TAKE ME TO YOUR MOON 1
Journeys into the World of Dementia
(2021 - 2026)
The moon’s surface resembles a brain affected by Alzheimer’s disease, in contrast to the earth as a healthy brain. The course of dementia can be understood as a journey from earth to moon—from the familiar to the unknown (inspired by the TED Talk “Reconsider Dementia” by Vibeke Drevsen Back). My work in this series depicts such inner voyages.
My former art teacher, Daisy, shared her journey to the moon with me. Our collaborative work was exhibited at the Prairie Arts Center in North Platte, Nebraska, in 2022. Afterward, I continued the series independently. It was exhibited at the Washington Pavilion in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, in 2024. With the third installment at the Dahl Arts Center in Rapid City, South Dakota, the series reached its conclusion in 2026.
Works from this series are held in the permanent collections of the Rapid City Arts Council, the Washington Pavilion, the South Dakota Art Museum, and Sanford Health.
Pseudonyms are used to protect privacy.
Click any images below for enlargement (for large computer screens).
My former art teacher, Daisy, shared her journey to the moon with me. Our collaborative work was exhibited at the Prairie Arts Center in North Platte, Nebraska, in 2022. Afterward, I continued the series independently. It was exhibited at the Washington Pavilion in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, in 2024. With the third installment at the Dahl Arts Center in Rapid City, South Dakota, the series reached its conclusion in 2026.
Works from this series are held in the permanent collections of the Rapid City Arts Council, the Washington Pavilion, the South Dakota Art Museum, and Sanford Health.
Pseudonyms are used to protect privacy.
Click any images below for enlargement (for large computer screens).
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TAKE ME TO YOUR MOON, # 319, 2021, sculpture 8x7.5x7.5", painting 13x18", collection of Sanford Health
This piece was created with Daisy—my former art teacher and a dementia patient. Our roles were reversed, and I guided her with the painting of her moon. She had been a pastel artist, but the medium no longer worked for her. For our joint exhibit, we tried different media, seeking what method would bring out the best of her remaining abilities. This painting demonstrates our efforts. 
TALK TO ME ABOUT HOW I GO AWAY?, #313, 2022, 8.5x25x8", collection of South Dakota Art Museum Each of us is on a boat. At some point, we must stop rowing and let the current carry us. The uncertainty can be terrifying--especially for those newly diagnosed with dementia. Daisy’s handwritten questions to her doctor are inscribed on this canoe, in her own words: “Talk to me about how I go away? How fast” “Ulshemers??” “Will I get dificult? I do not want to be nasty to my family.” “Know my family—how does that go away—do I not know them?” “Can I ask to be uthinized?” Behind her, a blanket holds the words “family,” “friends,” “smile,” “reaching out,” and “compassion.” They will be her warmth, no matter how far she drifts. 
WARMTH OF MEMORY, #316, 2022, 15.5x9.5x9.5" “I love to watch the sunset and think of my mom and dad.” Daisy beamed as she spoke of her parents. Their gift of love remained with her, and I believe it would stay with her through the rest of her journey. 
STILL ON HER BACK #341, 2024, 8.75x11x10" We forget so much, yet unresolved wounds can remain, lingering far longer than memory itself. Their pain continues. I cannot forget the sorrow in Daisy’s face as she told me of something she could not forgive in herself. It might easily have been forgiven, but the person is long gone. The pain continues to swallow her. How much longer will it remain? How can we help her forgive herself? 
REACHING FOR MEMORY, #315, 2022, 10x17x15.5", collection of Washington Pavilion Thousands of words had sunken beyond Daisy’s reach. Even her children’s names failed to surface. In mid-sentence, she would lose her train of thought with visible frustration. Still, her morals were within her reach. Without fail, she lent me a helping hand, carrying my stuff, setting the table for a meal, or removing snow from my car. She tried to be hospitable, serving me what little she had in her assisted living apartment. She drew a funny face even though it required significant effort. “I want people to have fun,” she added. That belief was also reflected in the ways she joked with the staff. On the day after my visit, Daisy surprised me with a call. Our previous day’s activities had not been erased from her memory. Listening to her appreciation, I smiled from ear to ear, feeling her warmth pouring into my heart. 
SAVORING #342, 2024, 19.25x6.5x5.25" Daisy’s memory has deteriorated. More than once, she became lost while walking her dog. She could not say when or where she had fallen, though the bruises on her face told her family it had been serious. She withdrew from activities, discouraged by her inability to follow instructions. Yet she still enjoyed going out. One day, I took her to the nearby woods. We walked arm in arm, careful on the ice beneath our feet. She first noticed the sound of a stream, then the sunlight filtering through the pine trees, casting long shadows across the snow. A breeze brushed against our cheeks. Nature has its own language-- one that soothes us, no matter our condition. I felt a quiet bliss, savoring the moment with Daisy. 
