$140    8 x 16  Acrylic

I remember how I felt - like everything was slipping, thread by thread. This painting was born from that moment: two hands gripping a rope that's coming undone, just like I was. The rope held the weight of everything I couldn't say - grief, fear, exhaustion. And still, I held on. It reminds me of nights spent trying to breathe through the heaviness, of quiet battles no one saw. The hands in this painting aren't just a symbol - they're mine. Or maybe yours. They belong to anyone who's ever felt close to breaking but chose to stay anyways.

$350, 13" h x 15" w x 1" d, Mixed Media

Once, when I was a child hanging out in my father’s welding repair shop, a friend of his came in and was wearing a pair of lace up work boots with shiny steel domes peeking through the worn leather toes. After he left, I asked my father about them and he explained to me the purpose of steel toes. He explained that once a pair of boots are “broken in” it’s not desirable to get rid of them because they are more comfortable than a brand new pair. Since then, I have worked at many places where “steel toed foot wear” are a job requirement or made common sense to wear. My father was right, once a pair of boots are broken in, they are more comfortable than a new pair. However, after the boot’s have become too worn out to wear any more, the steel toe remains.

$250, 23"x24", 5Lbs, latex on plywood

This piece takes me back to my time in the Navy on La Maddalena, Sardinia from 1992 to 1994. It evokes many memories, such as my daily trek from home to my ship, which was moored on a small Island called Santo Stefano. I would ride my road bike on the bone shaking cobblestone streets to “Angelo’s Bar Amicci” to meet my cycling friends for capuccino and pasti. Then ride to the Fleet Landing where we caught a 20 minute boat ride on a converted landing craft (LCM), like the ones used to storm the beaches of Normandy. Some were just open air cattle cars with standing room only. It reminds me of telling my son I was going to sea and that I loved him and would see him in a few months with gifts from other countries. It was a guilt tax I paid for being absent.

NFS/24"x18"/multimedia construction mounted on canvas

Floating through my life like a recurring dream, the memory of my kitchen in that yellow house visits me every day. My life as a cook and professional artist began in that kitchen. Summers meant lots of fresh vegetables. I prepared the best fried chicken countless times in a cast-iron skillet given to me by a grandmother. Bread baking became routine. There was always an audience while I was in the kitchen. Cats took up theater seats outside the screen door, watching every move I made, hoping for a taste of the good smells coming from within. I could have been rolling out pie crust at the table or working on my latest watercolor creation. These days, as I cook or paint, the memory of that kitchen reminds me of when I learned to cook good food while a masterpiece took shape on the kitchen table.

In moments of deep mental struggle, the mind can create a false permanence, convincing us that light, joy, and beauty no longer exist. The flower, though stripped of color, remains present as a representation of beauty that continues to exist even when the mind refuses to see it. The butterfly rests upon the weight, not consumed by it, serving as a quiet symbol of growth, resilience, and emergence. This piece serves as a personal memento. While I rarely voice my struggles, I create through them. The act of creating this work became a reminder that heaviness, though real, is temporary. This too shall pass is not a dismissal of pain, but an acknowledgment of its impermanence and the strength that quietly endures beneath it.

$300, 24x36, photograph on canvas

The smell of manure and money wash over me as I stare at all I’ve ever known. The West Texas landscape—my West Texas landscape—a constant conflict of man versus the land on which he calls home. Forever changing, the rise and fall of expansive windmill farms and black liquid gold bubbling from the depths. Forever drifting, the flattest plains you’ve ever seen with nothing but pockets of red dirt canyons to entertain your eyes. This conflict, a reverbing dissonance in my mind between all I’ve ever known… and all I’ve ever wanted to know: pure, unadulterated freedom.

$300, 24x36, photograph on canvas

The smell of manure and money wash over me as I stare at all I’ve ever known. The West Texas landscape—my West Texas landscape—a constant conflict of man versus the land on which he calls home. Forever changing, the rise and fall of expansive windmill farms and black liquid gold bubbling from the depths. Forever drifting, the flattest plains you’ve ever seen with nothing but pockets of red dirt canyons to entertain your eyes. This conflict, a reverbing dissonance in my mind between all I’ve ever known… and all I’ve ever wanted to know: pure, unadulterated freedom.

