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Care is an exhibition that reflects on the impact of care giving on those who provide care and those who receive care. Artwork that explores the joys, hardships, and everyday realities of caregiving and receving at all life's phases by twenty-six artists from twelve different states was selected by a collaborative team from the campus for Creative Aging and the South Haven Center for the Arts. Window to Our World, a community art project will be exhibited concurrently with Care.
Window to Our World
Window to Our World, a community art project, strives to showcase what it is like to be a caregiver in Southwest Michigan.
It's estimated that one in five of Michigan adults currently provide care to family members or friends. Caregivers, also known as "care partners" can be anyone you know: spouses caring for their significant others, parents caring for their parents, and children "Sandwich Generation", grandparents caring for their grandchildren (Kinship), and more.
Stories of caregiving are incredibly important. This project offers a unique opportunity to share that story through art. Care partners in Southwest Michigan created these artworks.
Care
"Care" and "Window to Our World" runs through August 1, 2026. Click on the images to view the artist statement and more information about the artwork.
Mother
Harold Bishop
Air brush, Acrylic
I am an emerging artist exploring self-expression and personal growth. After studying at the College for Creative Studies, I began creating work that reflects
my thoughts and emotions more openly.
My art focuses on vulnerability and identity.
I use it as a way to understand myself and connect with others. Each piece is part of my process of gaining confidence and finding my voice as an artist.
Air brush, Acrylic
I am an emerging artist exploring self-expression and personal growth. After studying at the College for Creative Studies, I began creating work that reflects
my thoughts and emotions more openly.
My art focuses on vulnerability and identity.
I use it as a way to understand myself and connect with others. Each piece is part of my process of gaining confidence and finding my voice as an artist.
Things Otherwise Unseen
Alisa Clark
Acrylic, Collage, Textured mediums, Cold wax, Found objects
My work for Care explores how caregiving, illness, memory, and grief shape identity
across time. Through painting, cold wax, collage, monoprint, and layered symbolism,
I reflect on witnessing loved ones through dementia, chronic illness, decline, and loss. Family materials, handwritten words, and everyday objects become vessels for memory and emotional endurance.
These works emerge from lived experiences surrounding my mother’s dementia and years
in a wheelchair, my son and daughter’s chronic illnesses, and the passing of multiple parents within a short span of time. In these pieces,
care exists not only in direct support, but also
in remembrance, protection, worry, and the emotional labor carried long after crisis passes.
Artmaking becomes an act of care itself —
a way to preserve connection, process uncertainty, and hold space for both grief
and hope.
Acrylic, Collage, Textured mediums, Cold wax, Found objects
My work for Care explores how caregiving, illness, memory, and grief shape identity
across time. Through painting, cold wax, collage, monoprint, and layered symbolism,
I reflect on witnessing loved ones through dementia, chronic illness, decline, and loss. Family materials, handwritten words, and everyday objects become vessels for memory and emotional endurance.
These works emerge from lived experiences surrounding my mother’s dementia and years
in a wheelchair, my son and daughter’s chronic illnesses, and the passing of multiple parents within a short span of time. In these pieces,
care exists not only in direct support, but also
in remembrance, protection, worry, and the emotional labor carried long after crisis passes.
Artmaking becomes an act of care itself —
a way to preserve connection, process uncertainty, and hold space for both grief
and hope.
I am Hope
Alisa Clark
Acrylic, Cold wax, Collage, Polymer Clay, Enamel
My work for Care explores how caregiving, illness, memory, and grief shape identity
across time. Through painting, cold wax, collage, monoprint, and layered symbolism,
I reflect on witnessing loved ones through dementia, chronic illness, decline, and loss. Family materials, handwritten words, and everyday objects become vessels for memory and emotional endurance.
These works emerge from lived experiences surrounding my mother’s dementia and years
in a wheelchair, my son and daughter’s chronic illnesses, and the passing of multiple parents within a short span of time. In these pieces,
care exists not only in direct support, but also
in remembrance, protection, worry, and the emotional labor carried long after crisis passes.
Artmaking becomes an act of care itself—
a way to preserve connection, process uncertainty, and hold space for both grief
and hope.
