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Stickers On the Car Window / Chinatown Plushes
Acrylic on canvas
48 x 36 inches
2026
Stickers On the Car Window / Chinatown Plushes
Acrylic on canvas
48 x 36 inches
2026
Stickers On the Car Window / Chinatown Plushes
Acrylic on canvas
48 x 36 inches
2026
Stickers On the Car Window / Chinatown Plushes
Acrylic on canvas
48 x 36 inches
2026
Stickers On the Car Window / Chinatown Plushes
Acrylic on canvas
48 x 36 inches
2026
Stickers On the Car Window / Chinatown Plushes
Acrylic on canvas
48 x 36 inches
2026
Tita’s Fridge / Eggs and Papaya
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2026
Tita’s Fridge / Eggs and Papaya
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2026
Tita’s Fridge / Eggs and Papaya
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2026
Tita’s Fridge / Eggs and Papaya
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2026
Tita’s Fridge / Eggs and Papaya
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2026
Tita’s Fridge / Eggs and Papaya
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2026
Tita’s Fridge / Eggs and Papaya
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2026
Tita’s Fridge / Eggs and Papaya
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2026
Tita’s Fridge / Eggs and Papaya
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2026
Tita’s Fridge / Eggs and Papaya
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2026
Looking Forward to showing this Friday and its on my birthday so come check it out! February 6, 2025, 5-9pm
We are pleased to present 𝐸𝓍𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓈𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝒞𝑜𝓇𝓅𝓈𝑒, a collaborative group show at Not That Deep Gallery.
304 Evergreen Ave, Brooklyn, NY
𝐸𝓍𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓈𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝒞𝑜𝓇𝓅𝓈𝑒 is an experiment involving 24 multimedia artists who have been assigned the role of creating a body part. Not That Deep along with Co-Curator Clayton Harris will be assembling the bodies.
Featuring:
Zoe Alameda @unradmotions
Jack Blasko @jackblask0
Bun @00.1bun
Lizzie Conklin @lizzieconklin
Michel Darling @darlingaffect
Atticus Ewan @atticus_ewan
Robert Falco @robertfalco
Kyle Gallagher @crawling_silhouette
Shigeru Gallagher @shigkn1ght
Olympe Gautier @olympegautier
Georgia Gibbon @g0gib
Clayton Harris @geeeeekbar
Hoai @hoaipng
Jaxson Jaffe @whoatemycheeseits
Prince Kobe @prince.palace
Nicholas Lakin-Curtin @demomamany
Isabella Mendoza @isamydoza
Joel Murff @takeyououtforlunch
Paola Pomarico @_paolapomarico
Rawnak Rahman @r4wnak
Pasha Smelyantsev @pasha.jpeg2000
Dylan Teaford @dylanteaford
Heaven Weathersby @heavenssw
Sadie Withers @artsadie
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Eclipse, Replayed
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting starts with my last trip to Costa Rica. While I was there, a full lunar eclipse happened—one of those moments that feels both monumental and strangely quiet. Later that same day, I was lying in bed at my grandma’s house, watching coverage of the eclipse on TV with her. It immediately pulled me back to being a kid in that same room, watching cartoons together, time folding in on itself.
The eclipse became a stand-in for that overlap—past and present, distance and closeness, memory and observation. The image is filtered through screens, mesh, and repetition, echoing the way memory is never direct but always mediated.
I also pulled in imagery from a woven textile I saw at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The weaving reminded me of the kinds of handiwork my grandma loves—patterns built slowly, carefully, through repetition. The figure embedded in the weave made me think of her garden, her routines, and the quiet labor of care that often goes unnoticed.
Bobbys Backyard
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting begins with a night photograph of my friend Bobby’s backyard—a place that holds years of shared time, wandering conversations, and late-night artist hangouts. The space has always felt a little hidden, almost overgrown in its lushness, and it mirrors something about the moment my community and I are in.
My practice is often diaristic, shaped by returning to my own archive of images. I’m interested in the way memories refuse to stay separate—how two unrelated moments can collapse into each other when they’re brought into the same visual field. Here, the mesh functions less as a screen to look through and more like a retinal after-image: a bright memory burned into vision, leaving its negative impression where another image begins to appear.
The fragmented figure of the deer comes from a woven artwork I encountered at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum—another place built from gathering artists, friends, and hidden gardens. It felt like the right ghost to let into the picture.
Bobbys Backyard
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting begins with a night photograph of my friend Bobby’s backyard—a place that holds years of shared time, wandering conversations, and late-night artist hangouts. The space has always felt a little hidden, almost overgrown in its lushness, and it mirrors something about the moment my community and I are in.
My practice is often diaristic, shaped by returning to my own archive of images. I’m interested in the way memories refuse to stay separate—how two unrelated moments can collapse into each other when they’re brought into the same visual field. Here, the mesh functions less as a screen to look through and more like a retinal after-image: a bright memory burned into vision, leaving its negative impression where another image begins to appear.
The fragmented figure of the deer comes from a woven artwork I encountered at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum—another place built from gathering artists, friends, and hidden gardens. It felt like the right ghost to let into the picture.