Growing I remember having a summer time love and when we couldn’t talk on the phone music was how we let each other know we’re thinking of them. Back then we would listen to the radio and when our favorite love song came on we would hit the record button. We Held tight the songs on a tape into our hearts.

$350, 14,-3/4 X 11- 5/8, Mixed media-(Wood cutouts, Spraypaint, acrylic markers, led light, shadow box)

While most people toss their used spray paint caps I’ve been saving them for years without really knowing why, until I realized they hold memories. Each one is tied to a moment, a spot, or a night. The spray can is like an old railroad lantern, built as a vessel for vision and to send a message. The cap is the part that burns and is where the energy comes out. When the cans are spent, what’s left on the cap is more than dried paint, it’s layers of memory. Graffiti is fleeting by nature, It gets destroyed, buffed over, or rolls away into the night. The cap stays, holding traces of the thoughts, and feelings of the painting. Caps weren’t meant to be kept, yet here they sit each one stained with the whispers of my past adventures.

$600, 11x14 (16x20 framed), alcohol markers

This piece is a visual representation of my relationship with mental illness and an homage to the moments I’ve to escape my own mind. The tangled black ink symbolizes the chaos and weight that once felt inescapable. The fragmented faces reflect the internal conflict of identity and emotional overload. At its core, this drawing is not only a memory of struggle, but also on transformation. What was once an all-consuming storm, with time, became something I learned to navigate. The marks, once erratic, now form a new shape. A type of controlled disorder. Creating this was both cathartic and grounding. Capturing not just pain, but growth. It reminds us that even in darkness there is a version of self that survives, adapts, and emerges with clarity.

$65, 8x10", screenprint

“She's Not Coming Back” encapsulates the life of my childhood stuffed animal, Piggy. I still have her to this day, but she went through many replacements before I finally stopped losing her. Whether she was left in a grocery cart, remained in a restaurant bathroom, or fell from my hands at a park, she was always replaced by my loving parents. This piece showcases the event of losing one of those pigs, and the sentimental value I have towards it. The artwork mimics an old photograph I have of Piggy, where the date stamp is visible in the corner. The color palette, reflective of warm spring colors, presents a feeling of comfort. Piggy provided me with memories, solace, and loyalty, and her sacrifices were never forgotten.

$130.00,12x16, Acrylic on wood canvas

The Fountain - Sometimes a memory comes to us when we need to reflect. We only see what is truly important, as the rest is just a soft colors that surround it. The important part is the filling of the emotions we had at that moment. Each colors, shape and even sound comes back. This happened not long ago, as I remembered the day my husband surprised me with a water fountain for the patio. The beauty of its design, the sound of the water as it poured gently into the bowls. A simple little gift of love, that still holds the ability to make me smile after all these years. He left this world much too soon, as the cancer slowly took his light away. Now this memory helps me to feel the love that he left behind.

25x36, Oil Paint and ink on canvas

At first glance, you see a smiling boy—me, at age nine. The oil portrait captures what most people saw on the outside: a joyful child, seemingly carefree. But beside it hangs something else entirely—my psychological evaluation from that same year. It documents a different story: developmental delays, suicidal thoughts, and a history of early trauma. These two pieces, side by side, form a kind of conversation. One shows how I appeared to the world. The other tells what the world didn’t always see. The contrast between them reflects a truth I’ve come to understand: survival can wear a smile, and pain doesn’t always show up in ways others recognize. This work speaks to the tension between image and reality, especially for children navigating systems like foster care. It holds the discomfort of being both visible and misunderstood. While the painting feels warm and familiar, the document feels clinical and cold. Yet both are parts of me—evidence of what was, and what was hidden. By placing them together, I reclaim a moment from my past. I invite others to consider how many stories remain unseen, how often we misread strength, and how healing can begin when we no longer separate the beautiful from the broken.

$800, 24x24, Acrylic on Canvas

Inspired by Psalm 39:7—“And now, O Lord, for what do I wait? My hope is in you”—this piece draws from a painful childhood memory of being locked alone in a dark room as punishment in a foster home. In that moment, the absence of light became more than fear—it became a symbol of longing, silence, and survival. That darkness, once terrifying, is now transformed into a sacred memento: not an object, but a remembered absence that shaped my emotional landscape. This work asks: What makes for a grievable light? Through layered brushstrokes and symbolic use of light and shadow, I explore how trauma can be turned into a visual artifact of resilience. As both artist and mental health advocate, I invite viewers to reflect on the objects and memories—seen or unseen—that mark our most formative experiences. This piece is both remembrance and release: a visual echo of a moment once endured, now reimagined.

