The Art of Hellenmae Fitzgerald

Once, a long time ago, in a land far, far away, a doctor told me I had a heart murmur. Thankfully, I think he was wrong, because no doctor since has heard anything unusual when listening to my heart beat. In fact, I’m always told my heart beat is strong.

I think about that doctor from time to time and, in fairness to him, he seemed like a nice guy who made an honest mistake. From a medical standpoint it’s always better to err on the side of caution.

But, it made me think:

It is so easy to label something or someone as weak, fragile or broken. And once labeled, once named or decreed, a belief sets in and stays. No matter how often I’ve been told my heart is strong, I still worry a little every time a medical professional listens to my heart.

I have a strong heart. I have a strong soul. I have a strong mind. I am a strong person and yet there are people who would label me “weak”, “broken” and “fragile”. Labels stick. They take on a life of their own. I could climb Mount Everest barefoot after rescuing puppies from a burning building and these same people would still call me “fragile”.

When I think about my fragile heart, I am amazed. This thing inside my chest, this living battery keeps ticking, keeps pumping blood throughout my entire body, carrying nutrients and oxygen to farthest corners of my being, keeping me alive. One day the ticking will stop. Silence. My time here will end. My lungs will no longer rise and fall. My blood will cease to flow. The synapses in my brain will stop firing. My mind and all of its thoughts will linger the longest once the ticking stops. And then, the energy that animated me will go back into the ether. I will no longer exist.

While death scares me, the knowledge that energy never ceases comforts me. The same energy that animates me animates the bees collecting pollen from plants that convert the sun’s energy into life. That same sun will one day cease “ticking”. Our planet will have long since ceased to exist.

Flower Girl, 2017, Ink, Mineral Pigment and Fire on Paper, 18in x 24in

I’ve always had vivid, full color dreams. As a child I experienced night terrors. As an adult I often experience sleep paralysis, which is terrifying. My dreams have always influenced my art. Occasionally, I try to capture an entire dream in the form of an art piece. “Contagion” is based on a dream I had in the summer of 2019. I don’t yet have the skill to paint my dreams with anything that comes close to accuracy, but I tried to grasp the essence of this dream.

I dreamt I was in an otherworldly landscape. It was overcast and dark. Jagged, glassy, uneven rock formations created enormous cliffs and canyons. In the distance I saw gigantic alien creatures traversing the rugged landscape with ease. They looked somewhat like enormous, sentient, Bacteriophage viruses, covered in an exoskeleton. They had disproportionately long, thin, spiky, insect like legs that came down to sharp point. The creatures were taller than skyscrapers. Their heads were like multifaceted, angular hives. When they became aware of my presence, they turned their heads towards me as if their necks rotated on swivels. Their many eyes looked at me. I could feel their sentience. They knew me.

With as ominous as this sounds, I did not feel as if the creatures in my dream were malicious.

There are studies being done right now that use bacteriophage viruses to cure antibiotic resistant bacterial infections. In nature, for every disease there is a cure.

In “Contagion”, Covid-19 is hidden on the background. It is represented by the eyes in the eerie storm clouds and the eyes in the churning ocean waters. Beneath the storm clouds, on the horizon, there is a tiny cityscape, less than an inch high. Incorporated amongst the skyscrapers are oil refineries and smoke stacks. The smoke stacks are pumping out plumes of pollutants which make up the dark clouds in the ominous background. The city represents humanity. The Covid-19 viruses incorporated into the the ocean and sky represent nature. Humanity is so small compared to nature. Our shortsightedness and greed have pushed our planet to the brink of cataclysmic change. We very well might drive ourselves to extinction along with the countless species that call this planet home.

The enormous bacteriophages descending upon the city represents hope and change. All change, even change for the better is terrifying. So these alien creatures are terrifying to behold. It will take a world wide effort to combat the pandemic. It will require joint effort, sacrifice, cooperation and discipline, but eventually a cure will be found. If we are to find a solution to the global climate change we created, it will require a world wide concerted effort. It will require change, sacrifice, cooperation and discipline and most importantly, hope and the vision of a better future.

Deer Song, 2012, Ink and Natural Pigments on Canvas, 18in x 24in

When The Waters Rise, 2016, Sumi Ink, Quill, Crayon and Charcoal on Canvas, 18” x 24”, 2016

When the waters Rise is a dark play on the story of Noah’s Ark.

