Have you ever seen a work of art in a museum, established your own assumptions about it, and then read the text next to it to find the meaning that the artist had poured into it? To me, this is the magic of art. People interpret things differently, but the artist either approaches each work with intention or finds the meaning along the way. Art is personal. It has an intimate relationship with the creator. In “What’s the Meaning of All This?”, I’m going to give everyone else a glimpse into the symbolism that I pack into my pieces, dive into the research that I apply to my paintings, and explain the personal significance that finds its way into each piece.

You might think, “it’s just a painting of a flower”, but to me, it’s much more.

Before we get into the nitty gritty, I’ll go ahead and place a short version of my artist statement below.

“My representational paintings, synesthesia paintings, and mixed media collages all stem from internal findings and convictions about the fragility of life and the beauty of it. Working mostly with oil paint, I make a connection between the temporal beauty of flowers and our own mortality. Speaking on death without hope is contradictory, and my Christian faith plays a pivotal role in my work. The songs I choose to paint speak on similar topics. This all culminates into a body of work that is introspective rather than blatant, and I encourage the viewer to consider the deeper concepts I discuss.”

Now that you know a bit about my art practice, let’s dive deeper into specific pieces!

For the past four years, I’ve majored in painting at the Atlanta campus of the Savannah College of Art and Design. After taking the two Art History courses that every student is required to take, I wanted more. I fell in love with how there was always so much more to a piece than what meets the eye, and I picked up art history as a minor so that I could fill the rest of my schedule with classes that excited me. I’ve been able to take specific classes that speak to my niche interests, but I also do a lot of my research outside of school so that I can hone in on certain time periods, artists, and movements. This being said, my bookshelves are filled with art history books that benefit my art practice. I’ve listed a few of my favorites below.

I love to learn about the history of how flowers have been used in paintings, what myths surround them, and what symbolism they carry. Sometimes, I research a flower after I’ve already decided that I want to paint it. Other times, I’ll be flipping through these books or learn something in class that I want to apply to my art. The research itself could either be at the beginning of a piece or the middle. The role that research has played in my art practice seems to increase with every piece that I make. I’ve written about specific pieces below, detailing the research that went into them.

The first flower I ever painted was a red carnation, and they are still some of my favorite flowers to paint, partly due to their heavy symbolism. Let’s dig in.

The two excerpts I included above explain some of the symbolism behind carnations. They both speak about the medieval legend of Mary crying at Calvary. Being a Christian, my faith plays a significant role in my art practice. Though this tale isn’t mentioned in the Bible and therefore cannot be looked at as legitimate, I still find it to be an interesting legend that expresses human emotion and the intensity of the Crucifixion. The Christian symbology doesn’t end here, though. In Latin, the flower translates to “God’s flower”. The word carnation is also derived from the Latin word carnis (flesh) and it’s called chiodino (little nail) in Italian, both pointing to the Crucifixion when Jesus’ hands and feet were nailed to the cross.

The painting below draws directly from these facts. The teardrop falling from the carnation in the center points to the legend of Mary’s tears. I originally wanted to paint three blooming flowers to represent the Trinity. Interestingly enough, I painted this for one of my classes and when it was time to critique, a classmate pointed out how the three blooming carnations resemble the three crosses on Calvary. This was not intended, but it seems my subconscious wanted to get it across. As I said before, artists may go into a piece with intention, but more meaning seems to emerge uncontrollably.

Now you may or may not be wondering why I always paint red carnations, and there’s a simple explanation that I’ll give a little bit of backstory for (since explanation is in fact the purpose of this exhibition). In 2014, I discovered the band twenty one pilots. They have inspired me in countless ways and have played a large part in my artistic journey. In high school, I didn’t plan on going to college. I wanted to hit the road, live in a van, and film people I met while traveling. But then I started painting my favorite songs by this band. When faced with confused faces by my family as I explained what the songs looked like, I found out that I had synesthesia, a condition that jumbles my senses and allows me to see sound as color, shapes, textures, and movement. Fast-forward a few months when twenty one pilots went on a five-show tour in their hometown. For one day in between two of these shows, they held an art show where they invited 15 artists from around the world to showcase art. I was one of them. It was life changing for me as I realized that being an artist was a possible career choice and something that I could see myself doing for the rest of my life. Their music is still a huge influence when it comes to my work. When given the assignment in school to paint a flower, I took inspiration from a lyric in their newer song at the time, “Chlorine”. There’s a line that states “rebel red carnation, grows while I decay”. I interpreted this line as life growing even out of death, which again relates to my personal faith. Honestly, the carnation is a spiderweb of meaning to me. But there’s the gist of it.