Acrylic, Cold wax, Collage, Polymer Clay, Enamel
My work for Care explores how caregiving, illness, memory, and grief shape identity
across time. Through painting, cold wax, collage, monoprint, and layered symbolism,
I reflect on witnessing loved ones through dementia, chronic illness, decline, and loss. Family materials, handwritten words, and everyday objects become vessels for memory and emotional endurance.
These works emerge from lived experiences surrounding my mother’s dementia and years
in a wheelchair, my son and daughter’s chronic illnesses, and the passing of multiple parents within a short span of time. In these pieces,
care exists not only in direct support, but also
in remembrance, protection, worry, and the emotional labor carried long after crisis passes.
Artmaking becomes an act of care itself—
a way to preserve connection, process uncertainty, and hold space for both grief
and hope.
Aging Ungracefully
Denise Clemen
Collage
I am interested in stories—in their context and
in their subtext. I want to know how our stories will end. I want to know how we will hold it together while things are falling apart. I personally experienced that tension while
caring for my mother and for my boyfriend at
the end of their lives.
Two decades into the digital era, we are still awash in paper. A hundred years since the original proposal of an equal rights amendment women still struggle against an entrenched patriarchy. In my collage practice, I mine the quotidian. Catalogues, junk mail, food cartons, trash found in the street, magazines, and envelope privacy linings are sources of color and cultural context. My own handmade, hand painted, and hand marbled paper, as well as gel prints, and original photographs combine with ephemera and classic art images to tell stories and ask questions about women and our place in the world that both detests and reveres us.
Collage
I am interested in stories—in their context and
in their subtext. I want to know how our stories will end. I want to know how we will hold it together while things are falling apart. I personally experienced that tension while
caring for my mother and for my boyfriend at
the end of their lives.
Two decades into the digital era, we are still awash in paper. A hundred years since the original proposal of an equal rights amendment women still struggle against an entrenched patriarchy. In my collage practice, I mine the quotidian. Catalogues, junk mail, food cartons, trash found in the street, magazines, and envelope privacy linings are sources of color and cultural context. My own handmade, hand painted, and hand marbled paper, as well as gel prints, and original photographs combine with ephemera and classic art images to tell stories and ask questions about women and our place in the world that both detests and reveres us.
The Long Goodbye
Mary Conley
Mixed media on canvas
A Tribute to the Alzheimer’s Association
“Dementia is called "the long goodbye" because it is a slow, progressive, and irreversible loss of self. Families experience multiple "goodbyes" as the person loses the ability to recognize family, communicate, or care for themselves”
“Purple represents Alzheimer's disease and dementia awareness because the color blends the fiery, passionate energy of red with the calming, steadfast stability of blue. This combination represents the complex emotional journey of battling the disease and the unwavering strength required to face it.”
This a portrayal of the male figure, a mere shadow of himself, while memories fade
with his only connection; the love of his partner and caregiver. A moment of bliss caught on canvas for a brief moment. A true testament
of dedication.
Mixed media on canvas
A Tribute to the Alzheimer’s Association
“Dementia is called "the long goodbye" because it is a slow, progressive, and irreversible loss of self. Families experience multiple "goodbyes" as the person loses the ability to recognize family, communicate, or care for themselves”
“Purple represents Alzheimer's disease and dementia awareness because the color blends the fiery, passionate energy of red with the calming, steadfast stability of blue. This combination represents the complex emotional journey of battling the disease and the unwavering strength required to face it.”
This a portrayal of the male figure, a mere shadow of himself, while memories fade
with his only connection; the love of his partner and caregiver. A moment of bliss caught on canvas for a brief moment. A true testament
of dedication.
Josie On Guard
Deborah Correnti
Pastel
My mother, Julie, had breast cancer for 5 years. I spent extended time with her during these years, and helped care for her in her final months. I painted the view through her back window and pictures of our early years while she slept. The art helped document her journey and added to her legacy. In the early years we had some great times. I painted us as we were in the 60's. She had a great appetite and made many meal requests.
The lobster painting was to commemorate a day preparing her desired lobster roll dinner (her sister hated lobster, but obliged). In the final months her beloved dog grew lonely, as Julie no longer recognized her. A week before Julie died a little cardinal landed on her back railing. I hoped this was a sign from her family that they were waiting. The photo collage shows my mother in the stages of her life - as a child, a young mother, a grandmother and finally as a great grandmother. My final photo of her hands is in the background.