I grew up along side the Potomac River in Washington D.C. On the opposite side of the river, the nation’s capitol sprawled out, buildings piled on top of each other. Industrial cranes, warehouses and smoke stacks towered over the waters edge. The airport sat in the foreground, giant commercial jets like metallic birds, tore through the sky. A deafening roar accompanied each take off and landing. At night the city glowed, beams of lights shooting down into black waters. I loved exploring the banks of the river. I learned to read the water. One summer, I was maybe 10 years old, the air smelled foul. Countless numbers of dead fish had washed up onto the banks of the river. Their carcasses rotting in the sun, flies and seagulls were feasting. The odd thing though was that I didn’t see any crabs skittering around. Whatever mad-made calamity poisoned the fish, poisoned the crabs too. By that point in time, the Potomac river was already famously polluted. Looking back, it feels like that particular day was a foreshadowing of what’s going to happen on a much larger scale. 

The end of the 19th century marked a turning point in human history. We began burning fossil fuels at a staggering rate. Since then, the earth’s temperature has risen by approximately 1.6 degrees Fahrenheit  “Most of the warming occurred in the last 35 years, with the five warmest years on record taking place since 2005” “Since 1969 the ocean’s temperature has increased by more than 0.4 degrees Fahrenheit” - NASA. The waters are warming. The icecaps are melting. It’s not a matter of if the waters are going to rise, it’s a matter of when the wate

I’ve been working on this one piece for years. Now, it’s finally finished. I’ve added countless layers of gesso over painstakingly inked-in cities faces, animals and sacred geometrical patterns, erasing hours of work only leaving the faintest traces of ghost images in the background or sometimes completely erasing images. Why do I do this? It’s part ritual, part remembrance. It’s symbolic of what has historically been erased, covered up or re-written. It also symbolizes how, even if we can’t see it, we are all connected to our own individual past and our historic past. I wanted the layers of gesso to build up over time, erasing what was, like the past, like history, like memories, like ghosts from that for better or worse haunt us in the present day.

I created “Warming Waters” as a part of a trilogy, which include two other pieces; “When the Waters Rise” and “Deer Song”. Although this is the last piece I created for the series, chronologically, it’s meant to be seen as the first.

Every summer, I’d spend time in southern Maryland, a heavily wooded area on the south end of the Potomac River. The point that converges with the Patuxent River and empties out into the Chesapeake Bay. As soon as the weather was warm enough, my cousins and I would go down to the river to swim. We liked to take advantage of the river as soon as possible. By mid august the river was usually crowded with jellyfish, making it impossible to swim. One Spring, I was maybe 12, we went down to swim, only to discover the river chocked with jellyfish. Too many to even dip your foot in the water without getting stung. Something wasn’t right. This was May. Jellyfish thrive in warm waters. The waters weren’t supposed to be warm enough for this many jellyfish until late summer. And even the sheer amount of them was strange. I felt a deep sense of concern. Although I didn’t have the words for it at the time, my intuition told me, even then, that the jelly fish bloom in front of me was the direct result of our callousness towards the delicate balance of our ecosystem.

"Over the last hundred or so years, the average surface temperature of the world's seas has risen by about 0.9C and oxygen level in the sea have fallen by around 2% over the last 50 years, due to rising temperatures and pollution." -NASA

Since the advent of man’s use of fossil fuel, world temperatures and ocean temperatures have risen. As a result massive jellyfish swarms are popping up all over the ocean. Like a force of nature, such as a tornado, or hurricane, or wildfire, they’re beautiful to look at but also highly destructive. When jellyfish hatch too soon as a result of warmer waters, they decimate fish populations, throwing off the natural cycle and balance in the ocean, leading to deadening seas.

In Warming Waters, I’ve interwoven this point in our collective history with my own life story, which is represented by the heart and my memories which are represented by the jellyfish tendrils. On the horizon, I’ve incorporated ghost images of all of cities I’ve traveled too. I’ve also incorporated smoke stacks less than an inch high, pumping out smoke, darkening the sky. I free handed with my quill dipped into ink, all of the monuments found on the backs of US money. They are monuments to capitalism and colonialism, two institutions that harm people and the environment, not taking the needs of either into account. These monuments are like mausoleums sinking under the rising waters, being overrun with swarms of stinging jellyfish. The crow, sentient and wise, is an omen. These are the birds found where death is.

The Book of Ruth, 2017, Ink on Paper, 24in x 36in

Empress of Hearts, 2017, Ink and Mineral Pigment on Paper, 18in x 24in

Fiddle Player, 2017, Ink and Fire on Paper, 4in x 6in

Kestrel, 2018, Ink and Fire on Paper, 4in x 6in

Lost Azalea, 2013, Ink and Fire on Paper, 5in x 7 in

The Singer, 2013, Ink and Fire on Paper, 5in x 7 in

Mirabelle, 2016, Ink and Charcoal on Paper

These Ties That Bind, 2012, Ink and Charcoal on Canvas, 5ft x 4ft

Cinnamon, 2013, ink and Fire on Paper, 5in x 7in

Ghiradelli Square, 2018, Ink and Fire on Paper, 12in x 6in