Which came first your interest in jewelry or art? Oddly enough this is the most frequent question I'm  asked when strangers find out about either subject involving me.  Luckily my age-old riddle is a simple solution unlike the story of the chicken vs the egg. Before I knew I had artistic abilities I loved rocks and minerals. According to my mother, my fascination with rocks began when I learned how to walk. Although I don’t remember the yesteryears of toddlerhood  I do recall my love for each specimen from the earliest age of 4. Their colors, formations, and variations captivated me filling me with such joy. Imagine that feeling you get when you score a deal on a sale or when you finally buy that purse or wallet you’ve had your eye on for years. Yeah, that feeling! That's the feeling I get when I find a rock or complete a new painting. My fascination didn’t stop with just rocks either it extended into cut gemstones as well. My paternal grandmother was an exceptionally glamorous woman that possessed an impeccable jewelry collection. At least once every day after tea time I would peek inside her jewelry box of treasures. Yes, I said tea time my grandmother ran a tight ship of classic etiquette values within her home.

Four-year-old Britt: “I drank my tea may I go to the bathroom?”
Grandma: “yes you may”
After going to the bathroom I would always make a pit stop to the jewelry box of wonders on her vanity. I would look but never touch.
Grandma: Brittany what are you doing?
Four-year-old Britt: “I’m just looking”

​Through her treasure trove, I became acquainted with aquamarines, pearls, and diamonds, my first best friends. The reflections of dancing light captivated me one stone at a time. Each stone was magical and glimmered differently within the light. My encounter with the glimmering lights inspired me to obtain a Bachelor of Arts and a graduate gemologist degree.  Long story short my interest in jewelry, rocks, and minerals came first but also influenced my interest in art.  Both art and rocks have a point of convergence throughout history. Organic and inorganic rocks were used to create paints before the creation of synthetic alternatives. The vivid colors in paintings captivate me in the same way as the glimmering lights of gemstones.

This week I will be unveiling a new rainbow painting for pride month. With this painting, I wanted to have fun and explore new aspects of painting. Art doesn't have to be serious nor moody. Sometimes the process of making art is more important than its meaning or message from the artist. I wanted to try to use a different color palate opting to use more pinks instead of my typical vivid blues color palate. Still striving to express the variations of memory and the connection of the past to the present I wanted to tap into the whimsical nature of youthhood it into adulthood.

It’s storytime Friday! 
Today I thought I would share a story with my dear lovely mother! One faithful Sunday in 1995 I played with my favorite toys as I always did on the weekends. As a child, I had a mixture of not only all of the popular toys in the ’90s. I loved fire trucks, the green power ranger, and barbies! My favorite Barbie was the cut and style Barbie! This was a magical barbie whose hair you could cut and re-attach using her hair extension. After a full day of cutting, I decided I wanted to be like barbie and took her mini scissors to my hair. I didn’t have her extensions so using my resources I used a barrette and re-attached my own hair. I thought everything was gold! I had a new hairdo and when I was done my hair was miraculously back like Barbies. The following Monday morning my mother woke me up early to style my hair for school. I sat at the dining room table on a high stack of phone books while my mom began to brush my hair. 
*BRUSH BRUSH BRUSH* 2 seconds would pass then 4 followed by 6. Suddenly each brushstroke began to be slower than the last until it stopped. The brush was replaced by her scurrying hand that swept across the back of my head. It was unlike my mother to abruptly stop doing my hair even though she hated doing hair. My mother couldn’t style hair to save her life. Anything she could have learned about hair her youth went out the window the moment she decided she hatted dolls. On many occasions, my father was my hairstylist. My dad could braid the cleanest braid in my hair compared to my mother. But this is Monday we're talking about! Dad left for work at 4:00 am along with my hopes for a miraculous hairstyle. After 10 minutes of silence, my mother began to speak. 

Mom: “Did you cut your hair?”
5-year-old Britt: “No”
Mom: “Yes you did! These are cut marks what did you do?”
5-year-old Britt “I cut it yesterday but it grew back”
Mom: “No it didn’t!  you just clipped cut hair back in your hair with a barrette ”

Fast forward 31 years later
Mom: " I knew you cut your hair I knew it! When I began to brush your hairpieces of it started to come out. My heart began to sink with each brush. Each time I brushed your hair more hair would come out. I thought to myself oh my gosh I left the kiddie relaxer in her hair too long. As I continued to brush I realized there was a straight cut in the back of your head with a barrette." 