Bobbys Backyard
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting begins with a night photograph of my friend Bobby’s backyard—a place that holds years of shared time, wandering conversations, and late-night artist hangouts. The space has always felt a little hidden, almost overgrown in its lushness, and it mirrors something about the moment my community and I are in.
My practice is often diaristic, shaped by returning to my own archive of images. I’m interested in the way memories refuse to stay separate—how two unrelated moments can collapse into each other when they’re brought into the same visual field. Here, the mesh functions less as a screen to look through and more like a retinal after-image: a bright memory burned into vision, leaving its negative impression where another image begins to appear.
The fragmented figure of the deer comes from a woven artwork I encountered at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum—another place built from gathering artists, friends, and hidden gardens. It felt like the right ghost to let into the picture.
Bobbys Backyard
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting begins with a night photograph of my friend Bobby’s backyard—a place that holds years of shared time, wandering conversations, and late-night artist hangouts. The space has always felt a little hidden, almost overgrown in its lushness, and it mirrors something about the moment my community and I are in.
My practice is often diaristic, shaped by returning to my own archive of images. I’m interested in the way memories refuse to stay separate—how two unrelated moments can collapse into each other when they’re brought into the same visual field. Here, the mesh functions less as a screen to look through and more like a retinal after-image: a bright memory burned into vision, leaving its negative impression where another image begins to appear.
The fragmented figure of the deer comes from a woven artwork I encountered at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum—another place built from gathering artists, friends, and hidden gardens. It felt like the right ghost to let into the picture.
Bobbys Backyard
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting begins with a night photograph of my friend Bobby’s backyard—a place that holds years of shared time, wandering conversations, and late-night artist hangouts. The space has always felt a little hidden, almost overgrown in its lushness, and it mirrors something about the moment my community and I are in.
My practice is often diaristic, shaped by returning to my own archive of images. I’m interested in the way memories refuse to stay separate—how two unrelated moments can collapse into each other when they’re brought into the same visual field. Here, the mesh functions less as a screen to look through and more like a retinal after-image: a bright memory burned into vision, leaving its negative impression where another image begins to appear.
The fragmented figure of the deer comes from a woven artwork I encountered at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum—another place built from gathering artists, friends, and hidden gardens. It felt like the right ghost to let into the picture.
Bobbys Backyard
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting begins with a night photograph of my friend Bobby’s backyard—a place that holds years of shared time, wandering conversations, and late-night artist hangouts. The space has always felt a little hidden, almost overgrown in its lushness, and it mirrors something about the moment my community and I are in.
My practice is often diaristic, shaped by returning to my own archive of images. I’m interested in the way memories refuse to stay separate—how two unrelated moments can collapse into each other when they’re brought into the same visual field. Here, the mesh functions less as a screen to look through and more like a retinal after-image: a bright memory burned into vision, leaving its negative impression where another image begins to appear.
The fragmented figure of the deer comes from a woven artwork I encountered at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum—another place built from gathering artists, friends, and hidden gardens. It felt like the right ghost to let into the picture.
Bobbys Backyard
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting begins with a night photograph of my friend Bobby’s backyard—a place that holds years of shared time, wandering conversations, and late-night artist hangouts. The space has always felt a little hidden, almost overgrown in its lushness, and it mirrors something about the moment my community and I are in.
My practice is often diaristic, shaped by returning to my own archive of images. I’m interested in the way memories refuse to stay separate—how two unrelated moments can collapse into each other when they’re brought into the same visual field. Here, the mesh functions less as a screen to look through and more like a retinal after-image: a bright memory burned into vision, leaving its negative impression where another image begins to appear.
The fragmented figure of the deer comes from a woven artwork I encountered at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum—another place built from gathering artists, friends, and hidden gardens. It felt like the right ghost to let into the picture.
Bobbys Backyard
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting begins with a night photograph of my friend Bobby’s backyard—a place that holds years of shared time, wandering conversations, and late-night artist hangouts. The space has always felt a little hidden, almost overgrown in its lushness, and it mirrors something about the moment my community and I are in.
My practice is often diaristic, shaped by returning to my own archive of images. I’m interested in the way memories refuse to stay separate—how two unrelated moments can collapse into each other when they’re brought into the same visual field. Here, the mesh functions less as a screen to look through and more like a retinal after-image: a bright memory burned into vision, leaving its negative impression where another image begins to appear.
The fragmented figure of the deer comes from a woven artwork I encountered at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum—another place built from gathering artists, friends, and hidden gardens. It felt like the right ghost to let into the picture.
Bobbys Backyard
Acrylic on canvas
26 x 22 inches
2025
This painting begins with a night photograph of my friend Bobby’s backyard—a place that holds years of shared time, wandering conversations, and late-night artist hangouts. The space has always felt a little hidden, almost overgrown in its lushness, and it mirrors something about the moment my community and I are in.
My practice is often diaristic, shaped by returning to my own archive of images. I’m interested in the way memories refuse to stay separate—how two unrelated moments can collapse into each other when they’re brought into the same visual field. Here, the mesh functions less as a screen to look through and more like a retinal after-image: a bright memory burned into vision, leaving its negative impression where another image begins to appear.
The fragmented figure of the deer comes from a woven artwork I encountered at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum—another place built from gathering artists, friends, and hidden gardens. It felt like the right ghost to let into the picture.
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