STATEMENT

This summer, I watched the hummingbirds blast each other at the feeder, never getting a good glimpse at the bullets blurring past my studio window. One early morning, I saw one of the birds caught in a garden spider’s web, and I approached to see the ruby throat. So close I could see the scalloped red lace of its neck. So close my breath moved the web. Of course, I pulled down the web (sorry, Miss Spider), and the bird fell to the grass. It wasn’t there later in the day, and I like to think the grass’s dew melted away the sticky web threads, and the bird had a chance to fly off to rejuvenate itself from our birdbath’s entangled honeysuckle . Or sadly, maybe Sous chef, the neighborhood cat, ate it. Whatever the case, the bird became a metaphor for my art. With all of this mixed-media stuff, I am trying to freeze a flight of fancy. I want to solidify an image breezing through or gestating in that open space of my brain that isn’t caught up with grading composition class essays, folding laundry, or Kroger shopping.

EDUCATION

Art dealers, collectors, and gallery owners, have, in the past, labeled my work “folk art.” I’m not comfortable with this label, although I do admit that folk art, particularly Mexican folk art, has had its influence on me. I have a BA in English from Auburn University, an MA in Creative Writing from Hollins College, an MFA in Creative Writing from The University of Michigan, and I am an English instructor at the University of Mississippi. My poems have appeared in publications such as THE GEORGIA REVIEW, PRAIRIE SCHOONER, and THE OXFORD AMERICAN. I have limited training in art, but my mother is a retired art professor, and I grew up with her encouragement, enthusiasm, and art books. From these books, I grew to love the works of many artists, particularly Marc Chagall and Gustav Klimt. I was, and still am, drawn to Russian Orthodox art, stained-glass church windows, and Byzantine mosaics.

MATERIALS

I purchase many materials at craft stores. Usually, these stores are gathering spaces for girls and women who collect decorative beads for “beading” or borders and thematic papers for scrapbook assembling. The rebel in me likes to use craft-store supplies in less formulaic ways.

Along with paint, paper, and fabrics, I also work with candy wrapper foil, mirrors, pipe cleaners, glitter, and fake fur. To honor my love for majorette uniforms and beauty queen gowns, I sparkle the collages with sequins. The dangerous part of my layering comes with shattering Christmas tree balls. I want my work to be reflective, to shine and transform with changing light sources. The tiny chips of Christmas glass are great for throwing light, but I have to break the glass with my bare fingertips, and this is when I end up suffering for my art.

THEN AND NOW

My work belongs to a few national and international private collections. I’ve illustrated for the Oxford American and my husband’s book, SOUTHERN BELLY. I’ve shown in several galleries, but my favorite is my hometown jewel box—Southside Art Gallery (www.southsideartgallery.com).

I have not made much art in the past six years, mainly because I grew tired of commissioned work and the whole “folk art” thing. I also had some baby raising to do, and having a house full of broken glass was not safe for our toddler, Jess. This body of work took two years to complete, and its beginning was inspired by a book that my husband, John T Edge, bought for me. The book, a Valentine’s Gift, was Joseph Scheer’s, NIGHT VISIONS THE SECRET DESIGNS OF MOTHS. The enormous photographs of moths were so gorgeous that I knew I had to do something with the images. The first pieces were made of sewn, painted, and stuffed moth forms. The book’s photographs were so visually textured that I wanted to make some very tactile art.

I moved on from moths to other flying creatures seen from my studio window. For example, the piece, “Rose, The Cardinal,” was inspired by a mama cardinal that my son named Rose. We watched her hatch, warm, and feed her babies. “An Ode to the Windshield Monarch” is an offering to the many butterflies that end their summer-time zinnia search by slamming into my moving Volvo.

First there is an image, and then a narrative—oftentimes cryptic—follows. On all of my collages, there is written text (poems or scraps of poems). If I had to name it, I’d call this body of work “On the Wing”—the time in a moth or butterfly’s life when it is finally able to fly.