Pastel
My mother, Julie, had breast cancer for 5 years. I spent extended time with her during these years, and helped care for her in her final months. I painted the view through her back window and pictures of our early years while she slept. The art helped document her journey and added to her legacy. In the early years we had some great times. I painted us as we were in the 60's. She had a great appetite and made many meal requests.
The lobster painting was to commemorate a day preparing her desired lobster roll dinner (her sister hated lobster, but obliged). In the final months her beloved dog grew lonely, as Julie no longer recognized her. A week before Julie died a little cardinal landed on her back railing. I hoped this was a sign from her family that they were waiting. The photo collage shows my mother in the stages of her life - as a child, a young mother, a grandmother and finally as a great grandmother. My final photo of her hands is in the background.
Circle of Life
Deborah Correnti
Photography collage
My mother, Julie, had breast cancer for 5 years.
I spent extended time with her during these years, and helped care for her in her final months. I painted the view through her back window and pictures of our early years while she slept. The art helped document her journey and added to her legacy.
In the early years we had some great times. I painted us as we were in the 60's. She had a great appetite and made many meal requests. The lobster painting was to commemorate a day preparing her desired lobster roll dinner (her sister hated lobster, but obliged). In the final months her beloved dog grew lonely, as Julie no longer recognized her.
A week before Julie died a little cardinal landed on her back railing. I hoped this was a sign from her family that they were waiting. The photo collage shows my mother in the stages of her life - as a child, a young mother, a grandmother and finally as a great grandmother. My final photo of her hands is in the background.
Photography collage
My mother, Julie, had breast cancer for 5 years.
I spent extended time with her during these years, and helped care for her in her final months. I painted the view through her back window and pictures of our early years while she slept. The art helped document her journey and added to her legacy.
In the early years we had some great times. I painted us as we were in the 60's. She had a great appetite and made many meal requests. The lobster painting was to commemorate a day preparing her desired lobster roll dinner (her sister hated lobster, but obliged). In the final months her beloved dog grew lonely, as Julie no longer recognized her.
A week before Julie died a little cardinal landed on her back railing. I hoped this was a sign from her family that they were waiting. The photo collage shows my mother in the stages of her life - as a child, a young mother, a grandmother and finally as a great grandmother. My final photo of her hands is in the background.
Receding (A Portrait of Dementia)
Patrick Foster
Oil
"Receding" reflects how insidiously gradual dementia is. It takes our loved one from us a piece at a time. I describe it as not just a memory thing, but watching her world get smaller and smaller. Always receding.
Oil
"Receding" reflects how insidiously gradual dementia is. It takes our loved one from us a piece at a time. I describe it as not just a memory thing, but watching her world get smaller and smaller. Always receding.
53 and 75
Patrick Foster
Oil
As a rule, I never start a piece with any intended subject matter. I make marks and let the piece evolve according to what forms I see suggested. These pieces reflect something often at the forefront of my mind these days.
I work full-time and paint the rest of the time, but in the last 5 years I have become the sole caregiver of my mother, who has dementia. "53 and 75" deals with me having to adjust and redefine my role and identity. Whereas I once saw myself as a painter (the figure in the foreground) now my role as son and caregiver has become the dominant role. Her figure is the one in the bed in the upper right; always in my thoughts. It is a balancing act of holding on to what keeps me sane (painting) and making sure my mother is healthy.
Oil
As a rule, I never start a piece with any intended subject matter. I make marks and let the piece evolve according to what forms I see suggested. These pieces reflect something often at the forefront of my mind these days.
I work full-time and paint the rest of the time, but in the last 5 years I have become the sole caregiver of my mother, who has dementia. "53 and 75" deals with me having to adjust and redefine my role and identity. Whereas I once saw myself as a painter (the figure in the foreground) now my role as son and caregiver has become the dominant role. Her figure is the one in the bed in the upper right; always in my thoughts. It is a balancing act of holding on to what keeps me sane (painting) and making sure my mother is healthy.