31-year-old Britt: "Technically it was all your fault. You gave a kid a barbie that tricked kids into believing their hair would magically grow back. In my defense, I didn’t think I cut my hair. I thought it magically was re-attached like the Barbies."

 As I continued to talk suddenly I felt my Spidey senses tingling. Mary otherwise known as my mother was giving me a death glare. You know the glare, the one in the photo above if you need a point of reference. Long story short I learned never to play with scissors in my hair and still haven’t learned how to shut my mouth in the face of danger. Freedom of speech might be free but there are consequences with the freedom of whats said. But hey at least I got to say what I wanted. Some things never change even with age. 

Grandma: What are you reading?
5yr old Britt: A book about the planets. I want to be an astronaut when I grow up"
Grandma: Really! That's good baby. Knowledge is the best way to prepare for that journey. 

Memories of my grandmother are moments comprised of extreme exciting entertainment. My maternal grandmother was unpredictable, unlike my fathers' parents! Think of the black-footed cat from Africa. It's cute and teacup size but also the wolds deadliest cat possessing a hunt success rate of 60%. Observing my maternal grandmother was like watching a movie with the most twists and turns you could ever imagine. When Martha was on babysitting duties you were guaranteed the recipe for the best thriller! 

Recipe: Martha thriller a-la mode 
1 cup of drama equalling 1 guaranteed flip out moment
1/2 cup of a mental breakdown sesh 
2 cups of an awww moment which cancels out everything you just witnessed while you ate your popsicle and watched the show.  

Every Friday or sick day was comprised of this recipe whether she was triggered by her uncle, my grandfather, Claude, or my cousins. Despite everything regardless of the chaos, my grandmother taught me the importance of knowledge, determination, and endurance. Although my grandmother wasn't as elegant as my father's mother she was the most resilient grandparent I had. My grandmother was a single parent of four children and managed to get purchase her own house, car, and pay for higher education in the '50s. Resilience endowed from my grandmother is the leading motivator that empowers me and my desires
“The room of astronomical knowledge”  will be the third artwork in the "Home Sweet Home" series dedicated to my grandmother. Within the artwork lies her living room as I remember it from my childhood. Her living room reflects the 70s esthetic possessing brown shag carpets, a golden couch, and shiplap walls. Although her home is different than I remember it I will forever be known as a place of sprouting knowledge.  My hope now is in viewing  "The room of astronomical knowledge” will bring you, the viewer feel the same magnitude of empowerment I first experienced in this room while I imagine the untold stories of space.​
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As a child, I always felt alone unless I was with my grandparents. My brother is eight years older and he had his endeavors, my parents were older when they had me, and I was the only kid in my neighborhood. When I think back on my childhood I was misunderstood and I was bullied my kindergarten year until third grade when I switched schools. While I was in elementary I never quite fit in with the boys or girls in my class. The boys thought I had coodies and the girls wanted me to conform to their demands. Demands such as give me your Lunchable sticker or I won’t be your friend go tell this guy I love them and then I’ll really be your friend if you don’t do what I tell you then we won’t talk to you. I refused to be their flunky so I opted to be alone. When I tried to tell my teacher what was happening the teacher would just say don’t be a tattletale. I genuinely for the life of me had no idea why these girls when out of their way to make my days at school miserable. I never told my parents or my family what I was going through. I thought if my teacher didn’t care why would my parents. The only adult I told about my situation was my maternal grandma.

Grandma: "What’s wrong baby?"
6-year-old Britt: "These girls are mean to me in school."
Grandma: "Really! What do they do?"
6-year-old Britt: "They won’t play with me and make fun of me in front of the other kids. They talk about my hair and things I say."
(One of the reasons I don't wear braids as an adult)
Grandma: "The next time they make fun of you I want you to tell them this...."
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The next day I said exactly what my Grandma told me to say word for word to the Regina George of the group. Although I was able to express the internal aggression I possessed I was sent to the principles office by my grandmother's words.
When my mother came to pick me up the teacher told my mother what was said.
When the girls came over I proceeded to say “ You know what I’m tired of your sh*t! You can go ahead and say what you want now but by the time you turn 16 you’ll be stuck with a sh*t load of babies in a dead-end job alone with no one”. Looking back it might not have been the best thing to tell a six-year-old but it sure felt good! The girls were segregating me and treating me as an inferior individual. My grandma taught me how to stand up for myself because no one else would. She might have had brash solutions to any altercation but she was a fighter being a single mother of four. My grandmother's resilience continues to influence me when things seem gloomy. Although I'm a little scorned I'm grateful that it didn't affect me as badly as other people who have been bullied. My imagination was formed from instances such as this and I learned how to judge a person by their actions and not by the group​. 

