ain't she pretty?

The "Joys" of a Difficult Medium

I have sat at an art festival with my wares, watching as buyers and looky-loos admire the oils, watercolors and sculptures of my tented neighbors. I have watched them oooh over jewels and aaah over fiber. And I have watched as their faces fall—and puzzle, and sometimes even scowl—while they appraise my works on scratchboard. They seldom cross the threshold into my booth. They whisper to their friend, “what is that?”, and their friend shrugs and shakes her head. Then they move on.

It’s challenging to work in a difficult medium. Most people do not know what scratchboard is. They don’t know how it is created or how to categorize it in their minds. It isn’t paint. It isn’t pencil. It isn’t printmaking. So is it art? Scratchboard seems to baffle people. And people don’t like to be baffled. I have considered changing the description of what I do to “Ink Etchings”. This really is the closest approximation I can make in order to accurately title it. But at the end of the day, it is what it is, and I must be true to the medium. It is simply “scratchboard”.

If I could create my art in any other medium, for the comfort of art buyers, I might consider it. I have worked in everything under the sun, from pastel to oil to watercolor to ink. But nothing fulfills me quite like scratchboard. I suppose that leaves little else to say about it—scratchboard is my medium. Just like every artist must find their own vision, so too must they find exactly the right medium in which to interpret it. 

And therefore, my first official post on this blog will be a breakdown of what it takes for me to create a work in scratchboard. Perhaps you remember an elementary art class where you had the assignment to scribble colored crayons on paper, cover the scribbles with black crayon, and then scratch though it with a wooden dowel. That’s scratchboard! Many people did this in school, so when describing scratchboard to someone, I usually start with this example. What I do is the grownup version of that. 

I begin with a panel that has been coated with fine white clay, and then coated again with an opaque layer of India Ink. This is my canvas. It is black. And since it is black, I cannot draw the lines of the face, the eyelashes, the contours of the clothing. I can only reveal the highlights. This medium forces the eye to see things in reverse. Instead of drawing the iris of an eye, for example, I must create the whites that surround it, leaving the iris untouched.

There are more scratchboard artists than you may imagine, and most create their art using a variety of tools, such as steel wool, fiberglass brushes (yes, that’s a thing), metal scrapers, etc. But I have limited myself (purposefully) to using only a single Xacto blade. I work my layers, of which there are up to 12 or more in a single artwork, in very precise grid of crosshatching. I want my scratches to be visible when viewed up close. I am seeking a delicate balance between lifelike and graphic. From a distance, my work presents as a photograph, but upon inspection you will see the very distinct and hard lines of every crosshatched layer.

Scratchboard is unlike any other medium I have tried. It is confusing, difficult, laborious, and hard to explain. But isn’t that part of what makes it so interesting? What is an artist without a little dose of difficulty? Aren’t we, as artists, difficult people? How many bland and compliant artists do you know? I’m guessing not many. I feel lucky to have found a medium that suits me so well. In fact, I may go so far as to say my medium is an extension of who I am as a person—a dozen shades of gray, hard to understand, not everyone’s cup of tea, pretty from far away, but up close, a carefully arranged grid of chaos.

For one final consideration of scratchboard, think about this: every fully-rendered square inch of one of my finished pieces has an average of 352 lines that have been scratched through it. Yes, I have done the math (I have a love affair with numbers). Therefore, my average 12x16” scratchboard piece, which has 192 square inches, contains 67,584 individually scratched lines. 

You can see in the example I show above (which is, by the way, one of the pieces in my new collection that will be shown on Oct 26th, with thanks to Creative Pinellas) the difference between viewing from afar and viewing up close. This particular piece is 16x20” and contains approximately 112,640 individually scratched lines. Not that you were counting.

Artist Statement

My work is inspired by the human experience, as trite as that sounds, but I struggle to call it anything else. I am fascinated by the historic photos of generations gone by, and everything that their struggle laid forth for all of us—I am deeply rooted in the experience of nostalgia. I crave a deep and meaningful connection to those who came before, and my art is how I reach back through time to take their hand. By revealing the past, line by line, in black and white, I am trying to recapture a profound and life-altering emotion that was felt by someone I’ll never meet. With my scratchboards, I am honoring them and meditating upon them—it’s impossible not to when I’ve spent an hour crafting the bridge of their nose one scratch at a time.

There is an intense devotion that transpires when I am lost in thousands upon thousands of brittle white lines. The world goes quiet and still. There is an exchange of energy between myself and the work. An excitement when, after hours of whittling away the ink bit by bit, finally—finally!—the image begins to emerge. That moment is nothing short of magic, and is worth the dedication of a lifetime spent learning it.

I have lived in Florida for most of my life, and have dedicated the last six years to perfecting my own unique style of scratchboard technique. I have participated in a number of gallery shows and festivals, from Miami Beach to Seattle, and have had my work published in three anthologies of art, published by Out Of Step Books. I was also a featured artist, honored with an eight-page spread, in Emboss Magazine’s Black & White issue. I am a member of the International Society of Scratchboard Artists and American Women Artists.

Surrounded by an endless supply of pens, papers, paints, fabrics and clays, I grew up in the Florida Keys and was taught color theory and proper wheel-throwing techniques before mastering my shoe laces.

With the Emerging Artist Grant from Creative Pinellas, I look forward to exploring a time in our not-so-distant history that is still painfully relevant in our current society. Working from images taken at the Selma March in 1965 and the years encompassing that impactful time in our nation’s history, I want to honor the generation that rose against racism and segregation in America. By bringing these images to light in a new way, I hope they will serve as a celebration of what was accomplished, a reminder of what still must change, and a call to move forward, equal, together.