Self Portrait #2
Eduardo Gardea
Acrylic on canvas
My work often reflects on dignity, endurance, and the emotional weight carried within everyday life. The pieces I am submitting for Care connect to the exhibition through their attention to vulnerability, resilience, and the quiet forms of support that exist between people. I am interested in the emotional realities that often go unseen: exhaustion, tenderness, sacrifice, protection, memory, and love.
As someone who has worked in community and rehabilitation settings while maintaining an active studio practice, I have witnessed care
in many forms. Sometimes it appears as physical labor or responsibility, and other
times as emotional presence, patience, or simply remaining beside someone during difficult moments. These experiences influence the way I approach image making. Through painting, I aim to create work that feels human and emotionally honest, honoring both the strength and fragility that caregiving can hold.
Acrylic on canvas
My work often reflects on dignity, endurance, and the emotional weight carried within everyday life. The pieces I am submitting for Care connect to the exhibition through their attention to vulnerability, resilience, and the quiet forms of support that exist between people. I am interested in the emotional realities that often go unseen: exhaustion, tenderness, sacrifice, protection, memory, and love.
As someone who has worked in community and rehabilitation settings while maintaining an active studio practice, I have witnessed care
in many forms. Sometimes it appears as physical labor or responsibility, and other
times as emotional presence, patience, or simply remaining beside someone during difficult moments. These experiences influence the way I approach image making. Through painting, I aim to create work that feels human and emotionally honest, honoring both the strength and fragility that caregiving can hold.
Where God Meets Me Through You
Jill Gates
Charcoal
There are moments in life when everything changes without warning.
An unexpected spinal surgery altered not only my physical strength, but also my understanding of independence, vulnerability, and trust. What once felt simple became uncertain. In that space of weakness, I was faced with something deeper: learning how to receive care.
This piece captures a quiet, sacred exchange.
A hand offering support. A hand receiving it.
A cane passed not just as a tool, but as an extension of strength, dignity, and love.
Through the tender care of my husband, I began to see something more. His hands became a place where God met me. In the steadying, the lifting, and the constant presence, I experienced a love that was patient and unwavering.
This work is about the humility of needing help, the beauty of caregiving, and the grace found in being held through suffering. In his hands, I found not just support, but the presence of God.
Charcoal
There are moments in life when everything changes without warning.
An unexpected spinal surgery altered not only my physical strength, but also my understanding of independence, vulnerability, and trust. What once felt simple became uncertain. In that space of weakness, I was faced with something deeper: learning how to receive care.
This piece captures a quiet, sacred exchange.
A hand offering support. A hand receiving it.
A cane passed not just as a tool, but as an extension of strength, dignity, and love.
Through the tender care of my husband, I began to see something more. His hands became a place where God met me. In the steadying, the lifting, and the constant presence, I experienced a love that was patient and unwavering.
This work is about the humility of needing help, the beauty of caregiving, and the grace found in being held through suffering. In his hands, I found not just support, but the presence of God.
Nurses Care
Nicholas Hill
Ink on Newspaper
"One death is a tragedy. One million deaths are a statistic." This quote came to mind in early 2020 at the beginning of the Covid-19 Pandemic. Over the following five years, I have created a series of drawings and prints entitled "The Pandemic Portraits." Each dr on a page from either The New York Times or The Wall Street Journal. Each page has a pandemic-related headline.
I decided to create portraits that dominated the pages to emphasize the personal loss of the times. I selected portraits from the same newspapers. Reviewing the news photos,
I cut out images of passers-by, the people in the background of each photo. They were "found" subjects, accidental portraits, just as those whom we lost were randomly selected. From these drawings, I collaborated with doctors and other medical professionals to select drawings with headlines related to health professionals and health-related topics. These images were then printed as the archival pigment prints that
I am submitting for your review.
Ink on Newspaper
"One death is a tragedy. One million deaths are a statistic." This quote came to mind in early 2020 at the beginning of the Covid-19 Pandemic. Over the following five years, I have created a series of drawings and prints entitled "The Pandemic Portraits." Each dr on a page from either The New York Times or The Wall Street Journal. Each page has a pandemic-related headline.
