I grew up on a ship from the age of fourteen months to twelve years old, traveling across countries and oceans with my parents. At the time, this felt completely reasonable to me even though I knew that children casually don’t cross the Pacific or dealt with pirate threats before dinner.

Well, I also genuinely believed I was a mermaid for a large part of my childhood. I thought my fins just hadn’t come in yet. Looking back, this feels like very sound logic for a child living in the middle of the ocean surrounded by dolphins, fish, storms, and adults. Why was I there if I wasn’t a mermaid? Still waiting on those fins tbh.

The ship never felt lonely to me, although I spent a lot of time alone. There were no other children onboard, so I learned how to entertain myself very early. I read books, listened to music, stared at the sea for hours, invented imaginary worlds, and became strangely comfortable around adults and silence. I think the ocean gave me a very specific kind of freedom and toughness. It also probably gave me ADHD.

Some memories now feel blurry, like the endlessness of being at sea for weeks at a time. Others are incredibly sharp. Moonlight reflecting silver on dark blue water. The smell of fish and salt. My mother getting seasick and furious during storms. Climbing down tiny ladders off giant ships to reach shore. Mourning the nuclear blast with the victims in Hiroshima. Being in a parade with 600 very intoxicated people in New Orleans. Hiding under a table while a shoot out takes place outside a restaurant in Mexico. Watching kangaroo jumping for the first time. Hundreds of dolphins at sunset. Ports in Japan, Brazil, China, Australia, Argentina, New Orleans. Being treated less like a child and more like a tiny coworker.

These paintings are not exact memories. They’re emotional reconstructions filtered through childhood wonder, fantasy, and distance. The figures are intentionally childlike because I wanted to paint from the perspective of the little girl who thought she belonged to the sea.