This two-year series delves into our collective search for solace and safety during the pandemic, a time of great chaos and fear. Distance, connection, security, and danger diverge, collide and overlap while honoring humanity’s intrinsic instinct to survive. 

In early 2020, a public health emergency was unfolding. I found myself alone in a new space with the people, places, and things I loved suddenly unavailable. There was an immediate feeling of security and solace in this Brooklyn basement apartment. Half in the ground with just enough light, it offered a rooted, safe space. The backyard housed a giant tree that provided cover, and when Spring arrived, a surprising and beautiful garden bloomed. I bought a hammock where I spent countless hours swinging beneath the tree while listening to the startling silence of the city.

Out the front door there was a stark contrast. My new place was two doors up from a funeral home. I quickly became used to the black vans backing up onto the sidewalk, back doors open, as unremarkable men navigated gurneys holding body bags. Eventually, in the height of crisis, an 18-wheeled refrigerator truck was suddenly parked outside my window, and there it stayed with motor idling 24/7 for weeks and weeks. 

These alternating views were the ultimate juxtaposition, safety versus alarm, enclosure versus exposure. In the center of my apartment, equidistant from the backyard and the street, I painted. My creative process became about these energetic, visual, and emotional collisions - those of individuals, those of the collective, and those of time and space.