I decided to create portraits that dominated the pages to emphasize the personal loss of the times. I selected portraits from the same newspapers. Reviewing the news photos,
I cut out images of passers-by, the people in the background of each photo. They were "found" subjects, accidental portraits, just as those whom we lost were randomly selected. From these drawings, I collaborated with doctors and other medical professionals to select drawings with headlines related to health professionals and health-related topics. These images were then printed as the archival pigment prints that
I am submitting for your review.
Save for Sarah
Sarah Huizenga
Mixed media
Creating art is the exploration of the broken and the beautiful in our story. It allows us to slow, ponder, and sometimes gasp at what we discover about ourselves.
On March 29, 2025, my dad suffered a stroke that ended his time of living on his own, and forced me onto the caregiver path. In those early days, overwhelmed and exhausted from all the decisions about his care, my creative outlet was photographing and sketching the elements on the land that had been shaped under his hands for the past sixty years.
Slowly those elements grew into mixed media pieces that I created and hung in his room at his care facility. They brought me joy in the creating, and my dad joy in the storytelling of his life that helped me to shape each piece.
My dad passed away on December 17, 2025. I am so grateful for the nine months that we had doing these pieces together, each one had its turn as the centerpiece of his room.
Mixed media
Creating art is the exploration of the broken and the beautiful in our story. It allows us to slow, ponder, and sometimes gasp at what we discover about ourselves.
On March 29, 2025, my dad suffered a stroke that ended his time of living on his own, and forced me onto the caregiver path. In those early days, overwhelmed and exhausted from all the decisions about his care, my creative outlet was photographing and sketching the elements on the land that had been shaped under his hands for the past sixty years.
Slowly those elements grew into mixed media pieces that I created and hung in his room at his care facility. They brought me joy in the creating, and my dad joy in the storytelling of his life that helped me to shape each piece.
My dad passed away on December 17, 2025. I am so grateful for the nine months that we had doing these pieces together, each one had its turn as the centerpiece of his room.
How Firm a Foundation
Sarah Huizenga
Mixed media, acrylic and collage
Creating art is the exploration of the broken and the beautiful in our story. It allows us to slow, ponder, and sometimes gasp at what we discover about ourselves.
On March 29, 2025, my dad suffered a stroke that ended his time of living on his own, and forced me onto the caregiver path. In those early days, overwhelmed and exhausted from all the decisions about his care, my creative outlet was photographing and sketching the elements on the land that had been shaped under his hands for the past sixty years.
Slowly those elements grew into mixed media pieces that I created and hung in his room at his care facility. They brought me joy in the creating, and my dad joy in the storytelling of his life that helped me to shape each piece.
My dad passed away on December 17, 2025. I am so grateful for the nine months that we had doing these pieces together, each one had its turn as the centerpiece of his room.
Mixed media, acrylic and collage
Creating art is the exploration of the broken and the beautiful in our story. It allows us to slow, ponder, and sometimes gasp at what we discover about ourselves.
On March 29, 2025, my dad suffered a stroke that ended his time of living on his own, and forced me onto the caregiver path. In those early days, overwhelmed and exhausted from all the decisions about his care, my creative outlet was photographing and sketching the elements on the land that had been shaped under his hands for the past sixty years.
Slowly those elements grew into mixed media pieces that I created and hung in his room at his care facility. They brought me joy in the creating, and my dad joy in the storytelling of his life that helped me to shape each piece.
My dad passed away on December 17, 2025. I am so grateful for the nine months that we had doing these pieces together, each one had its turn as the centerpiece of his room.
Dreaming About My Mother
Emily Hunt
Silk and telephone wire
There is a way I return to making that feels
like a private architecture of thought—quiet, repetitive, almost devotional. Weaving, digital systems, and architectural logic build structures that accumulate like memory: vessels suggesting passage without arrival.
I move through repetition as time itself, each intersection a record of touch, each surface held by attention. Nothing is finished; everything is sustained. Functional craft is pushed toward refusal, where usefulness cannot contain what I am searching for.
There is tenderness in wrapping, encasing, and holding without fixing.
Care is not sentiment but endurance—a practice of staying with instability. A reduction of color allows structure to speak quietly; repetition becomes listening across time. These works sit between containment and openness, belief and doubt. Care becomes the condition that holds them there: sustained attention, ongoing making,
and building without completion.