NFS, 18x14, Oil on Panel

Fields of Memory captures the ache of growing up, the loss of my father, and the way memories soften at the edges but never truly fade. In the distance, my childhood home stands still, a silent witness to the moments that shaped us. The field surrounding it is pale, drained of color, echoing the emptiness left by absence. Yet in the center, my father’s ghostly figure moves through the scene, a presence both haunting and comforting, vivid against the lifeless landscape. Nearby, my brother stands in quiet reflection, carrying the unspoken weight of our father’s love and the life he gave us. That house behind us holds more than just rooms and walls; it holds the people, the memories, and the love that built us. Though time moves forward and everything changes, Fields of Memory reminds us that the bond between parent and child endures, unseen, but never broken.

$850, 30x34, Watercolor on Paper

Beyond Goodbye portrays loss and presence, showing that even when someone is gone, their impact endures, rooted deeply in our lives and hearts, beyond any final goodbye. The blue field, behind the ghostly images of my father and I, is dotted with delicate flowers, symbolizing the beauty and life that continue despite loss. In the distance, a house stands quietly, a place of memories and belonging. A bare tree, stripped of its leaves, stretches upward, its stark branches reflecting the absence of my father’s physical presence. Yet, like the tree’s unseen roots, his influence runs deep within me. Though he no longer here, his foundation remains steady and vital, shaping who I have become.

$350, 11x14x1 inches, two pounds, watercolor and ink

This piece is about being 31 days sober in California and wanting to relapse. The therapist told me to go outside and practice deep breathing. I sat beneath the orange tree and proceeded to take deep breathes and after five minutes I could hear the wind through the trees, taste the salt of the ocean, and see the light filter down through the trees. And I realized sometimes coping skills isn’t always about what you want but they are what you need to stay sober. It shaped my viewpoint of what I previously thought was stupid and is now a tool I use daily.

$400, 14.5x10.25x1.25 inches, Encaustic Assemblage

As I peeked through the cracked window, I noticed that the winds went silent. Time stood still for a moment, and the memories of a place I had cherished, of a faraway home filled with love and laughter, came flooding over me. Here a family had cooked dinners in that kitchen, warmed themselves by that fireplace, and cuddled together in those beds. A scrap of wallpaper from an abandoned Irish cottage and a rusted pipe found in a pile of forgotten rubble are surrounded by a blue that resembles both the sky and the sea. I created this assemblage after visiting Achill Island in Ireland two years ago. Now as I sit by my mother’s bedside in hospice, I once again feel that longing in the pit of my stomach. Missing the past and what was, missing my childhood home – and knowing that life will never be the same again.

$400, 2lbs, acrylic on canvas

Her soul was made of flowers, petals of love, budding and blooming, a kindness so fragrant it's contagious and quiet strength. Like a garden in full spring, she held space for everyone. roses of wisdom for the lost, daisies of joy for the young, and lavender calm for those in pain. Her laughter smooth like wind through wildflowers, gentle and warm, and hugs that felt like being wrapped in sunlight and blooming vines. She spoke with the patience of seasons, never rushing, always knowing when it was time to plant, time to wait, and time to harvest. Her hands, weathered but graceful, carried the scent of soil and sugar, of flowerbeds with hyacinths, She wore forget-me-nots in her stories, lilacs in her lullabies, and marigolds in the way she let go when it was time.

NFS, 30" x 16"

My son sent us a picture of himself working in his studio. It was an overhead shot with a fisheye effect. We asked him how he did it, and he jokingly stated he had set his phone camera to three second delay and threw it in the air at the one second mark. Then he texted "HaHa, I used a selfie stick and a 360 degree setting on my phone". In the mean time, I tried the camera trick he described. It came out a blur. But a colorful well balanced blur. I sent him the shot and he said it was cool, so cool in fact he blew it up and framed it. Fast forward to a conversation with a friend about the Memento Show, and I started to apply, but got hung up on the process. Then the framed "BLUR" showed up on my doorstep. I buckled down and applied. So not only is "The BLUR" a memento of shared creative fun, it's an inspiration to try new things.