As a child, I always cherished and valued art and drew during the most inopportune time. One day during an alphabet lesson my kindergarten teacher Mrs. Moon, discovered I wasn't focusing on the lesson. "Brittany! Are you drawing again?" "No, Mrs. Moon" I replied. She glanced at me with piercing eyes and immediately stopped what she was doing to walk over and see for herself if I was telling the truth. Mrs. Moon discovered I was telling the truth, but I also lied. She found five pages of doodles under my alphabet page. That day a letter was pinned to my shirt. Although the letter was sent home my mother never received it. Although I was young I wasn’t stupid. I knew never to give my mother that letter and never draw again because drawing meant trouble. For six years I stopped creating until I switched schools. During my fourth grade year, I met Mrs. Grimes my art teacher at Presbyterian school.

Our first assignment was to sketch a still life of bottles. I didn't focus hard on drawing; my abilities were always overlooked so there was no need to try to gain attention I thought. After I finished, Mrs. Grimes asked the class who drew the bottles she held in her hand. Frightened I rose my hand and confessed to creating the picture she held. As I watched her put my name on the picture and put it in her bag I thought oh well it was nice to live to see fourth grade at least. After school, I walked to my mother's classroom at the end of the hall. When I arrived I could see my mother’s stern eyes as I stood in the doorway. " Mrs. Grimes came to speak to me about your classwork." My mother stated. "She believes you have an eye for art and that you should consider pursuing art as a profession."
Mrs. Grimes believed in me when no one else knew I existed. she made me realize the talents I possessed and the profession I wanted to pursue in life. 20 years later I still talk to Mrs. Grimes and meet her for lunch. Throughout my career, there have been four teachers who influenced and nurtured my artistic journey. Thank you Mrs. Grimes for giving me the courage to be an artist and to realize the phrase starving art is a myth. Amy Lorino taught me how to promote myself to institutions and how to take a chance and just apply. Carolyn Meyer taught me to be flexible and to absolve all fears about well what if I mess up the painting if I correct this or paint here. It's perfects so let's not mess it up. She taught me my art can always be better, your painting can always evolve never take the first stroke as perfect.
Kevin Moore taught me not only composition color, layout, and proportion but the importance of your compositional message of impact (how a piece looks from a distance) vs payoff (what it looks like up close). Thank you to all of these teachers for influencing me and for all of the future artists you will impact. You are the true definition of what it meant to be an exceptional educator.

I’m noticing a trend! Everyone seems to like my stories about my family and my childhood so I thought I would share a fun story. As a child, I was left with my father most often on the weekends when my mother ran around running errands. Babysitting + Dad = A unsupervised fantastic day! My schedule was as follows.
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Run around screaming in the front yard until I collapsed in the grass and observed the clouds.
Bike down the street to the neighborhood church.
Find leftover remnants of car Bondo in the driveway then smash it with a hammer.
Play with my barbies in the grass.
Dig in the dirt until I find clay.

Have playtime with my grandfather who usually would walk to our home by 2:00 pm.
If you can’t tell I was a very eccentric child whose parents allowed her to be weird. One faithful day I decided to forgo my original schedule and stay indoors watching Nickelodeon. Yes, Nickelodeon I was a Nickelodeon kid more than a Disney type of girl add that another eccentric tick mark. While I watched Hey Arnold I got the bright idea to have a snow day in the house. Just so happened we had a large box full of styrofoam left over from a delivery. Immediately I took out all of the styrofoam, ripped it into tiny pieces, and began to throw it up in the air. When I was done I sat in my mess and continued watching TV with styrofoam in every crevice of the living room. When my father finally came in he flipped out not because of the mess but because of the thought of my mother witnessing the mess Mother can be very very scary. The rest of my afternoon was filled with a vacuum in hand cleaning every square inch of the living room. Although this was my last time having a snow day in the house it wasn’t the last time my imagination got me in trouble.

