Works
Feast of Angels
I dream.
My eyes are open.
From above, I look down at the city—the place where waking life and imaginationquietly overlap. In this space, I came to understand how people can dream while fully awake.
To paint a dream is to dream with open eyes.
This is how these paintings were born. They emerge from moments when reality softens and the world becomes porous—when memories, desires, and gentle visions rise to the surface. The cities I paint are not fixed places; they are inner landscapes. The angels that appear are reflections of myself on days when I feel light, hopeful, and connected.
These works hold my dreams, the worlds I long for, and figures that mirror my emotional states—hovering between earth and sky, certainty and wonder, sleep and consciousness.
2009-2011
Relearning the Ruins
2025
Return to the Burned Diary is a sculptural installation born from fragments of my personal diary, recovered from the aftermath of the Eaton Fire. Encased in clear resin and suspended from a movable maypole, each page drifts like a memory held in suspension—neither fully lost nor fully preserved. The work dwells on the vulnerability of personal history, the quiet violence of displacement, and the enduring impulse to narrate oneself against erasure. The surviving pages, written between late 2020 and early 2021, bear witness to a time of collective and intimate unraveling, offering a hushed meditation on what lingers when destruction has passed.
From Waters, We Rise
2024
This body of work is about light and movement. By making use of light and movement, I am honoring and moving through its opposite: shadow and pain. In order to see myself in this fog of darkness, I created this series depicting the process of moving out from a darkness. I depict water in motion as a form of connection. In that motion I find growth, a way to keep myself moving, a way to process and regenerate from suffering.
The dark layers come first in my process; I make the light out of and on top of the darkness to speak toward a brighter horizon. Here I’m casting light to my people; the light of hope, happiness, and a bright future for the land. The light is a premonition: before something happens, you feel its emergence.
Hearing from the Land
2024-2025
Hearing the Land emerged during a period of physical injury and forced
stillness. After being hit by a car and confined largely to my home, I began painting outdoors in silence using watercolor. In that quiet, my attention shifted toward animals, subtle sounds, and the rhythms of the natural world.
The figures in this series appear vulnerable and altered—hybrid bodies and distorted human forms that seem to listen rather than speak. The works reflect a body in pain yet fully alive, aware, and grateful to have survived. This series is the final body of work I created while living in Altadena, before it was destroyed by fire on January 7, 2025. Through attentiveness and stillness, the paintings explore perception, resilience, and the act of listening as a form of continuity.
Land is Feeling Color is Remedy
2023
This body of work is about light and movement. By making use of light and movement, I am honoring and moving through its opposite: shadow and pain. In order to see myself in this fog of darkness, I created this series depicting the process of moving out from a darkness. I depict water in motion as a form of connection. In that motion I find growth, a way to keep myself moving, a way to process and regenerate from suffering.
The dark layers come first in my process; I make the light out of and on top of the darkness to speak toward a brighter horizon. Here I’m casting light to my people; the light of hope, happiness, and a bright future for the land. The light is a premonition: before something happens, you feel its emergence.
They Are Not With Us
2020
The installation is created with two main themes in mind: power, and time/memory. Power occupies us from a young age, it structures our experiences. Part of this project is about deciding who gets to—culturally— hold power, who gets to become our hero? This is an attempt to slow down, and to un-forget. The tempo of tragedy and the circulation of its representations makes us forget; it stretches and folds time, so much happens, so much is forgotten. What happened only a few months ago? The time of injustice is ongoing (they are still in prison; they will lose the best years of their lives).
Authentic Objects
Remember
because of all the little things,
simple things,
the things we loved—
the ones that remind us
of the days we loved
and the times
we were loved.
2009- Now
In-between
Delbar’s generation of women belong in the in-between; neither here nor nor, neither traditional nor modern. From the outside looking in, we catch glimpses of communing, of subjects gathering together in attempts to jump free – but they are mere chickens. They are literally and symbolically blocked from learning how to fly, let alone step off and out of their coop.
2015 | Sculpture
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
2012 | Sculpture
“We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself?”
Milan Kundera,
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
When me and my dreams vanished in a day
2012 | Sculpture
Imagine encountering a transparent glass box with a golden floor—measuring 18 × 22 × 35 centimeters—suspended 110 centimeters above the ground, and impossibly distant from the sky. From one angle, a human figure appears weightless, legs no longer touching the ground, drifting like a balloon that has slipped free of its thread. The figure repeatedly strikes the glass walls, feeling pain yet unable to escape.
From another angle, the same box reveals a different scene: a human quietly writing.
Writing what? The trivial events of everyday life—the commonplace details we cling to in order to momentarily quiet the chaos of the mind, to regain enough distance to observe our surroundings.
As you circle the box further, another figure comes into view—a presence unable, or unwilling, to see truth. This figure chooses dreams over reality, retreat over participation. The absence of presence fractures identity and quietly pushes others away.
Move again. From the left, a new figure appears: a person negotiating with existence itself, bargaining internally for meaning. These lives may seem meaningless to us, unfamiliar, even unreal. Yet they feel insistently present. Still, none of this is reality. These scenes are dreams.
And yet—standing at a distance—I suddenly recognized myself. The box and I dissolved into the corners of perception. Those observing from afar were astonished. It was there that I understood: we are all lost in a corner—the point where our dreams intersect. We are together inside another box, while others, contained within even larger enclosures, watch us.
When I woke, I realized I had dreamed these images on the same day my dream and I became lost. I do not remember the exact date.
Déjà Vu in a Winter Night
2010 | Sculpture
This series unfolds in the space between memory and return, where déjà vu is not repetition but recognition—a psychological landscape where identity dissolves, reforms, and quietly stands still on a winter night.