Hi, I’m Alice. I’m a multidisciplinary artist drawn to what’s often overlooked: a wrinkled bedsheet in a thrift store, a floral bra made of tissue paper, a butterfly perched on a candy wrapper. My work gathers the textures of domestic life, motherhood, memory, and transformation, often through the lens of everyday objects. I work in oil, gouache, mixed media, dried flowers, and paper sculpture, building a practice rooted in slowness, care, and quiet observation.

My fascination with preservation began in my grandfather Quimby Hess’s basement, where drawers of pinned butterflies created a quiet world of wonder. The act of pinning appears throughout my work, transforming fragile materials into thoughtful, preserved treasures.

My creative process feels like solving a puzzle. I collect, arrange, and layer materials until something clicks emotionally. Parenting moments, thrifted fabrics, and garden clippings often find new life in my pieces. I paint messes and magic, stains and wildflowers, exploring what is tender, sentimental, and easily missed. Themes of motherhood, grief, and joy run through my work. I often photograph or paint the everyday beauty of family life. My husband, my partner since I was seventeen, is a grounding presence in both my home and practice.

Born in Inuvik, Northwest Territories, and raised near Vancouver, I hold diplomas in Fine Arts, Illustration and Design, and Community Support. I work out of Braid Studios in New Westminster, where I live with my husband and our two children. My studio practice is shaped by the rhythms of parenting and my work as a school secretary.

I believe art can help us notice not just what is beautiful, but what is real, complicated, funny, or broken. In my work, I preserve the things we often overlook: a thrifted pillowcase, a candy wrapper, a hand-tied bouquet from my garden, and present them with care and curiosity. Whether I’m painting vintage sheets hung like laundry, pinning delicate tissue butterflies to sculpted objects, or arranging everyday items like specimens, I’m always asking: What do we keep, what do we let go, and what stories live inside the things we gather?