The Prickly Pear series

The prickly pear cactus has always intrigued me—not just for its resilience, but for the tension it holds between softness and danger. Its thick, paddle-shaped pads are often smooth and plump, yet studded with clusters of sharp spines. These spines are more than simple thorns; they're complex defense systems, often accompanied by tiny, hair-like glochids that easily attach to skin.

The plant adapts to harsh, dry environments by storing water, spreading slowly outward, and rooting wherever a pad touches soil. It's both stubborn and generous—tough on the outside, but capable of bearing fruit that is sweet, edible, and surprisingly delicate.

As a shape, the prickly pear is sculptural. Its repetitive, irregular geometry creates natural rhythms that I find visually magnetic. The pads branch in unexpected directions, often balancing asymmetry with a kind of accidental grace. They carry scars, layers of age, and the constant push of new growth. All of that speaks to a quiet, almost defiant perseverance—never showy, but deeply alive.

When used as the subject of a painting, the prickly pear becomes more than a plant. It’s a form that invites abstraction. It allows for bold compositions—flattened planes, sharp contours, rhythmic repetition. The light hits it in strange, satisfying ways. It casts shadows that feel architectural. And yet it remains organic, humble, slightly humorous even. It's a cactus, after all.

But beyond the formal qualities, I think it also represents something emotional: a kind of emotional armor, perhaps. The need to protect oneself while still growing, still blooming. It reminds me that beauty doesn’t always ask for attention. Sometimes it just exists quietly, defending itself from the world but also offering fruit.

This series is an exploration of those contradictions—between the soft and the spiked, the structured and the wild, the real and the imagined.