Na’lå’la

portrait series | acrylic on canvas, 2024

In Chamoru, the phrase for turning on the light is “na’lå’la i kandet,” which translates to “give life to the light.” The series of five paintings in my Na’lå’la series seeks to capture a sense of light, inspired in part by Dutch portraits. The paintings integrate human and floral subjects. They are quiet and emotive, yet vibrant and dynamic. Abstract calligraphic movements hint at architectural forms. Designed to be experienced in person, the paintings feature rich textures and fluorescent highlights, enhancing their visual impact and depth.

This activity is made possible in part by a grant from the Rhode Island State Council on the Arts, through an appropriation by the Rhode Island General Assembly and a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Måhålang (Longing)

botanicals and animals | pastels and paintings, 2020-2024

There are few things more consistent in my life than a sense of longing. To be Pacific Islander on the east coast, where our numbers are scarce and the barriers to the pilgrimage home are prohibitive, requires significant effort and financial investment to remain connected. In my trips to Guåhan, I try to see, taste, feel, smell everything I can’t take back with me. I gather images and ideas that feed my creative practice. Using creative methodologies to build connection with Guåhan became a practice that has helped me connect to my surroundings everywhere. As such, my work often reflects where I am living, and I’ve lived most of my life on the east coast. It’s here where my interest in the natural world was cultivated through a childhood of yard care, birdwatching, and zoo visits.

In an era where we spend 90% of our lives in artificial environments, I find joy in the flora and fauna that indicate where you are. I seek out what I can find and compose them in my paintings into bouquets of animals, florals, and text. I sometimes use Chamoru words to put our endangered language in people’s mouths. Other times the calligraphic lines become abstracted and begin to evoke tattoo motifs from Polynesia and Micronesia. Scale is used to mimic immersion in a place and to claim physical space where memories can live in perpetuity.

Other portraits

pastel on paper, 2019-2022

During my years working in museums, I was keenly aware of the lack of representation of people of color — as subjects, as artists in the collection, in curatorial staff and in museum leadership — and the consequences of that absence. When we are represented in the collections, it is often in work by white artists. In their work we are usually either fetishized or stereotyped; shown as “primitive” or impoverished. To increase positive representation of people of color, I primarily feature subjects of color in my work. My portraits are created with full appreciation for the endless beauty contained in genetic expression, and acknowledgement of our individuality.

The following portraits are a mix of studies, commissioned portraits, and my Pacific Islander portrait series which born out of the 2020 pandemic. Read about my Pacific Islander portrait series in my blog.

Invasive species

ecocide and narcissistic abuse | works on paper, 2020

In 1994 before my first trip to Guam, my parents warned me about the proliferation of the brown tree snake and how it devastated the island. Our birds were defenseless, having evolved on predator-free islands. The population of many of our avian species were obliterated including our beloved ko’ko, a flightless rail. This was my first exposure to invasive species and ecocide. The snake to me became a symbol of invasion and destruction.

Years later, in the throes of narcissistic abuse and being relentlessly stalked, I recognized parallels to what happened in Guam with the snakes and what was happening to me. The unfolding of narcissistic abuse directly correlates to the process of invasive species: isolation, infiltration, proliferation, and in best case scenarios, eradication. I used this symbolism to process and express what I was experiencing. By the time I began this series I put half of the country between myself and the person who was stalking me. I chose to stop spending my attention on my abusers and shifted my attention to other projects. My relationship to snakes continues to evolve, personally and creatively.

Doghouses of Guam

oil on mylar and pastel on paper, 2013-2014

Growing up stateside, I was raised with the very American perspective that your dog is a member of the family. When I first returned to Guam as an adult in 2013, it was hard not to notice the contrast with how they are treated on island— living off of scraps, never going to a veterinarian, and spending their entire lives chained up, sometimes with nothing to shield them from the constant tropical sun except a mere piece of plastic leaned up against a tree.

One day I noticed that my grandpa’s dog Paco was living in a hollowed-out air conditioning unit. Yin, the dog in back, had a house constructed of shipping palettes. I suddenly appreciated the ingenuity and resourcefulness of this non-consumerist approach to a doghouse. I drove around to see what other examples I could find. Some had complete houses, some had makeshift shelters, others had only a tree and a chain. Ziplines were common, paired with well-trodden paths that displayed the entire range of the dogs’ movements.

While driving around, a puppy ran up to me. It was excited to see a human and wanted to be pet. Its neck was completely raw, stripped of fur and skin from being chained up without a proper collar. Another day, I took my family’s dog Yin to the vet on my trip because his skin was raw. He was allergic to fleas, and the fleas were breeding in the dirt. His legs were lame from living confined to the dirt and not having his nails trimmed. I don’t expect people on island to suddenly bring their dogs inside and feed them wagyu steak, but I hope to one day see a culture of animal ownership on island that is more humane.

Death

works on paper, 2014-2018

I don’t entirely know what it is inside of me that compels me to take a picture when I come across a dead animal. Whatever that impulse is it has existed in artists for centuries, and has manifested in genres such as vanitas and memento mori. Part of what interests me is the indication of a narrative; every corpse tells a story. Part of it may just be that eternal, universal denominator that can sometimes offer one perspective.

Other illustrations and commissions

2018 - 2024