When these paintings, the paintings which I usually collectively refer to as “My Aprons,” began I was primarily interested in the concepts of good and bad taste. And while this interest does surface within these works, they ended up containing more of me than I had intended.  Easy to see is my connection/ reaction to everyday objects from around my home, as each painting’s subject matter is a personal possession.  Also present is my ridiculous addiction to nostalgia, for everything and anything, for times I wasn’t even alive.

Yes, there is a great deal of joy and silly indulgence in these paintings, but I realize now there is also a deep sense of guilt; guilt at knowing I should have better taste, guilt for not being able to take anything seriously, and guilt for being drawn to – for really loving – something as anti-feminist as dress aprons worn only for show.  Guilty for being so touched by the layers of chiffon and hand-applied ribbon that I could not bear to cut up the fabric and stretch it like canvas, as originally planned, but felt obligated to leave the aprons whole. 

So there they are, still entire aprons, now elevated to the status of art.  Loved by me, because they are delicate and feminine - foreign words I would never use to describe myself - but more because they are useless, wonderfully useless.  Aprons no one was ever supposed to cook in are entirely useless and frivolous and stupid and vain and lovely and fascinating and ill-conceived, just like everything I love in this world.  




"Full aprons are like sculptures as they curve around the body; half aprons are more like two-dimensional paintings." - from Joyce Cheney's book Aprons: Icons of the American Home