While I was in Tianjin presenting at the ACAMIS Conference on the Arts, I got into a conversation with my dear friend Hanna about an exhibition she was planning for early summer. The show was going to be held in an old space with new owners in the 798 Art District of Beijing—a gritty, vibrant hub for creative work. Hanna shared that she was feeling anxious about having enough pieces to fill the space. I asked her what the show was about, curious if there might be a way for me to contribute.

She told me it was going to be a tribute to her dog, Ghost. At 14, Ghost is getting older, and Hanna was starting to think about what life would be like without her. The exhibition would be a kind of homage—celebrating all the ways Ghost has inspired her as an artist and companion. That got me thinking.

I had recently started experimenting with more illustrative work focused on my own pets, Rigby and Beanie. Inspired by Dallas-based artist Madaline Donahue—whose work explores the chaotic, tender intersection of motherhood and creative life—I had been making paintings that felt personal and immediate: crowded beds, Beanie’s dramatic flair, Rigby’s morning wake-up scratches to my face. It was funny and tender work—small moments elevated.

I told Hanna I could probably contribute five paintings and a few photographs. But once I got started, I couldn’t stop. The project snowballed into nearly 10 paintings and another 10 photographs. I even had prints and small books ready to go. Hanna was thrilled. We began planning our show together in earnest.

To my surprise, the watercolors came fast and furiously. I’m not a painter by default—I’m more installation, performance, video, and large-scale work. But there I was, night after night, painting the wild tufts of Beanie’s hair, the gleam in Rigby’s eye. It became something deeper than artmaking—it was healing. I was processing the sudden loss of Rigby and reflecting on what his presence had meant in my life. This was quieter work than I’m used to, but deeply cathartic and grounding.

The reception was packed—around 250 people wandered through over the course of the afternoon. The room buzzed with conversation, laughter, and memories. Though I haven’t painted since, that show made me realize something. For the past several years, I’ve been carrying a deep disappointment, a weight that made making art feel distant—like a place I once lived but could no longer return to. But this show reminded me that maybe art, like grief, comes in waves. It arrives unexpectedly, reshaping you as it moves through.

Enjoy the images below! And if you’d like to follow my journey as I transition to life and work in Africa, I’d love for you to sign up for my newsletter.

Over the past two months, I’ve taken three Praxis exams as part of a certification process to complement my teacher training from Moreland University, which I completed back in 2020. Each test cost approximately $195 USD, with one requiring rescheduling twice—an additional $40 USD each time. On top of that, I paid $50 to DC Public Schools simply for them to review my qualifications as part of the certification process. All three exams were administered online from my classroom, proctored remotely by individuals in India through the ETS testing platform.

The tests included the Principles of Learning and Teaching (PLT), Art Content Knowledge, and Writing. Each exam comprised around 100 questions, sometimes with a writing component, and each was closely monitored through screen-sharing technology. The experience was bureaucratic, expensive, and frustrating—and honestly, it raises critical questions about the current system of teacher credentialing, particularly for specialists like art educators.

Frankly, the whole process feels like a racket.

I question why institutions—universities or certification boards—continue to rely on standardised, generalist testing to assess specialist educators. My six years of graduate-level coursework in the arts has taught me far more about pedagogy, engagement, and lesson design than any multiple-choice test could ever prove.

The Art Content Knowledge exam was especially disconnected from the realities of teaching art to students in Kindergarten through Grade 6. There were no questions about installation art, contemporary practice, student engagement, or community-building in the classroom. Instead, it focused on obscure terminology and traditional techniques like intaglio—techniques rarely, if ever, used in most elementary school settings. It felt like a test designed by someone who hasn’t taught children art in decades, if ever.

The PLT exam was slightly more grounded, covering classic educational theory—Maslow, Bloom, etc.—but again, failed to link these concepts to the unique role of art in the classroom. Art teachers don’t just need to know about student needs and developmental stages; they need to know how those factors manifest in the creative process. Art doesn’t stop because a student hasn’t had breakfast—it transforms. The real value lies in understanding and supporting that transformation, and none of that nuance was reflected in the test.

The final exam I took was the Writing Praxis. I didn’t study and still scored near-perfectly. It involved editing sentences, identifying grammatical errors, and writing two essays—one argumentative and one synthesis piece based on research excerpts. It was the most reasonable of the three, but again, I am left asking: why is an art educator being assessed on generalist writing skills when I am never expected to teach general education?

What’s worse is the deeply problematic infrastructure supporting these exams. ETS profits from every attempt—and therefore, potentially, every failure. Two of my tests were delayed by more than an hour due to technical issues and procedural confusion. The proctors—kind and professional as they were—could only follow a rigid script and were unable to assist with basic troubleshooting. The system feels designed to exhaust test-takers into rescheduling, retaking, and repaying. It’s hard not to question the financial incentives built into that model.

I’ve been teaching art for nearly 30 years. I hold two master’s degrees in my field. I regularly present at national and international conferences on arts education, curriculum design, and inclusive classroom practices. Yet I’ve had to sit through a battery of unrelated, irrelevant tests to obtain a piece of paper declaring that I’m “certified.” Meanwhile, I know plenty of certified individuals who lack both pedagogical grounding and passion for the field.

Now that I am officially certified—whatever that’s supposed to mean—I intend to work toward changing this requirement for future art educators. If we are going to test teachers, we must do so in ways that reflect their expertise. If you want someone to teach art, then test them on art—on creating, analysing, contextualising, and using art to reach young people meaningfully.

The system needs reform. I’m ready to help push for it!