‘boy howdy; i wonder why?’ was first a show honoring a queer friendship that blossomed in each other’s before-times: before coming out for the first or second time, before establishing who we are as artists, before major injuries, before knowing each other’s grandmothers were artists. The moment that solidified this friendship beyond undergrad was in 2014 when Luin mailed me (Ann) a pink balloon from Savannah to New Orleans. For the next 10 years, I would send updates and photos of the balloon as though it were a child or kitten. These pink balloon check-ins became the root of our long conversations about making art and contradictions in the art world, unpacking our coming out journeys, celebrating each other's queer joys and recovery milestones, comforting each other through heartbreak, reminiscing and contemplating the lives of our artist grandmothers.
‘boy howdy’
Ann Haley
‘boy howdy’ ventures through the corridors of recovery, entwining self-discovery through grieving a once-able body with mourning lost loved ones. Central to this exploration is my maternal grandmother, Mary Ann Hammett Lyons, affectionately known as "Granny." Her departure from this realm marked my first significant encounter with death at the age of nine. My memories of her are quilted with sensory threads. Nicorettes. Shalimar perfume. The comforting aroma of Sister Schubert's biscuits. A hint of poodle. The texture of her hands and thick curls on my tiny fingers. The sticky sensation of painting my face with her lipsticks. How stale and gray her safe looked amongst the colorful clothing in her closet. The hum of her oxygen tank and the chatter of the TV while we slept. The way she said, “Eacha Summuh Beescuts” —the imprint of these senses serve as portals to a bygone realm where Granny's presence once basked me in a cocoon of love and affirmation.
She has remained close to my heart, but our altar-based relationship is made of a combination of anecdotes from others, romanticization, and smell. I know she learned to paint before age 7, but what fueled the flame of her art? I know she kept a gun in her pocketbook, but what shadows lurked behind her vibrantly painted canvases, pocketbooks, quilts, clothing, trashcans, and pillows adorned with flowers and butterflies? I know she had various addictions and died from Emphysema, but what lies at the root of her addictions? How did she cope? I know she had six children starting at age sixteen, but what did she really think about the world? What would she think of me? Why did she paint the matadors? In pursuit of understanding, I delve into her artistic psyche, endeavoring to inhabit her creative realm and glean wisdom from the intersecting landscapes of our shared struggles.
![Ann Haley, my grandmother’s basement, 40 x 30 inches, oil on canvas, 2024.]()
‘my grandmother's basement’ is a testament to this endeavor—an ethereal reconstruction of a cherished space we called “the playroom” where two paintings of matadors once hung. Unlike her typical motifs of butterflies and flowers, the matadors exude a dark allure, hinting at complexities lurking beneath her colorful surface. But this time Granny is the matador. Depicting both the youthful artist and the buoyant matron, I pay homage to her resilience and tenacity. She may have been fighting bulls with butterflies, but Granny was, above all, a fighter—a matador in her own right, confronting her struggles with grace and ferocity. I am realizing more and more how her essence remains etched in the depths of my artistry, guiding me through the labyrinth of grief.
![Ann Haley, FINAL GIRL, 30 x 40 inches, oil on canvas, 2024.]()
‘Final Girl’ emerges as a testament to my own resilience and defiance—a visceral exploration of survival in the face of adversity: The sequel to my could-have-been-fatal accident that abruptly changed the course of my life and physical abilities. I’ve always associated my grandma with the light bouncing off the bumper of the 18-wheeler as it was headed toward me; like a shield drop, telling me to swerve. In the legacy of fighting bulls with butterflies, I am returning to the scene of the accident to confront the villain. Face bloodied, skeletal system revealed, mid-metamorphosis, reminding myself that even butterflies wield scythes when necessary.
![Ann Haley, pain kill(er)s, 48 x 60 inches, oil on canvas, 2024.]()
![Ann Haley, Oleander Bones (looking for the antidote), 40 x 60 inches, 41.5 x 61.5 inches framed, oil on canvas, 2024.]()
In ‘pain kill(er)s’ and ‘Oleander bones (looking for the antidote),’ I traverse the terrain of healing by exploring the dichotomy of the hopeful and dark sides of recovery. Using MRI imaging of my spinal hardware and floral motifs inspired by my grandmother, I navigate the complexities of pain and redemption.
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![Ann Haley, one moment at a time (the wounded butterfly my grandma sent to tell me it was okay to come out), 30 x 30 inches, oil on canvas, 2024.]()
This series is a tribute to ancestral strength and the power of transformation.