Silk and telephone wire
There is a way I return to making that feels
like a private architecture of thought—quiet, repetitive, almost devotional. Weaving, digital systems, and architectural logic build structures that accumulate like memory: vessels suggesting passage without arrival.
I move through repetition as time itself, each intersection a record of touch, each surface held by attention. Nothing is finished; everything is sustained. Functional craft is pushed toward refusal, where usefulness cannot contain what I am searching for.
There is tenderness in wrapping, encasing, and holding without fixing.
Care is not sentiment but endurance—a practice of staying with instability. A reduction of color allows structure to speak quietly; repetition becomes listening across time. These works sit between containment and openness, belief and doubt. Care becomes the condition that holds them there: sustained attention, ongoing making,
and building without completion.
Urinal and Hospital
Controller System
Kevin Jacobs
Mixed media
Working out the kinks from womb to tomb.
Mixed media
Working out the kinks from womb to tomb.
Thanks for Saving My Life
Zan Knecht
Gouache on paper
That we are all made of stardust, that we exist at all, is a miracle. The care we cultivate with the rest of the world, be it with friends, family, animal, plants, the seas and planet and universe- that is our opportunity and the real treasure. This interconnectedness runs through my work and I try to give it visual form to celebrate. The caring actions we have all been part of in receiving and giving. All this I am grateful for. To me, real love is demonstrated in acts of caring, freely given, graciously received.
Gouache on paper
That we are all made of stardust, that we exist at all, is a miracle. The care we cultivate with the rest of the world, be it with friends, family, animal, plants, the seas and planet and universe- that is our opportunity and the real treasure. This interconnectedness runs through my work and I try to give it visual form to celebrate. The caring actions we have all been part of in receiving and giving. All this I am grateful for. To me, real love is demonstrated in acts of caring, freely given, graciously received.
Generations
Oliver Krueger
Lithograph and Screen Print
I created this piece, a drawn lithographic print of my grandmother's hands, after the passing of my grandfather. They were married for over 50 years, and many of those years my grandmother acted as a caretaker for my grandfather as he became ill, her children as they grew and became ill as well, and her grandchildren as they grappled to understand death. I created this work to honor the wearing and aging this role took on my grandmother, the wrinkles on her hands represent each moment of care and love she offered to each of us, physically etched into skin. The focus on her wedding band, still worn every day since her husband's passing, in a promise of love and care which she continues to carry on even after death.
Lithograph and Screen Print
I created this piece, a drawn lithographic print of my grandmother's hands, after the passing of my grandfather. They were married for over 50 years, and many of those years my grandmother acted as a caretaker for my grandfather as he became ill, her children as they grew and became ill as well, and her grandchildren as they grappled to understand death. I created this work to honor the wearing and aging this role took on my grandmother, the wrinkles on her hands represent each moment of care and love she offered to each of us, physically etched into skin. The focus on her wedding band, still worn every day since her husband's passing, in a promise of love and care which she continues to carry on even after death.
A Walk in the Valley
Todd Lininger
Oil on Linen
This painting explores the emotional distance that can emerge within modern caregiving environments. An elderly hospital patient reclines in bed, wearing a virtual reality headset, suspended between the clinical reality of illness and an immersive landscape beyond the hospital walls.
As a physician approaching retirement, I have witnessed the complex, emotional terrain, shared by patients and caregivers alike: isolation, dependency, compassion, hope and the desire to remain connected to life beyond illn the work reflects on how technology may function simultaneously as comfort, escape, and preservation of dignity within vulnerable moments.
Oil on Linen
This painting explores the emotional distance that can emerge within modern caregiving environments. An elderly hospital patient reclines in bed, wearing a virtual reality headset, suspended between the clinical reality of illness and an immersive landscape beyond the hospital walls.
As a physician approaching retirement, I have witnessed the complex, emotional terrain, shared by patients and caregivers alike: isolation, dependency, compassion, hope and the desire to remain connected to life beyond illn the work reflects on how technology may function simultaneously as comfort, escape, and preservation of dignity within vulnerable moments.