ENDURING BOND #344, 2024, 19.25x7.5x6.25 Cara felt that what she did for Daisy was not worth mentioning. She called her every day, often making several attempts before Daisy answered. Each week, she drove her to a gathering. Though Daisy could no longer follow the conversations, she could still be part of the circle. When Cara visited, they would often return to their years of raising children. As a single mother, Cara had leaned on Daisy countless times. A friendship nurtured over decades quietly endured. Once, when Cara took Daisy out of town with two other women, I happened to call. Through the phone, peals of unrestrained laughter filled the air. 
LONGING #384, 2026, 21.25x7.75x8", collection of Rapid City Arts Council Brat’s wife had filled his life with people. Through her, there were visits, conversations, smiles, and laughter. When she died, she took that world with her. The calls from friends and former coworkers grew fewer. The silences grew longer. When his children called, he could hear the hurry in their voices. He told himself they were busy. He did not want to be a burden. Days passed without his name being spoken. He felt forgotten while still alive—no longer needed. Utterly alone, he called for his wife. Loneliness is known to increase the risk of dementia—by nearly a third. In the corner of his living room, an old landline phone sat untouched-- still waiting. 
FORGET-ME-NOT #390, 2026, sculpture without stand 29.5x21.5x27" After a long wait, Iris’s grandson was born. She looked forward to being part of his life as he grew. Then came the diagnosis. As she watched him crawl toward her, laughing, tears filled her eyes. He would not remember her. Worse, he might remember her only as a confused old woman. So Iris began to write. Letters for the years she might not see—one for each birthday until graduation, one for his wedding, even one for the birth of his first child. In each letter, she left a piece of herself. As she wrote, hope slowly replaced dread. Not because she was certain she would be remembered, but because she was still able to do something for the boy she loved. And in that act, she found her place again-- believing in him, walking beside him, her love a part of his life. 
DISEMBODIED #373, 2025, 20x8x6" Jane spent much of her early life being told who she should be. Her parents corrected everything. Later, her husband did the same. At forty, she left. Then breast cancer arrived. Treatments, remission, treatments, remission… Three times the cancer survived. At first, she tried. She followed instructions. Tried to stay positive. Nothing seemed to work. She could not keep her job or her friends. No calls came from her children. The hours stretched on, empty of purpose. I’m tired. I’m done with this life. Then came something new. As her memory lapses became more noticeable, she clung more tightly to what little remained. Jane was not ready to let go. She feared-- ceasing to be while still breathing. 
LIVING FULLY #374, 2025, 18x10x13.5" Jane spent much of her early life being told who she should be. Her parents corrected everything. Later, her husband did the same. At forty, she left. Then breast cancer arrived. Treatments, remission, treatments remission… Three times the cancer survived, each time asking the same question: How do you want to live? Jane found her answer in yoga. Not as exercise, but as a way to stand upright in her own life. She practiced. She volunteered. She took up small art projects, slowly building a life that became her own. In her seventies, she began to notice small lapses in memory. Another challenge. By then, Jane no longer measured life by what was taken from her-- but by how fully she continued to live one day at a time. 
LOST #371, 2025, 17.5x27.5x10.5" One morning Tomoko went out to buy a new pot. She had burned the old one on the stove and wanted to replace it before her daughter noticed. The shop was easy to find. But somewhere on the walk home, something shifted. The streets no longer looked familiar. The houses were strange. She kept walking, searching for anything recognizable. Hours passed. Near evening, a police officer found her wandering and brought her to the station. Soon a gray-haired woman hurried in—relieved and upset—scolding her for going out alone. Who is she? Why is she angry with me? They claimed she was my daughter, but my daughter isn’t that old. Clutching the new pot, Tomoko looked down, frightened. She had lost-- place, time, familiar faces, and with them, the certainty of who she was. 
SELF-ACCEPTANCE #369, 2025, 22.5x5.5x5 “I think growing old is learning to endure. “My legs no longer carry me as they once did. Teeth loosen and fall away. Thoughts falter, and sometimes words refuse to come. I know my family cares for me, yet I cannot keep pace with them. More and more, I find myself left behind. Siblings and friends of my generation have left, one by one. “At times I feel I have had enough. Truly, enough is enough. And yet, in the very next breath, I tell myself to endure a little longer—to accept what is, and to cherish this fleeting moment, simply because I am still here, still alive.” —Kazuo Hasegawa, age 93, living with dementia 
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