In the midst of all the societal and personal turmoil of the past few years, I ended up losing myself. Nothing I had been doing to appease my internal fears was quelling the growing unease that had been present since I first left home.

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So I turned to my childhood, as any lost person does.

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My grandmother was the family artist. She was a prolific sumi-e painter, nationally recognized and greatly beloved within the larger community of Japanese black ink painting. This eastern practice merges spirituality and art, working to channel the spirit (chi ) of the painting's subject rather than simply the likeness itself. That is how my grandmother taught me how to paint---I have a vivid memory of her hand guiding mine along a sheet of rice paper as she described to me the importance of that single, finite gesture in the creation of the stalks of bamboo. 

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My life as an artist began just a few years after my grandmother's death. Without her, I'm left with only memories of her guiding me.

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One of my grandmother's favorite animals to paint were red-crowned cranes, iconic symbols in sumi-e and Japanese culture as a whole.  She was particularly drawn to their famous dancing behavior. She was enamored with the challenge of capturing the freedom and elegance in their forms. The dances of these cranes aren't only performed in search of mates; to teach their young the practice, these birds dance alongside their offspring. My grandmother isn't here to guide my hand in hers anymore. I now must learn to dance by myself. 

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Somewhere between memory and present, spirit and being, old and new, this young crane dances on her own.