This series explores the joy, struggle, and strain of motherhood. Using stretch marks as a physical representation of the tension, resilience, flexibility, and limits of my own body, these pieces trace my journey through child-bearing, breastfeeding, parenting, and self-acceptance. Constructed with ordinary yarn, these pieces highlight the beauty in the often disregarded and concealed parts of our journeys. 

Inspired by the persistent anxiety and fear filling my chest since early 2020, this performance piece creates a physical representation to how I felt throughout the past year and a half--the continual uncertainty, grief, loss, and tragedy. . 

I begin the piece fidgeting with a rope, nervously, then I start tying knots. Each knot symbolizes the 428 days from Baltimore city’s lock down until the day I was fully vaccinated. The accumulation of the knots fills the table, my arms, and my entire chest cavity (physically and metaphorically). I then begin untying knots. I untie 86 knots symbolizing the number of days from the day I was fully vaccinated until the rise of the Delta variant changed the game once again. At this point, I start re-tying knots, more dread, more uncertainty, more fear. 

The piece took me an hour. By the end, my arms were sore and heavy. I was exhausted. You can watch a timelapse of the performance here: https://www.norahowellart.com/rope

Peter Bruun who generously wrote about the piece, summed it up as, “Deceptively simple, At the End of My Rope is a tale of unfolding existential dread—her own and Ours.” 

I know many of you share this feeling of existential dread.The piece will obviously not take the anxiety away but know you are not alone.

This body of work explores politicals of racialized space. Who controls the space? Who benefits and who loses from the control of realistate and social spaces? The work is a metaphor of Black and White space and what can happen when White people enter historical or socially Black space. ⁠Inspired by Shannon Sullivan's research and writing on "white ontological expansiveness." The tendency of white people intentionally and unintentionally assuming that any space (geographic, linguistic, economic, spiritual, bodily, all of it!) is available to them to move in and about freely. To take up space.

A performance art piece in which the artist uses the metaphor of whitening toothpaste to illuminate the racial changes taking place in Washington, DC's historic U Street corridor.

My recent works investigate the concept and contextualized reality of whiteness primarily through performance-based sculpture and video. Having lived in communities as the racial majority and other communities as the numerical minority has challenged me to examine what it means to be white. At times I am overwhelmed by the complexities of whiteness and other times understand it to be simply that which is not white. The works in this show explore the space where whiteness is most apparent?juxtaposed with blackness.

Oblivia around town. Consumed by her own musings, Oblivia seems unaware of the impact of her ?cracker-ness? on those around her.

Many people have asked what the significance is in my use of crackers. The origin of the term cracker is disputed, but clearly seems to originate chiefly in Georgia and Florida. The term may refer to people who cracked whips over their oxen and mules taking cotton to market, or cracking corn. Although history does not leave a clear record of how the term originated, it came to signify poor whites and often illiterate emigrants from Scotland, Ireland or Germany. Bill Clinton used the term ?cracker? to refer to the white votes he was intending to win over for Barack Obama. Whatever the origin of the term, I use the cracker as a metaphor for a person with white skin, hence the name of the Cracker Dress: ?White Girl?s Birthday Suit.?

Cracker dress photographed by Natalie Tranelli

Rub A Dub Dub is a metaphor of our own daily immersion in racial stereotypes and constructs throughout pop culture and society, as the marshmallows represent the idea of whiteness.