Part of the She Can Make a Bermuda Onion Cry series, this piece started with my central figure—knife-sharp lines, purple-skinned layers peeled back like stage curtains. The background felt timid, so I rolled the canvas into Adam O’Day’s studio; he drowned it in translucent washes, then pulled shadows forward until the air itself looked heavy. Together we chased that sweet spot where sweetness meets sting—because a Bermuda onion only makes you tear up after you break its skin.

 

Look close and you’ll see saltwater drips preserved under clear medium, a nod to Hamilton’s humid nights where onions cure in open sheds. Push your face to the surface and faint oil glazes bloom like bruises—layered translucence that lets earlier colors whisper through.

 

Step back and the whole atmosphere feels alive, as if the studio light never fully turned off inside the paint. It’s a collaboration that balances elegance with ache, a canvas heavy with shadows yet bright enough to bite back.