This series of self-portraits documents the changing seasons—against a static mood—over the course of a year. While it could be any year, the shielded eyes in each drawing communicate the detachment felt as a result of the pandemic and its restructuring of social behaviors.

The social practice and performance of small talk is also at play in this series, as it is through this gesture that one feels either seen or unseen—both of which can be welcomed or dreaded, depending on the day and mood. While I have never been a fan of small talk, I’ve come to recognize it as a simple, yet genuine act of connection, even if performed subconsciously or out of habit. It’s a way to acknowledge the complexity of our shared existence in a given space and moment in time while also remaining detached, autonomous, in motion. I find a strange humor in this simultaneous invitation and refusal to engage.

 The title of this series comes from a mindfulness practice intended to slow down thoughts and/or responses by mapping internal onto external; emotion onto form; imperceptible onto observable; the abstract onto the concrete.“What’s your internal weather?” as an alternative to “Hey, how are you?” requires a something other than the automatic "Finethanksyou?". Instead, a response might be “First day of daylight savings time. Dark at 4:15pm." or "Mid-July watching the light change as a thunderstorm comes in." Rephrasing the question this way opens up an opportunity to communicate an internal, emotional state that might not otherwise be observable.

For that same reason—mapping abstract onto concrete; obscure onto obvious—the various forms of precipitation have been made ridiculously tangible and uniform. The precipitation, whether snow flurries or insects, serves as a catalyst for engaging our other senses and their impact on memory recall—the feeling of goosebumped skin, wind gusts tangling your hair, the high-pitched buzz of a mosquito, the smell of rain soaking hot pavement.

What’s your internal weather today?