$250  2 x 20 Framed Photo

Adopted from the local animal shelter in 1978, Rocky was the perfect family pet—our playmate and general guard dog. We taught Rocky all the usual tricks but his most impressive, was balancing a milk bone on his nose to flip up and catch in his mouth. For my father, Rocky was a trusty companion while he worked in the yard to the soundtrack of baseball games from the transistor radio. When my father passed away, I was clearing out his closet and was surprised to find Rocky’s collar tucked away on a hook in the back corner. None of us knew that my father had brought it home from the vet. It was such a kind and sentimental act, a memento to the bond of a lost family pet. Rocky's collar was hanging in my father’s closet from 1990 until I discovered it in 2013.

NFS. 3 by 6 inches .7 ounces

The day I reeiceved the Bad Speller’s Dictionary in high school was, without a dought, the most ironic moment of my akademik journey. My English teacher, Mrs. Thompson, handed it to me with a knowing smile, as if she had just gifted me the holy grail of misspeled words. “Marion,” she said, “This book will be your best freind.” At first, I was offended. I mean, how bad cud my spelling really bee? But then, as I flipped threw the pages, I realized something—I had been spellying definitely as “defiantly” for years! And don’t get me started on “seperate” vs. “separate”—who decided those rules?

NFS 11 x 11 1.5 oz paper within frame

The telegram marked the end of his journey, but it did not end his story. In my grandmother’s house, his letters remained safely tucked away, each one a reminder of laughter, courage, and the unwavering spirit. In the letters he asked about family and his beloved Boston Red Sox. A boy who lived boldly and loved deeply. His sacrifice was immeasurable, but his legacy was more than war—it was family, joy, and a love for life that even time could not erase. Years later, as my grandmother watched the Red Sox take the field, she would whisper his name. Not in sorrow, but in memory. Because though the war took him, it never took the warmth of his words, the humor in his heart, or the love he left behind.

NFS, 19 x 24, Mix Media (colored pencil, watercolor, charcoal, gel pens, ink pens)

Before I became the woman in this portrait, I was a daughter woven from stories, struggles, and dreams whispered in quiet acts of love in another language. This piece is a memento of memory and migration, layered with faith, culture, hope, and grief. It holds my family's sacrifices and the complex identity they gifted me, a reflection of all who have crossed borders, seen and unseen, in search of something better. The phrase “Soy esa hija que le dieron el mejor mañana” is my silent vow: I remember. I see them. I hear them. I carry their hopes. The cracked mirror still holds light, reminding me that even in brokenness, there is strength and grace. This art is not only my story but a tribute to the weight of many journeys, a promise to live fully grounded in the past and reach toward the uncertain future.

$200, 12"x12", Canvas Print

“Meet Me in Midway” is a map of Chicago’s Airbnb listings within 5 miles of Midway Airport. I created it in Data Visualization (MIS 5603 -X10 with Dr. Lin Wang and Dr. Jiaxi Luo) during my first semester of the brand new MBA in Business Analytics program at Midwestern State University’s McAda Graduate School. During the Fall 2021 semester, the CDC, WHO, and vaccination cards filled daily headlines. Solace found me in the form of education and friendship. In January of 2020, the first US COVID-19 case was confirmed. I found myself that week in Los Angeles at the Stanley Mosk Courthouse. I met who would become my two best Chicagoan girlfriends at a human rights movement dubbed #FREEBRITNEY. We were three young professionals who traveled cross-country to rally for social justice. Best friends forever. While working on the map visual, I accidentally zoomed out and discovered how close Lake Michigan was to Chicago! This has stuck with me ever since, just like my best friends Jessie and Christy.

$50, 11" x 14", acrylic on canvas

Abyss, is an art piece I did in art class in 7th grade. I thought of the quote, "What's in dark always comes to light," and I thought about this quote from the mental heath issues that I have (and still do) face. This art piece shows how in the worst of my mental health I have worked through it.

$50, 5x7in., Woodblock print

I made a series of prints for my relief printmaking course in art school at the same time as my first experience into psychiatric treatment for my mental health. STAPLED TO MY SHEETS is a reflection of my experience with depression during this time. Often when I'd wake up in the morning, or when I'm trying to sleep at night, I would just lay and rot, wishing the clock would just stop and I could rest. But the clock never stopped, and I never felt rested. When my body would go numb from the stasis, I felt pins and needles. It was as if I was stapled to my sheets, pinning me in place. This was my first ever woodblock! I used simple angle, but with black rays around my head as a signal that something SHOULD be happening, a feeling of loom and impeding doom.

