I’ve realized that the art I create, those drawings and oil paintings I pour myself into, hold a part of my soul. And those pieces are meant to be seen, felt, and maybe even loved by others.

Pearson uses her body almost like clay, molding herself to the forms that fill her mind and fanatically capturing the different angles and perspectives. Her paintings hold a large visual interest through shape alone, but adding these narrative moments and meaning makes the work that much more enticing.

There’s a game I sometimes play at the museum: ‘what kind of painting am I today?’ Never, despite my best attempts, am I an angelic Botticelli. When hungover and weary, perhaps a Toulouse-Lautrec. When swaddled in loneliness, absolutely an Edward Hopper.