-Ann Haley
![Luin Joy, Altar, 28 x 48 inches, wood, patchouli incense, cloth, stones from sacred places, crystals, grocery list, wax, your metal tea light holder, photos, a small ceramic sculpture, love, twisty sticks, a list we compiled of our favorite paint colors, the thumbprint from your favorite mug, the letter I wrote for your funeral, 2024.]()
![Luin Joy, Together 2, 7.5 x 5.5 inches, oil on clayboard , 2024.]()
![Luin Joy, Together 1, 8 x 6 inches, oil on clayboard, 2024.]()
‘i wonder why?’
Luin Joy
There are parts of this show I avoided working on for a long time. I feared getting lost in the overwhelming grief of my grandma’s passing on May 6th of 2023. Grief that is tied to our complicated bond and a string of other tragedies I’ve struggled to slow down enough to fully feel- to allow myself to unfurl, to collapse into powerlessness, and to ask for help with all that pain.
We were extremely close and our relationship was complex. Part of my grief-avoidance is guilt in facing confusing emotions - sadness, helplessness, resentment, trauma, joy, longing, and regret. She was a best friend, a powerful matriarch, and the oldest living artist I knew. She never stopped making work, even as she struggled to claim her artist identity.
Her house was a refuge for me. At the end of 2021, I moved in with her when I had nowhere else to go and began working alongside my mom as my grandma’s live-in caregiver. It was a difficult and vulnerable time for me. Our relationship deepened and evolved and continues to teach me about forgiveness, acceptance, and intergenerational healing. I would often diffuse tension between her and my mom and dodge her unhealed projections and fears. And still, we cared for each other in many ways. I hauled wood and built her a fire every morning, got her favorite treats at the grocery store, and we’d stay up late talking about art, pain, and memory. I was with her when she crossed over and helped her find her way to the other side.
![Luin Joy and Susan Wagner Carlson, Long-Distance Collaboration 2, 7.5 x 5.5 inches, acrylic on clay board, 2023. | Luin Joy, Entangled, 20 x 24 inches, oil on canvas, 2024.]()
![Susan Wagner Carlson, Hockey Player, 19 x 23 inches, 23 x 28 inches framed, acrylic on canvas board, 1971. | Luin Joy, Wrestler, 20 x 18 inches, oil on canvas, 2024.]()
She made hundreds of paintings in her life and went through many phases. I chose to include part of one series from the 70’s, when she was painting a lot of hockey players, because of the overlap with my fixation on athletic aesthetics, sport costumes, and wrestler masculinity. She was fascinated by equipment and boxy shapes and so am I.
When I moved out of her house in 2022, we began painting together virtually on Monday afternoons. ‘What Surrounds Her’ is a painting we started together but were unable to finish before she went into the hospital.
Right before entering hospice, she asked me “how do you tell the difference between living and dying?” While feeding her applesauce I replied, “I think you know more about that than any of us right now”. She chuckled, as if to say, you’re probably right. She then said, “We have to forgive, we have to forgive everyone. Do you forgive me?” I was shocked. I said “Of course, for anything, for everything. Do you forgive me?” She nodded yes.
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![Luin Joy, Holy Wonder Deck and Booklet, 2.5 x 3.5 inches, printed cards, 2024.]()
Grief is the creation of something new - an opportunity to begin again. One thing I will always remember is how she would say, “I wonder why..?” - as an invitation to muse together and imagine possibilities. It wasn’t really about finding an answer, it was about wonder. A few years ago, I began building a divination/affirmation deck, inspired by my own healing practices. I brought this collection to my grandma in the hospital and her eyes lit up while flipping through the handmade deck. I taped her favorites onto a sheet next to her hospital bed and she cherished them in her final days. That handmade collection grew into what is now my ‘Holy Wonder Deck.’
‘Our Time’ is a soundscape built from our piano lessons, field recordings, and late night conversations. Debussy’s Clair de Lune has always reminded me of her and appears in many ways throughout the track. This tune has followed me through life and when I am most unable to feel, music is the thing that always breaks the dam.
‘Clair de Lune’ references a poem by Paul Verlaine, “which depicts the soul as somewhere full of music in a minor key where birds are inspired to sing by the sad and beautiful light of the moon.”
I had the blessing and challenge of being with her as she died. In her final two days, she was no longer verbal but my mom found a pathway to reach her through song. We sang a simple melody in call and response, and in that channel, she knew that she was never alone.
-Luin Joy
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Artist Talk, July 7, 2024. Photos taken by Elliott Stokes.
Ann Haley
‘boy howdy’ ventures through the corridors of recovery, entwining self-discovery through grieving a once-able body with mourning lost loved ones. Central to this exploration is my maternal grandmother, Mary Ann Hammett Lyons, affectionately known as "Granny." Her departure from this realm marked my first significant encounter with death at the age of nine. My memories of her are quilted with sensory threads. Nicorettes. Shalimar perfume. The comforting aroma of Sister Schubert's biscuits. A hint of poodle. The texture of her hands and thick curls on my tiny fingers. The sticky sensation of painting my face with her lipsticks. How stale and gray her safe looked amongst the colorful clothing in her closet. The hum of her oxygen tank and the chatter of the TV while we slept. The way she said, “Eacha Summuh Beescuts” —the imprint of these senses serve as portals to a bygone realm where Granny's presence once basked me in a cocoon of love and affirmation.
