Mending a Heart One Brushstroke at a Time

Mending a Heart, One Brushstroke at a Time On June 17, 2021, the doorbell rang. A police officer stood outside. My husband and I learned that our 41-year-old daughter, Julie, had been found dead. My mind screamed, but my voice and body went numb. In that moment, everything we knew changed. For more than fifty years, painting has been my way of seeing and understanding the world. My daughters have been frequent subjects and, as adults, my biggest cheerleaders. After Julie's death, I knew I had to find a way to keep painting, even when I could barely imagine how to continue living with her absence. These paintings grew from that need. I painted heartbreak, suffocating fear, emptiness, and the loss of everything familiar. I painted the loss of rainbows. My tears became part of the process as I searched for a visual language for feelings I could not put into words. Through color, light, shadow, and recurring imagery, I began to give form to my grief. Rusted metal and origami cranes became central to that language. Before Julie's death, I had photographed a sculpture by Michael Smith at Schnormeier Gardens in Ohio. I was drawn to the sunlight on its weathered surfaces and the deep shadows within its forms. Later, those images took on a meaning I could never have anticipated. The rusted metal became an expression of the weight and brokenness I carried. The paper cranes entered my work through the story of Sadako Sasaki, a young survivor of the Hiroshima bombing who later developed leukemia and folded cranes in the hope of healing. Her story, which helped make the origami crane an enduring symbol of peace and hope, touched me deeply. It reminded me of Julie's tender, empathetic heart. She championed people who could not advocate for themselves and insisted on a more just and compassionate world. In my paintings, the cranes carry something of her spirit: love, courage, and the possibility of hope amid sorrow. Grief does not follow a straight path. There are still moments when a memory makes it difficult to breathe. Yet, through painting and my faith in God, I am learning to live with a heart that holds both sorrow and gratitude. I see His grace in the strength to return to my studio, in moments of beauty, and in the connections these paintings have made possible. People who have seen this exhibition have shared that the work helped them acknowledge their own grief, find words for their loss, or feel less alone. Their responses have become part of what this work means to me. What began as a deeply personal act of survival has opened a space for shared remembrance and compassion. Mending a Heart, One Brushstroke at a Time continues to unfold. Each painting bears witness to my grief, my faith, and the love that survived. My hope is that others will find room here for their own memories, their own sorrow, and their own possibility of healing.