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As a queer person and a single parent of queer and trans kids, I explore memory, loss and dissociation as necessary elements of survival in this world.  I work in sculpture, photography, and film, creating a dialogue between presence and absence that echoes how we are alienated from our world and future. 

My memories pile up on the margins of my mind like debris from ancient shipwrecks. I can cast those stories back into the sea, but they will always wash ashore again, again, again, unwanted. I build objects and installations that bring myself into contact with these deserted shores, where I can look down at my abandoned stories and decide whether this is the time that they come back to me for good.

In Long Beach, Los Angeles, California, this country, the world, we are mourning our hopes for the future and reconciling with the present. Ultimately, I create art to make sense of my own shifting world, but also to build a space to commune with others navigating their own landscapes of loss.

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I am working on a photography-into-sculpture project, creating mixed media self-portraits that mourn my losses and plant the seeds of hope and recovery. 

As I get older, my eyes turn inward. Memories pile up on the margins of my mind like debris from ancient shipwrecks. I can cast those stories back into the sea, but they will always wash ashore again, again, again, unwanted. 

I use sculpture, photography, and film to bring myself into contact with my deserted shores, where I can look down at my abandoned stories and decide whether this is the time that they come back to me for good.

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I make sculptures from casts of my limbs to create images that both mourn my losses and plant the seeds of my reconciling. As I get older, my eyes turn backward. My memories pile up on the margins of my mind like debris from ancient shipwrecks. I can cast those stories back into the sea, but they will always wash ashore again, unwanted. I use sculpture, photography, film, and sound to bring myself in contact with my deserted shores. Where I can look down at my abandoned stories and decide whether this is the time that they come back to me for good.

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We carry our memories with us through this world. Sometimes, we see shadows of the past out of the corners of our eyes. Other times, we look without seeing. Our grief transforms us and the landscapes we live in. For Mary Warner, an artist/photographer who is based in Los Angeles, she makes pictures to satisfy the lump in her throat and the constriction in her chest. From there, her pictures hover together with memory, becoming a sad but beautiful poem of her life.