The very first botanical collage I ever created was of a cholla cactus. I can picture the day these plants first impressed me. During my college summers, I worked for the opera in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Between long days in the costume shop, and long nights dressing the singers during performances, we sometimes took long drives through the high desert. I was at the famous Rancho de Chimayo when I began noticing the cholla—these strange, almost alien-looking plants with spiny arms that catch the sunlight in the most mesmerizing way.

That first painting, a 20x20 inch piece that has long since found its way into a collector’s home, was bold and stylized. I pieced together segments of the cactus using a variety of colored textures and hues from my paper collection. Looking back now, my style and process have evolved, but the spark behind my subject matter hasn’t changed.

I still paint the plants that formed the backdrop of my formative years. Each one carries a story, often tied to my mother or grandmother. These women shaped my way of seeing the world—they were creative, intelligent, and deeply connected to the land around them.

Poppies, for example, appear in my work again and again. They were my mother’s favorite flowers. Pussywillows have also found their way into more than one piece. Every time I paint them, I think of my grandmother taking me to her secret springtime spot to gather them. I have painted yuccas and mullein over and over as well, as they remind me of imagining westward pioneers when I was a child.

That’s why I return to certain plants again and again. They aren’t just botanical subjects to me—they are touchstones, each carrying layers of memory and meaning. My work may evolve in style and method, but these plants remain constant companions, reminding me of the women who raised me and the landscapes that shaped me.
 

If you have a favorite flower with a personal story, reply and tell me about it—I just might work it into a future piece.