NFS, 14x11in., Reductive woodblock print

I made a series of prints for my relief printmaking course in art school at the same time as my first experience into psychiatric treatment for my mental health. WHEEL OF MANIA is of a reflection of my experience with hypomania during this time. I was still trying to navigate what I felt like was happening to me during this time, and this piece is me coming to terms of the more erratic nature of my psyche, how every thought seems to be pulled out of a hat. It not necessarily a negative experience, as hypomania feels "good," but eventually, it feels like a mental Russian roulette. The bright colors, wonky angle, silly expression, arcade lights, and a smear of movement on the wheel are all reflective of this too-bright, too-energetic, and too-fun feeling of hypomania.

$999, 29.5" x 30" acrylic paint

This painting is a memento of me—layered with mementos I’ve lived. The samurai on my back remembers the discipline of martial arts. The biomechanical leg speaks to pain and persistence from a past in basketball. I sit in my orthopedic chair, because those choices of my past still echo through my body today. Each part of me holds a different time. But beneath the surface is another self—literally. The texture is built from old business cards, each printed with a self-portrait from the past. So this painting rests on my former face, my former ideas—now painted over, transformed. I’m painting myself not just to capture who I am, but to ask who I’m becoming. Every brushstroke is a choice. A memory. A future. This portrait is a memento within mementos—a layered archive of identity in motion. A reminder that we’re not fixed. We’re built from versions, always shifting.

11"x14" image, acrylic

This painting is a memento of the moment I began to see myself differently. My first painted self-portrait, it marks the early steps of becoming a painter—of learning how to translate thought into form. The alien splitting from my head isn’t horror. It’s metaphor. It’s the strange and uncomfortable truth of peeling back layers to reveal something unexpected, something honest. At the time, I didn’t fully understand it—but I felt it. Like memory, this image isn’t fixed. It shifts meaning as I change. What began as raw instinct has become a marker, a timestamp, a visual note that says: This is where it started. Now it sits beneath my other painting—literally, in the texture of business cards pressed into new work. But this portrait still speaks. It’s a memento of awakening. A moment of identity emerging. A first glimpse of something new trying to come through.

$500, 31x15x32, , mixed media

Our dads put their Mickey Mantle baseball cards in the spokes of their bikes to sound like a motorcycle. They rode their bikes loud throughout the neighborhood. Mint condition cards worth a fortune thrown on a bike. I had dreams of my favorite cards paying for college or a house. The thrill of opening a pack of cards was my lottery ticket and I prayed the numbers would hit. Cards loved and collected but ultimately untouched for their mint future value. My cards never rose to the value of those crumpled Mickey Mantles. My cards were kept in plastic sleeves locked in time. What if they weren’t? What if instead of shielding my cards, I put them on my bike, popped a wheelie, and let them have the ride of their lives. Gallerygoers, grab the front wheel and spin to give these cards the ride they never had.

$180, 16x20, Painting

I am a first generation American on my dad’s side and a second generation on my mom’s side; my dad is from the Philippines while my grandmother came over from Mexico while pregnant with my mom. Although I could have been so close and in touch with my roots, I neglected it till I was too old to realize how much I had lost of myself and my heritage, becoming more of an ‘American girl’. People say food is a strong part of cultural identity, so here I used common American food products to overshadow the Mexican and Filipino food products to represent me becoming the American Product.”

$150, 16x20, Painting

When I was little, my dad was Diagnosed with Guillian-Barre affecting his ability to walk. I have a hard time remember things, but a memory that stuck with me was when I first started riding the bus; it would drop me off 3 blocks down from my house and my dad would come get me in his car. After being diagnosed, he would pick me up in his motorized chair. I was always so excited to see him and proudly exclaimed he was my dad because I never saw his disease, I only saw him as my dad. Although, I was also excited because I knew if he was picking me, then I got to drive it back home while sitting in his lap. However, I am happy to say that after 6 months of therapy, my dad was able to walk and become independent again.