Now one resource that I didn’t mention before is the beloved and cherished Google. Yes, the free-for-all, type in anything you could imagine search engine is sometimes where I find insightful information for my work. For example, I’ve read quite a bit about kudzu from researching it on the web.

If you’re not from the south, Japan, or China, there’s a chance you haven’t heard of kudzu. It’s a plant that has a rather rich history. It has two nicknames: “mile-a-minute” and “the vine that ate the South”. In the late 19th century, it was introduced to the South. From the 1930s-50’s, the “Soil Conservation Service promoted it as a great tool for soil erosion control and it was planted in abundance throughout the south” (Nature.org). You see, we didn’t know enough about kudzu back then. It soon revealed itself to be an invading species that grew over everything in its path. Being born and raised in Georgia, I can’t drive five minutes outside the city without seeing fields of kudzu or patches growing up telephone poles. Even in Atlanta, it grows on buildings and down walls by the highway. It is a force to reckon with, growing up to a foot per day.

These two particular kudzu leaves were picked from my very backyard. I live on five acres just outside of the city, and when I told my father I was going to pick some kudzu from one side of our fence, he told me to be extra careful not to drop any on the other side because it could start growing and take over our entire field. Growing up, I remember my father filling up a canister and going over to that side of the fence to spray the kudzu and stunt it’s growth. People talked about it like they were afraid of it completely taking over their crops. It’s such an interesting plant. To me, it symbolizes home and the south.

Each object in this collage compliments each other in terms of meaning. Let’s move onto another portion of this piece: the postcard. One of my favorite things to do is antique shopping. I love to walk around stores overcrowded with forgotten items and imagine the lives they used to live. I’m always on the lookout for old postcards, especially ones that have been written on. I know I’ll never meet the people who wrote on them or who they sent them too, but I want the interaction to at least live on through my art.

This particular postcard was printed in Switzerland and written in Denver, Colorado on April 14th, 1945. It was sent the next day to who the writer addresses as “Mommie and Poppy”. The writer acknowledged the constraints of the small space to write on, but they wanted to let their parents know that they were thinking of them. There’s an odd mark over the “y” in “you”, which gives even more character to the feminine handwriting. The writer goes on to explain how they are nearly snowed in. I put a magazine strip over the rest of the letter, cutting off the writer so that only the sentences that I have deemed important in relation to the theme of the piece are seen.

So how does this connect to the kudzu? As I mentioned before, I associate kudzu with home. I’ve lived in the same house for 17 years. It’s all I’ve ever really known. Most of my memories are here, and I hate the thought of saying goodbye to it one day. It’s difficult for me to put into words, but I feel a contradicting emotion of wanting to leave and explore while also wanting to stay in the same place forever. I probably spend too much of my time slow dancing withe nostalgia that it’s hard for me to even think of leaving my memories behind. Like the writer, I’m close with my parents. I’m comfortable in the town that I grew up in surrounded by the people that know me better than anyone. At the same time, I don’t want to look back on my life and wish I had done more. There are so many places I want to visit, feelings that I want to chase, and experiences that I don’t want to miss. I am both afraid of leaving and afraid of staying. Sometimes, I feel metaphorically snowed in. The bolts in each corner symbolize this locked in feeling.

But here’s the thing about kudzu: it has roots in one place, but it grows relentlessly. You can’t really contain it. It’s inspiring in some odd way. This is where the astronaut comes in. I cut this astronaut out of a 1940’s French Aviation magazine I was accidentally sent when I ordered vintage botanical magazines on eBay. To me, the astronaut symbolizes adventure. He is the personification of exploration, leaving life as he knew it behind in order to see uncharted territories. The word “Everblooming” (taken from the vintage botanical magazine that the eBay seller eventually sent to me) also speaks to this idea of growth.

