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my favorite childhood polaroid picture sits in the bottom of a box somewhere. I do not actually need to take it out and look at it to remember. the details are forever forged in my mind. it's a polaroid my mom took right after she surprised a ten year-old me with a redecorated bedroom. in it, I'm sitting on my bed, which has been freshly repainted, the old comforter replaced with a brand new cream-colored satin one. there are fresh, frilly new curtains on the windows, a cornflower blue bedside table (covered with flowers hand-painted by my mother) and a frosty new glass lamp. plucked right off the pages of the JCpenny catalog, I believe. in the picture, I'm sitting on that bed and I'm beaming. it's a moment I revisit again and again. because it was a room that made me feel special, a room that felt authentically mine. I knew then there was a very specific art to the planning and making of a space. that there was love in it, so much love. in all the details, love. what I didn't know was just how much it would affect me later on in life. how much it would influence me, both as an artist and a mother.

and so this is the subject of my most recent piece in issue sixteen of uppercase magazine: my mom and the home she (artfully) made for her family. it was not an easy piece to write, friends. but I'm glad I did it, I'm glad I pushed through. it was the least I could do, the very least.

and I wish you could read it, mom. I really really do. because this one's for you.