She has remained close to my heart, but our altar-based relationship is made of a combination of anecdotes from others, romanticization, and smell. I know she learned to paint before age 7, but what fueled the flame of her art? I know she kept a gun in her pocketbook, but what shadows lurked behind her vibrantly painted canvases, pocketbooks, quilts, clothing, trashcans, and pillows adorned with flowers and butterflies? I know she had various addictions and died from Emphysema, but what lies at the root of her addictions? How did she cope? I know she had six children starting at age sixteen, but what did she really think about the world? What would she think of me? Why did she paint the matadors? In pursuit of understanding, I delve into her artistic psyche, endeavoring to inhabit her creative realm and glean wisdom from the intersecting landscapes of our shared struggles.
In ‘pain kill(er)s’ and ‘Oleander bones (looking for the antidote),’ I traverse the terrain of healing by exploring the dichotomy of the hopeful and dark sides of recovery. Using MRI imaging of my spinal hardware and floral motifs inspired by my grandmother, I navigate the complexities of pain and redemption.
This series is a tribute to ancestral strength and the power of transformation.
-Ann Haley
‘i wonder why?’
Luin Joy
There are parts of this show I avoided working on for a long time. I feared getting lost in the overwhelming grief of my grandma’s passing on May 6th of 2023. Grief that is tied to our complicated bond and a string of other tragedies I’ve struggled to slow down enough to fully feel- to allow myself to unfurl, to collapse into powerlessness, and to ask for help with all that pain.
We were extremely close and our relationship was complex. Part of my grief-avoidance is guilt in facing confusing emotions - sadness, helplessness, resentment, trauma, joy, longing, and regret. She was a best friend, a powerful matriarch, and the oldest living artist I knew. She never stopped making work, even as she struggled to claim her artist identity.
Her house was a refuge for me. At the end of 2021, I moved in with her when I had nowhere else to go and began working alongside my mom as my grandma’s live-in caregiver. It was a difficult and vulnerable time for me. Our relationship deepened and evolved and continues to teach me about forgiveness, acceptance, and intergenerational healing. I would often diffuse tension between her and my mom and dodge her unhealed projections and fears. And still, we cared for each other in many ways. I hauled wood and built her a fire every morning, got her favorite treats at the grocery store, and we’d stay up late talking about art, pain, and memory. I was with her when she crossed over and helped her find her way to the other side.
She made hundreds of paintings in her life and went through many phases. I chose to include part of one series from the 70’s, when she was painting a lot of hockey players, because of the overlap with my fixation on athletic aesthetics, sport costumes, and wrestler masculinity. She was fascinated by equipment and boxy shapes and so am I.
When I moved out of her house in 2022, we began painting together virtually on Monday afternoons. ‘What Surrounds Her’ is a painting we started together but were unable to finish before she went into the hospital.
Right before entering hospice, she asked me “how do you tell the difference between living and dying?” While feeding her applesauce I replied, “I think you know more about that than any of us right now”. She chuckled, as if to say, you’re probably right. She then said, “We have to forgive, we have to forgive everyone. Do you forgive me?” I was shocked. I said “Of course, for anything, for everything. Do you forgive me?” She nodded yes.
Grief is the creation of something new - an opportunity to begin again. One thing I will always remember is how she would say, “I wonder why..?” - as an invitation to muse together and imagine possibilities. It wasn’t really about finding an answer, it was about wonder. A few years ago, I began building a divination/affirmation deck, inspired by my own healing practices. I brought this collection to my grandma in the hospital and her eyes lit up while flipping through the handmade deck. I taped her favorites onto a sheet next to her hospital bed and she cherished them in her final days. That handmade collection grew into what is now my ‘Holy Wonder Deck.’
‘Our Time’ is a soundscape built from our piano lessons, field recordings, and late night conversations. Debussy’s Clair de Lune has always reminded me of her and appears in many ways throughout the track. This tune has followed me through life and when I am most unable to feel, music is the thing that always breaks the dam.
‘Clair de Lune’ references a poem by Paul Verlaine, “which depicts the soul as somewhere full of music in a minor key where birds are inspired to sing by the sad and beautiful light of the moon.”
I had the blessing and challenge of being with her as she died. In her final two days, she was no longer verbal but my mom found a pathway to reach her through song. We sang a simple melody in call and response, and in that channel, she knew that she was never alone.
-Luin Joy
