What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think about death? For me, it’s a melting popsicle. The image of a popsicle, dripping away under the hot sun, was my first real encounter with the idea that nothing lasts forever. It was Tweety Bird bubblegum eyeball one to be specific, an image I later laughed at with it’s skull-like resemblance. I still remember leaving it outside on the porch as a kid, thinking it would be there when I came back. It wasn’t.

And that’s where Aftertaste began. Inspired by the old vanitas paintings of the 16th century, which remind us all that life is fleeting, I wanted to take that classical idea and inject it with a little bit of my own sense of humor and absurdity. Because let’s face it, life is strange, beautiful, and hilarious all at once.

The piece is a diptych, a two-part painting. The front features a self-portrait (because what’s more legacy-making than capturing yourself in oil?) alongside a portrait of my mother, who I’m attributing to Mnemosyne, the Greek goddess of memory. Together, we explore how family, creativity, and memory are intertwined. It’s about how we pass things down—stories, memories, and sometimes, the things we don’t even realize we’re carrying.

But, like most of my work, there’s a twist waiting on the reverse. The back of the diptych features two objects: a melting popsicle (yes, that one!) and a stack of pill bottles. Both of these symbols are intensely personal, and, in true vanitas tradition, they serve as reminders that nothing lasts forever. The popsicle, of course, is a nod to childhood and how the simplest moments can introduce us to the profound. Meanwhile, the pill bottles represent a more serious chapter of my life—illness, medication, and the way it blurred my memory.

I think there’s something powerful in mixing the heavy with the light. That’s what Aftertaste is. On the surface, it might seem whimsical, even playful, but underneath, there’s a deeper layer of vulnerability. The popsicle is funny, but it’s also haunting, reminding us of those moments we can’t get back.

The pill bottles bring the humor back down to earth, grounding the piece in the reality of illness and recovery. They serve as a reminder that, sometimes, even the things we rely on the most—like medication or memory—can slip away.

For me, like most of my work, Aftertaste is about that space between laughter and tears, between humor and tragedy. It’s the way life sneaks up on you when you least expect it, and how those moments—both the absurd and the serious—shape us. I often find myself turning to humor as a way into these difficult conversations.

So, when you look at Aftertaste, think about the moments that stick with us—the ones that shape who we are, even as they fade away. Because in the end, that’s what memory is: an aftertaste of the life we’ve lived.