New Mornings: An Art Practice of Searching for Hope Through the Grief

I recently attended the CIVA Biennial Conference in Austin, TX. I was humbled to have shared the following paper presentation.

My current art practice evolved out of grieving and the need for hope. In 2018 I met a friend who was ill and needed encouragement. At the end of our time together, he shared these words: “God’s mercies are new every morning. Great is Your faithfulness.” When I heard this, it’s as if the words shot right through me. In the moment I didn’t know why it affected me that way. When I got home, I looked up the scripture and read it several times. I realized that I was still grieving my mom’s death, which happened two years earlier. I tried to keep busy and thought that enough time had passed in order to heal. I was depressed and had no idea of the weight of grief and its effect on me. I also didn’t understand the importance and gravity of fleeting moments of beauty as a way out of trouble. That what lies within this are experiences of hope.

One of the word origins of the word grieve is the Latin derivative of gravis, which means, to make heavy. Perhaps beauty is a counterweight to the heaviness of grief and that these encounters with beauty, that I would soon experience, are God’s way of taking the sting out of death; to make suffering lighter.

I also thought that if God’s mercies are new every morning, maybe I should see for myself. I decided to wake up early and catch the sunrises at the beach near our home. I didn’t know what to expect but I was searching for something. I did this daily for several weeks, taking in the beauty before me and being open to the experience. Growing up in Hawai‘i it’s not uncommon to take beauty for granted. This time I tried to be more intentional by being present to what I was observing, and to engage with these captivating moments. I would ask why do these encounters with beauty have such a powerful effect on me, that make me feel hopeful.

Sunrise Ewa Beach, Hawai‘i

There’s something very profound about discovering the beginnings of a new day. Even though it’s the same place and same window of time, the experience is new each time. I’ve been doing this almost daily for over four years. There’s an elderly woman who asked me to call her Tutu (that’s grandma in Hawai‘i), and one day Tutu asked me, “You come here almost every day, may I ask what do you see?” I shared my story and pointed out the many subtle things that I saw as hopeful. She said “Me too, and no one else seems to get it!” Her husband Uncle Frank, on the other hand said, “Why does he come every day? Doesn’t he get tired of looking at the same thing over and over?”

I’ve discovered that there’s a multitude of glows in the sky that shift ever so subtly if you follow it.

I never tire of watching the iridescent shimmer on sand as the waves retreat.

There’s a deep blue color in the sky about half an hour to an hour before the sun rises over the horizon.

Hawaiians call it Pohākalani, meaning the heaven(s) break forth. It is being in the darkness right before dawn, when those first small rays of light and color come forth. It is a dawning, a new day, a blessing from God.

While going on these daily walks was transforming my grief into healing, I also felt a shift in the way I would create. Working as an illustrator for over thirty years, I was comfortable creating highly realistic works; knowing what the end goal should look like and the steps it would take to get there.

Illustrations by Delro Rosco

But what was I to do with these new moments and experiences that God pointed out to me? Applying John 3:30 (“He must increase, but I must decrease.”) to my practice, I relied more on God and less on myself. This was terribly uncomfortable and is a battle for me at times, but it pushed me in a whole new direction with my art practice.

If my friend’s sharing God’s word led me out there, I’ve learned that God speaking through scripture can lead the creative process as well. As I read one or two words or phrases will stand out. In the beginning I would only read the scripture that my friend shared, over and over. I later discovered that scriptures from my daily reading are a treasure trove of inspiration and direction.

I’ll recall the one or two things that moved me that morning at the beach. These memories combined with my imagination will sift down to guide me with the selection of pigments to grind and mix.

I’ll also start to think about materials or brushes that’ll help me capture those experiences of hope. The process is always changing. As I continue to meditate on scripture, pray, or worship with music, I’ll look at the 10 – 30 works in progress in front of me and select only those that are calling for a layer that day.

So how do I know which pieces call for a layer? Certain paintings have spaces or room within them and seem to resonate with these daily layers of inspiration. For example, I’ll recall the beauty of the motion of a wave sweeping across the shore and while reading Lamentations 3:24 the words “I will have hope in him” will stand out. All of this will guide my hand as a lay down a brushstroke of pigment, encapsulating that experience of hope.

Reading scriptures about light paired with memories of streaks of gold on the water

will inspire strokes as transcendent glimmers of hope.

As the journey unfolds, day after day, layer-by-layer, trying to capture the essence of these experiences; each layer became like an entry in a journal (journals of discoveries and hope). With each layer the paintings take on new directions and most of the works have about 20 to 50 layers in them, some close to a 100. It’s rare but some works have less than 10 layers. Those paintings kind of painted themselves. Some of the layers are thick,

while others vapor thin, like fleeting moments.

With each layer I spend a lot of time examining the work, watching pigments dry, or finding what needs to be adjusted. Sometimes I’ll sand to uncover previous layers or to create weathered surfaces that reflect the passing of time.

This part of the process has taught me to not treat the work so preciously, but rather to be truthful in sharing my experiences from daily life, both good and bad.

There are days when I feel I got nothing from my walk or saw anything new or different. I’ll think the accumulated layers look like a big mess. These are probably my most frustrating days in the studio, full of doubt, I feel like giving up. I question like Uncle Frank. Why do I keep doing this over and over? But this is where I have learned that there is redemption in the process and a purpose. Tomorrow is a new
day to take risks, allow myself to play, experiment, and mess up. Again trusting the process and surrendering. Just as God has been faithful with me, the most important thing is to be faithful in the attempt. In the end I’ll keep trying to arrange, blend and alter these mysterious snippets of beauty until some collective story of hope surfaces.


Glimmer of Hope


Since I’m not trying to create actual scenes with all of these layers of captivating moments, how do I know a painting is finished? This is a mystery in itself. I’ll look at it and realize that there’s enough hope, enough experiences of hope in it in order to be released. There can be something pleasing or powerful or a settling feeling that suggests that it doesn’t need anything else. It feels like a prayer is done. If I spend too much time questioning whether a painting is done or not, my own thinking can get in the way of its journey.

Four years and over 400 paintings later , I am grateful for all of the moments and experiences of hope that God gifted to me.

He wanted to heal me and not be broken anymore. My current art practice is an overflow of this. This journey has given me greater insight into the meaning of Christ’s victory over death. Being in God’s presence in His creation, and learning of His compassion towards me really did relieve my suffering. More importantly, it reminded me that I need Him and that He is always there.

I love how the Lord revealed hope to me through this next example. The painting on the left, Golden Light No. 11, was never intended to be a scene.

It has many layers of experiences of both brokenness and hope. The sunrise on the right appeared three years later. It’s as if God gave me another gift confirming hope in this journey.

The psalmist David best sums up this journey of finding hope.

Let me hear Your faithfulness in the morning,
For I trust in You;
Teach me the way in which I should walk;
For to You I lift up my soul. (Psalm 143:8)

For the sake of Your name, Lord, revive me.
In Your righteousness bring my soul out of trouble. (Psalm 143:11)

Looking back at the very first sunrises, God knew my need for hope even before I knew I needed it.

I was being lured out of trouble. Experiencing hope through moments of beauty transformed my grief into healing. He taught me the way in which I should walk and create. He’s that kind of God that loves us so much. I believe these captivating moments of beauty are experiences of hope, God’s mercies and His unwavering faithfulness. As I continue taking my morning walks on the beach, God isn’t done with me yet. There’s still a purpose to create art as gifts, to give others hope and to glorify the ultimate Creator.

Category : Contemporary Art
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