From the Understory, Stars

A pale, silvery light seeps through the canopy—a rain-lit radiance that softens everything it touches. The sun, exiled by clouds and mist, rarely grazes the forest floor. And yet—something stirs. From the damp earth rises a quiet eruption, a bloom that feels half-botanical, half-celestial. These forms—part plant, part drifting jellyfish—float upward, trembling on the edge between air and water, earth and dream. Their filaments shimmer as though scattering spores of light, tiny emissaries of new life. They seem to hum softly, caught in the act of becoming. Painted in thick, carved oil—each gesture pressed directly by hand—this intimate work carries the pulse of memory. Born of the Pacific Northwest’s perpetual rain, Iris Scott channels the wet abundance of her youth: a world where ferns breathed mist and moss grew like thought itself. Now, from her desert studio, she summons that ancient lushness once more—a vision of the forest as coral reef, the earth as ocean, and creation as somethi