Safety Net
Valerie Mann
Reclaimed netting, Tulle and wire
Since 2020 I have been making a body of work contemplating grief. I was deeply involved in helping with my parents’ care as their health failed. The care involved yard work on a large family farm, health troubleshooting, cooking, laundry, care facility troubleshooting, advocating in the hospital, intervening when people tried to take advantage of them, working with a body donation program and calling in a palliative care team, among so many other things.
It also involved working closely with my sisters to make sure our parents had as much dignity as possible at end of life. My sisters and I built in moments of humor and connection with one another, knowing there was still joy all around
us in the midst of the difficult times.
My sculpture is contemplative, allowing the viewer to bring their own lives to experience the artwork.
I use primarily repurposed materials as I work through the ideas, bringing new life to the materials, even as they bring their own histories to the pieces.
Reclaimed netting, Tulle and wire
Since 2020 I have been making a body of work contemplating grief. I was deeply involved in helping with my parents’ care as their health failed. The care involved yard work on a large family farm, health troubleshooting, cooking, laundry, care facility troubleshooting, advocating in the hospital, intervening when people tried to take advantage of them, working with a body donation program and calling in a palliative care team, among so many other things.
It also involved working closely with my sisters to make sure our parents had as much dignity as possible at end of life. My sisters and I built in moments of humor and connection with one another, knowing there was still joy all around
us in the midst of the difficult times.
My sculpture is contemplative, allowing the viewer to bring their own lives to experience the artwork.
I use primarily repurposed materials as I work through the ideas, bringing new life to the materials, even as they bring their own histories to the pieces.
Sweeping Up the Heart and Putting Love Away
George Marcus
Colored pencil on tinted paper
Sweeping up the heart and putting love away are lines from Emily Dickenson’s poem, “The Bustle in a House,” which describes the sadness of waking up the day after a death and facing the loss of a loved one, while returning to normal activities. This may be the least noticed of a caregiver’s plight, the practical side of removing the residual medicines and instruments and other things used in caring for the patient.
Combined perhaps with a certain relief, this may be a moment of bewilderment, when caregivers begin to come to terms with the loss of their routine and their being needed, which had long been the focus of their constant activity. I thought a lot about this as I experienced these unexpected feelings after my wife died and I was left alone, somewhat unable to let go of these familiar but no longer needed objects.
Colored pencil on tinted paper
Sweeping up the heart and putting love away are lines from Emily Dickenson’s poem, “The Bustle in a House,” which describes the sadness of waking up the day after a death and facing the loss of a loved one, while returning to normal activities. This may be the least noticed of a caregiver’s plight, the practical side of removing the residual medicines and instruments and other things used in caring for the patient.
Combined perhaps with a certain relief, this may be a moment of bewilderment, when caregivers begin to come to terms with the loss of their routine and their being needed, which had long been the focus of their constant activity. I thought a lot about this as I experienced these unexpected feelings after my wife died and I was left alone, somewhat unable to let go of these familiar but no longer needed objects.
Tears From a Pastel Mind
Lisa Matway
Mixed Media on Paper
I am an abstract artist whose works explore
the intersection of love, resilience, and the
vital energy of life as it is shaped by Parkinson’s disease. Through bright color palettes, layered surfaces, and expressive marks, my paintings reflect the ways movement, emotion, and inner strength may be challenged—while still honoring the beauty, dignity, and humanity
that remain.
My practice is influenced through a personal awareness of how Parkinson’s affects the body, mind, and spirit in profoundly different ways, as well as by the growing number of individuals and families navigating this diagnosis. Each piece is intended to invite reflection and connection of the resilience needed to adapt to new realities, and encourage all viewers to find strength through pain, inspiration through loss, the resolve to continue forward and still find beauty.
Mixed Media on Paper
I am an abstract artist whose works explore
the intersection of love, resilience, and the
vital energy of life as it is shaped by Parkinson’s disease. Through bright color palettes, layered surfaces, and expressive marks, my paintings reflect the ways movement, emotion, and inner strength may be challenged—while still honoring the beauty, dignity, and humanity
that remain.
My practice is influenced through a personal awareness of how Parkinson’s affects the body, mind, and spirit in profoundly different ways, as well as by the growing number of individuals and families navigating this diagnosis. Each piece is intended to invite reflection and connection of the resilience needed to adapt to new realities, and encourage all viewers to find strength through pain, inspiration through loss, the resolve to continue forward and still find beauty.