The last part of this collage is the most personal. Apart from the fear of leaving everything I’ve ever known, I have *drumroll please*…. trust issues. Now trust me when I say that I don’t want to be dramatic, but the fact that people disappoint in irrefutable. They up and leave without reason, turn out to be a different person than who they spent years convincing you they were, take and not give, and the list goes on. Humanity is a terrifying species. The film strip represent the memories with people who are no longer in my life, the people who have made it difficult for me to want to build more relationships. I stapled this film strip down but then cut the staple because I don’t want to be held down by the fear of people hurting me. This piece is jam-packed with meaning. Now on to the next!

Have you ever seen a garden consisting of half-eaten flowers with different sized holes in the petals and leaves? This was most likely the result of Japanese Beetles. Like kudzu, they are an invasive species that can take over gardens. They are classified as pests to hundreds of different species, but roses are one of their favorite foods (almanac.com). They also have a rich history, being accidentally introduced to the US in the early 1900’s and soon becoming a formidable destroyer of crops. They’re unique in appearance and immediately recognizable with their iridescent exoskeleton and white tufts of fur on their sides.

A few years ago, my grandmother sold her house and moved in with my family. She’s planted many flowers since then, including rose bushes right by our garage. I pass by them every morning when I go to my backyard to let my horses out of their stalls. Walking by them on such a consistent basis allows me to see each phase they go through. I saw this rose one day, just as it is in the painting. Later in the day, it had opened up even more. The next day, however, you could barely even tell what color it was as Japanese beetles covered every bit of it. They crawled over each and ate the flower until there was nothing left. Without this context, you probably wouldn’t know why I named the painting below Before. Flowers already have a short lifespan. These beetles make it even shorter.

The ephemerality of flowers is a big reason why I paint them. They are a common symbol for “memento mori”, a phrase that translates to “remember death” or “remember that you will die” in Latin. As mentioned before, I’m Christian and I believe that eternity should be considered and that life after death is an option.

To carry on with the idea of ephemerality, I’ll talk about the Indian Clock vine. I took the photo of this flower in September of 2020 at the Atlanta Botanical Garden. It was my first date, and because my date knew I loved flowers so much, he took me to the garden. We walked around, and I took pictures of many flowers to use as reference for paintings in the future. I had never seen this particular flower before, and I photographed it from many different angles. When I looked at the photos later on, the relation to the human body became really clear to me. Almost everyone I talked to pointed it out as well. The flower as a whole resembles a skeleton. The vines reach out like ribs. The yellow blooms somewhat mirror the shape of lungs (though admittedly backwards but still reminiscent). This is why I chose to name this piece Breathe In, Breathe Out. It speaks more straightforwardly than my other floral paintings about the certainty of death while also tying the ephemerality of flowers to the ephemerality of life. I do feel that we metaphorically relate to flowers. I believe that mankind was created by God from the dirt, and flowers grow from dirt. Just as flowers are beautiful and don’t last long, life is beautiful, but short.

Peonies have become a staple within my family. A few years ago, my sister set out to get a tattooed sleeve consisting of tattoos that represent each member in our family. The first piece she got was devoted to my grandmother. For as long as I can remember, my grandmother has had a garden. She used to make an absolute mess, spilling dirt everywhere, leaving bags open, and tracking soil into her house. She would spend so much of her time potting and re-potting flowers, getting too hot and having to take long breaks, and then going back to finish the job that never seemed to really be finished. My sister, Jenna, devoted a large portion of her arm (seen below) for my grandmother’s tattoo: a peony. It’s her favorite flower. Jenna fell in love with the flower, too. Ever since she got it tattooed, everyone in my family has gifted each other with peonies for just about every occasion that falls in line with when they bloom. But that’s the thing about peonies: they don’t bloom for long. In fact, because of how much my family has grown to love them, we planted two peony bushes at the entry of our driveway. They bloom for around two weeks and that’s it. They’re so delicate that the rain or wind takes them out quickly. One day, they’ll be open wide and the next day all of their petals will be on the floor. This again speaks to the ephemerality of life.

I hope this online exhibition has been enlightening when it comes to my art practice and that you walk away knowing a bit more about the symbolism of certain flowers. Context can change everything, and I love that about art. So remember, there’s sometimes more to the painting than what meets the eye.