As a girl, I wrote in journals about friends, and family, but mostly I wrote about feelings... and boys. Over the years, every decade or so, I've re-read some of my words. And though they used to feel closer, most of my words now find me trying hard to remember that girl. Then I realize I am me, I have always been me, and I will always be me. My mother died last year. She also kept journals. I remember, as a teenager, sneaking in to read them - some were even written in code. My mother’s journals now sit in a box, in a closet, in my home. I now have access to them, and though they are available, permission granted, I cannot bring myself to read them. And I wonder, will my journals sit in a closet, in a box? Maybe... they can be a light.

15" long 8 1/2" tall 6" deep

I worked as an attendance clerk at Barwise Middle School for the last 9 years. I started putting a dinosaur (Rexee) on my counter mainly to celebrate birthdays but then it went completely off the rails. Rexee traveled to Japan, played piano bar and wishes everyone a happy anything as the seasons passed. One day I got the idea to have Rexee open an art gallery. You could take an art piece, but you had to leave one in return. I kept 3" x 3" paper on the counter in front of the gallery. I put up 3 small pieces and opened up to the kids and teachers. It became an interactive center of activity as both teachers and kids would promote their work. It became its own memento creator as kids and teachers took home the artwork that spoke to them and replaced it in turn.

$100, 11x14, Printed aluminum plate

In 2024 my wife and I took our first international trip as a couple to Japan and Korea. This was a nerve wracking experience for many reasons but none so tragic as the sickness that befell our dog Lindsay the morning of our flight. After calling the emergency line at our vet and gripping her tightly in the car, we learned that she had a vestibular stroke and would most likely not recover. We rescheduled our flight and waited for good news but none came. The next morning we made the very difficult decision to let her go peacefully upon advice from our veterinarian. Unfortunately we could not mourn peacefully as we immediately had to drive to the airport to make our flight. We cried the entire way and most of the flight. We miss you Lindsay.

$100, 11x14, Printed aluminum plate

If I had to describe myself as anything, it would be as a homebody. I enjoy having a stable space to breathe and collect my thoughts. With some prompting from my significant other I took my first international trip in 2024. This was not only my first trip out of the country, but a 13 hour flight to Japan and then a short hop to South Korea. This photo was taken moments after tears were shed at the unbound beauty of an interactive art exhibit and truly captures the happiness and love we feel for one another.

$1000, 24x36,  Oil on Canvas

This painting is from a time early in my Painting Journey when I first experimented with oil paints. I wanted to be the Black Leonardo da Vinci and paint my version of the Mona Lisa using my artist friend Lesley as the inspiration. And even though this painting has been in exhibits in multiple places over the years and my skills have grown. It's still one of the best paintings I've ever done. Not just because of the techniques used, but because it's a loving reminder of the good times I had hanging with Lesley while exploring the medium I was first scared of but would later come to love.

$75, Size: 12"x12", Acrylic paint-Textured Mixed Media

Dreamy Purple Canopy My childhood bedroom was a place of magic and imagination, painted in the softest shade of lavender. This color, chosen lovingly by my parents, transformed the room into a tranquil haven. The centerpiece of this enchanting space was my purple canopy bed. Adorned with sheer, flowing fabrics that cascaded gracefully down the sides, it was nothing short of a princess's bed. This bed was not just a place to sleep; it was a sanctuary for daydreams and creativity. I would lie there for hours, imagining grand adventures and distant lands. The canopy, with its soft, billowing curtains, became the sails of a ship or the walls of a secret fort. It was a stage for my creative stories and fairy tales. As I grew older, the room evolved, but the essence of that magical purple canopy remained, a reminder that the world is full of endless possibilities.

$1380, 37.5 by 26.5 by1.5, 7 lbs, acrylic

This artwork is a memento of my childhood escape. Inspired by The Faraway Tree by Enid Blyton, it reflects my deep love for adventure, mystery, and new worlds. As a child, my reality was gloomy and chaotic—but in books, I found magic. I imagined climbing the enchanted tree and discovering a new land above the clouds each time. The colorful city in this painting represents those secret lands—full of wonder, light, and stories waiting to unfold. The swirling patterns, glowing sun, and blooming flowers carry the hope and joy I once longed for. This piece captures that moment of pure imagination where I could forget my pain, even just for a while. It’s not just a painting—it’s a memory of the place I ran to when the world felt too heavy. A reminder that beauty, even imagined, can give us strength to survive.