Running Against the Wind
Lisa Matway
Mixed Media on Paper
I am an abstract artist whose works explore
the intersection of love, resilience, and the
vital energy of life as it is shaped by Parkinson’s disease. Through bright color palettes, layered surfaces, and expressive marks, my paintings reflect the ways movement, emotion, and inner strength may be challenged—while still honoring the beauty, dignity, and humanity
that remain.
My practice is influenced through a personal awareness of how Parkinson’s affects the body, mind, and spirit in profoundly different ways, as well as by the growing number of individuals and families navigating this diagnosis. Each piece is intended to invite reflection and connection of the resilience needed to adapt to new realities, and encourage all viewers to find strength through pain, inspiration through loss, the resolve to continue forward and still find beauty.
Mixed Media on Paper
I am an abstract artist whose works explore
the intersection of love, resilience, and the
vital energy of life as it is shaped by Parkinson’s disease. Through bright color palettes, layered surfaces, and expressive marks, my paintings reflect the ways movement, emotion, and inner strength may be challenged—while still honoring the beauty, dignity, and humanity
that remain.
My practice is influenced through a personal awareness of how Parkinson’s affects the body, mind, and spirit in profoundly different ways, as well as by the growing number of individuals and families navigating this diagnosis. Each piece is intended to invite reflection and connection of the resilience needed to adapt to new realities, and encourage all viewers to find strength through pain, inspiration through loss, the resolve to continue forward and still find beauty.
Always
Terri Rider
Fused Glass
I fell in love with this theme for several reasons. My mom’s health is deteriorating and we have just each other. We have a small family. I have several elderly friends with no family. These were my guiding thoughts:
"Always"
We laughed together.
We cried together.
We shared our joys.
We shared our hardships.
As our worlds gets smaller
And our families walk on,
We still have each other.
You will never be alone.
We’ve got us.
Hold on to each other.
Always Friends
Fused Glass
I fell in love with this theme for several reasons. My mom’s health is deteriorating and we have just each other. We have a small family. I have several elderly friends with no family. These were my guiding thoughts:
"Always"
We laughed together.
We cried together.
We shared our joys.
We shared our hardships.
As our worlds gets smaller
And our families walk on,
We still have each other.
You will never be alone.
We’ve got us.
Hold on to each other.
Always Friends
Eleni's First Vase
Noelle Ringer
Speckled clay, underglaze, gloss glaze
This vase was created as a collaborative project between myself and my 4 year old daughter Eleni. I threw the vase on the wheel and gave my daughter the opportunity to glaze the pot in her own unique way using underglazes.
Eleni is an inquisitive, creative and energetic little artist, my husband and I are endlessly grateful to have her in our lives. Eleni takes medicine twice a day for a rare form of epilepsy, we were able to use her medicine cups and oral syringes to decorate this piece. She was excited to use these medicine applicators in a different way and collaborate with me on a piece.
This plate was created as a collaborative project between myself and my 4 yr old daughter Eleni. I threw the plate on the wheel and gave my daughter the opportunity to glaze it using underglazes. As a full time parent and potter it was a unique experience to give her free rein to decorate one of my pieces. It was refreshing to tell her “yes! You can touch that” and see her imagination take flight.
Speckled clay, underglaze, gloss glaze
This vase was created as a collaborative project between myself and my 4 year old daughter Eleni. I threw the vase on the wheel and gave my daughter the opportunity to glaze the pot in her own unique way using underglazes.
Eleni is an inquisitive, creative and energetic little artist, my husband and I are endlessly grateful to have her in our lives. Eleni takes medicine twice a day for a rare form of epilepsy, we were able to use her medicine cups and oral syringes to decorate this piece. She was excited to use these medicine applicators in a different way and collaborate with me on a piece.
This plate was created as a collaborative project between myself and my 4 yr old daughter Eleni. I threw the plate on the wheel and gave my daughter the opportunity to glaze it using underglazes. As a full time parent and potter it was a unique experience to give her free rein to decorate one of my pieces. It was refreshing to tell her “yes! You can touch that” and see her imagination take flight.
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