Virga

Virga — /ˈvərgə/, noun

Rain that never touches the earth — it falls through dry air and vanishes before landing. Seen as ghostly trails beneath clouds in deserts, it is fleeting, beautiful, and symbolic of impermanence.

These paintings were created in the desert during monsoon season, when virga clouds hung everywhere. I used earth as pigment, gathering soils from the land around me. At the time, I was moving through loss, trying to make sense of absence — to give shape to something that had dissolved. Without realizing it, I began painting the falling gestures of virga, rain that never reaches the ground. Only later did I understand what I had been tracing.

This led to a realization that life itself can feel like virga — so fleeting and ephemeral that it resembles disappearing rain. Perhaps everyone who has ever paused long enough to truly feel life has stood in this space, where you become part of the ground you think you’re not touching.

In this body of work, virga became a metaphor for existence itself — the quiet evidence of life’s passage, its impact felt even when unseen. Like the rain that changes the air without ever landing, we alter the world simply by moving through it.