My upcoming series "Home Sweet Home" is inspired by the bifurcate ideals of home. When I moved back to Houston the environment was different than how I remembered it. Places seem smaller, less vibrant, and the reality of people I once knew was different. This reality made me realize everyone has two circumstantial thoughts of home one our memory of home in our youth and two the present reality of our home. Both ideas are our home but different recollections and times of it. Combining both ideals using 2D elements representing my memory and 3D elements representing the reality Home sweet home was created. When I was a child everything was bright and in technicolor, often kiddish, and simple. I was obsessed with stars, space, and constantly was alone. My brother didn't share a similar interest to me as a result of our eight years age difference, and I lived in an older neighborhood where I was the youngest person on my street. The only person I had to keep me company with was my grandfather. We didn't live in reality but in a fantasy world created through my imagination. The flatness of the 2D elements will reflect my childhood-like spirit and the memories of the places in my compositions. The reality aspect of each composition will be sculpted items. The concept of Houston as home was a notion I had to learn to appreciate in time. ​​

Grandpa: "What are we going to do today Britt?"
5 Year Old Britt: "Let's go fishing using sticks and leaves"
Grandpa: "Okay let's get our bucket and go to the back yard"

My memories of my grandfather are some of the most cherished moments I possess of my childhood. I didn't realize it then but my grandfather nourished not only my creativity as a child but my imagination. Although he was an adult he possessed a child-like spirit. Whenever I went to my paternal grandparents' house I had the best of both worlds. My grandmother was the average Texas southern baptist who dressed to perfection. Feathers, pearls, and hot pink were some of Vera's favorite things. When my grandmother was around I had a strict schedule.  

7:00 AM- My mother dropped me off where I would sleep until 8:00 AM
9:00 AM- Breakfast time in the kitchen with my grandfather
Grandpa: "What's your order today Britt?" 
Me: "I would like my eggs sunny side up with my bacon crispy but burnt a-little with toast and black coffee"
Grandpa: "you got it"!
11:00 AM- I would sneak into my grandmother's jewelry box and try on her pearls 
12:00 PM- 1:00 PM My grandpa would sneak me out of the house to play outside with my cat Dina  
1:00 PM- Nap time FOR EVERYONE!
2:00 PM- 2:30 PM Teatime with grandma 
2: 30 PM- 3:15 PM Cartoons on UPN with grandpa
3:15 PM- My father came to pick me up to go home

My grandmother taught me about the beauty in jewelry, etiquette values, and how to be refined in society. While my grandfather taught me how to see the humor in life and how to escape from reality. I was allowed to be a child as a child should be and for that, I am forever grateful. My grandfather taught me how to possess a childlike spirit into adulthood that continues to fuel my creativity. My mind is where I live and where I see them both. "Bennington Ave" will be the second artwork in the "Home Sweet Home" series dedicated to my grandparents. Within the artwork lies their home as I remember it from my childhood. Their house was white with grass green trim and an enclosed verandah. In front of the verandah lies a botanical garden behind a bench. Although their house is gone and stands as a vacant lot engulfed by grass their house stands the test of time engraved in my mind. My hope now from this moment on is in viewing  "Bennington Ave" bring you, the viewer the same magnitude of joy I experienced in this white green trim house with the magical garden. 

It’s finally Thursday! This has truly been the slowest most horrible week ever. I am one of the unfortunate Houstonians who lost power and water this week due to the winter storm.  I lost power Sunday night and remained powerless for two days. Houston hasn't been this cold in February for at least 122 years. Temperatures reached as low as 10 degrees with sleet, snow, and iced roads. During the blackout, my time was distributed in my bed under four blankets because my house was 45 degrees and in my car to charge appliances. By day three power was restored to my home but with rolling blackouts. Every four hours we lost power for at least an hour. Nevertheless, some power was better than none. As for water on day three it was none existent upstairs with low water pressure downstairs. Day four we have power with low water pressure and toilets have to be refilled with water we stored in our tub to flush. Although I feel as if I have been through hell and back I still smile and relish the small wins such as power. Moments like these remind me of similar emotions I felt when I created my painting  “Usps gloom technologies euphoria”. This college is the perfect college that was created when I encountered an equally gloomy time in 2012. The models all smile but what is behind the smile could they all be in denial of their circumstances or even their reality. We all hide the pain with a smile at some time or another. What pain could Mona Lisa be hiding behind the smile that she neglects to go admit?