4.28.21 The Compass Collection
Released April 28th, 2021 as my most expansive project yet. My team and I travelled to the Great Sand Dunes National Park of eastern Colorado to capture the story of this collection.
Inspired by my recent solo travels as a nomadic artist, these pieces are meant to harness the power and courage of what it means to chase adventure alone. Moreover, I’ve recently felt consumed in the concept that I am my own compass, and the women in my lineage return to the same root.
May this work serve to connect you with nature, and to reconnect you with yourself.
WHEN HER MOVEMENTS MATCH MOUNTAINS,
SHE FINDS HER WIND BLOWN DIRECTION:
It always takes time
to find her own stride
when she finally feels
space to be alone.
Four elements fill
the voids of voices.
Solitude billows
under the earth's
encouraging stomp.
The fire ants bite
at her unpolished ankles,
and the rusting dirt
burrows its way in
to her clothes and camp.
She grumbles against
the cracked limestone
and whipping weather.
She cries as she
masturbates under
the overexposed
mid afternoon sun.
But when dusk dissolves
and night light comes,
the moon mother will
reach out two spoons
made of well earned
asteroid gashes
to gently scoop each
of her overworked elbows,
and lift her from
rough rock ground.
Drenched in atmosphere,
she will rinse out the grit
from her molars with
the star soaked mouthwash
of ancient dreams.
Galaxies on her breath
will taste like the stories
of her maternal home,
stirring up wisdom.
She will rise into
the plot lines
of wild women with
splintered palms,
dust packed braids,
wheat in their teeth,
and stained ink tattoos
(like true compasses)
along their arched feet -
meant to guide them
back to themselves.
The posture of her ancestors
is raw,
radiant,
refined.
Eyes alive with the
rugged memories
of self sustained shelter
and bittersweet survival.
They would not
bow,
bend,
break
to an outsider’s
constructed expectation.
These women were hungry.
They could not feed on
compliments,
condolences,
or criticisms.
[So can’t you understand
how each meal is earned?]
With the same cravings
as these ancient mothers,
she is starved
for a truth
quenched only
in the moments
her movements
match the silhouette
of dusk’s mountains:
slow,
bold,
and on purpose.
From this well fed belly,
she can begin to
breathe, stretch,
and expand
into the eclipse
of celestial darkness.
And so by morning,
she feasts
on the nourishment
of her own inherent wisdom,
and she finds the rhythm
of her own wind weathered dance,
pointing herself home.