NICHOLE MAURY

A series of 24 screenprints

26.5” W x 26.75” H each

2023

a steep hill / an ugly red-patterned carpet / crossing the gravel alley in my bare feet / the impossibly bright blue sky / birthday cakes in tarnished sheet pans / my sister’s foot in the doorway / dark wood paneling and duct taped keyholes / salmon-colored roses / desserts cooling on the porch / watching the orange van disappear / brown shag carpet that never felt clean / a dark green goodwill couch too rough to sleep on / waking to the sound of crashing glass/ the sound of plastic on the windows / a moldy fridge and stained sink / a cordless phone and the end of a relationship / talking to my mom for the last time / a crow’s head in the backyard / blistered hands and endless leaves / difficult conversations / woods that make me feel invisible

I have lived in many different homes – enough that I have developed a complicated and sometimes contentious relationship to the word itself. A life interrupted by frequent movement, especially as a child, has left me with memories of a personal history that are often uneven, ill-defined, and incomplete. I am forced to rearrange these fragmented memories into some kind of order, making sense where I can and looking elsewhere to fill in the gaps.a steep hill / a broken rabbit hutch / blue flowered linoleum / a dead mouse and a failed science project / seeing the impossibly bright blue sky after the hurricane / homemade birthday cakes in tarnished sheet pans / my sister’s foot in the doorway / dark wood paneling and duct taped keyholes / salmon-colored roses / mom at the table with crossword, coffee, and cigarette / desserts cooling on the porch / sitting on the back steps while my brother cries / watching the orange van drive away / a bedroom window that wasn’t really a window / brown shag carpet that never felt clean / a dark green goodwill couch that was too rough to sleep on / waking to the sound of crashing glass / my dad’s old dresser, learning he was gone / the sound of the plastic on the windows in winter / the jade plant I still miss / a rescued blue chair in the center of the living room / flowerpots on the fire escape / a bedroom as wide as my mattress / a cordless phone and the end of a relationship / standing in the closet, talking to my mom for the last time / a crow’s head in the backyard / blistered hands and endless leaves / difficult conversations / woods that make me feel invisible

I have lived in many different homes – enough that I have developed a complicated and sometimes contentious relationship to the word itself. A life interrupted by frequent movement, especially as a child, has left me with memories of a personal history that are often uneven, ill-defined, and incomplete. Because a complete picture remains evasive, I find myself forced to rearrange these fragmented memories into some kind of order, making sense where I can and looking elsewhere to fill in the gaps.

Commercial gridded paper, pen
2019 - present
18” x 24”

This is an ongoing series. Currently there are 7completed.

Translated
Graphite on paper
21 panels at 16.5” x 14.5” each
2020

Lithograph with graphite (triptych)

22” x 22” each

2020

The Archive Project : 1998 - 2016

The Archive Project consists of 256 screenprinted images; a lexicon that embodies a personal artistic history that dates back to 1998. They have been organized, cataloged, and retired from my practice. And as a final act of emancipation, they are now available to you online as an open-source directory of images.

Each print is 24” x 18”

Intaglio/relief

11” x 15”

2018