Maryjane Joya - What Remains Between Us
About the Exhibition: Through a series of collages, diptychs, black-and-white photography, and sculpture, What Remains Between Us delves into the deeply personal and universal experiences surrounding terminal illness. The raw emotional landscape of grief is explored, examining the strain that illness places on personal relationships, the isolating experience of loss, and the longing for closeness.
Using faceless portraits and abstract compositions, Maryjane explores their own journey evoking the isolation and loneliness often tied to loss. Artworks draw inspiration from their personal experiences, including moments when their own needs were set aside to prioritize their brother's care. What Remains Between Us invites viewers into a nuanced narrative, tracing Maryjane’s connection with their brother and the ways in which illness reshaped their family dynamic. Grief becomes not just an external force, instead reverberating within, reshaping one's relationship with the self.
While personal grief is central, Maryjane considers the way these emotions shaped their connections with others. Moving beyond their experience, Maryjane shares memories of each family member, highlighting the unique ways grief affected them. Weaving together memories of siblings and emphasizing the solidarity they found amidst chaos, Maryjane hopes that viewers gain a deeper appreciation for the people in their lives and be inspired to open up about their own experiences with grief. Maryjane also includes photographs with their parents, highlighting their need for parental guidance as they dealt with loss at such a young age. These pieces capture the innocence and curiosity with which they navigated this unfolding family dynamic.
Maryjane hopes that through this exhibition, visitors will find a sense of community, recognizing that grief is a universal experience that does not need to be experienced alone. They aim for visitors to feel grateful for the people in their lives, are motivated to connect with others, and share their own experiences with grief.
About the Artist: Maryjane Joya is an emerging artist with a deep passion for capturing the beauty of life through photography. Specializing in environmental portraiture, their work celebrates the richness of diversity by photographing people of color, individuals across different genders, ages, and members of the queer community.
Drawing inspiration from their personal identity, family, and mentors who have shaped their journey, Maryjane continually seeks to explore various photography niches, discovering unique stories with every shot.
With the invaluable guidance of their mentors, they have embraced a creative path that reflects both personal and artistic growth. Their ultimate goal is to establish a photography studio, a space where they can create, share, and inspire other young artists. Each image they produce is a celebration of joy, connection, and the vibrant diversity of the world.
Photo printing for this exhibition sponsored by Epilogue Inc.
Endless Hole, 2025,
Mixed-media installation,
Dimensions variable.
I hated pills. Day and night, breakfast and dinner, my brother had to take them, and I saw how much he hated them. His hate became mine. Pills didn’t just take away his peace—they almost destroyed the bond I had with my sister too.
Love Your Baby Sister…, 2024, Mixed-media collage, 8 ½ x 11 inches.
Coincidences are funny. At an event where we made candles for our loved ones, I decided to participate in a random writing prompt. As I worked on the exhibition, my heart warmed with what I had chosen. It felt like the universe knew exactly what I needed to express.
Christmas Tree, 2023, Inkjet print, 12x16 inches.
Christmas used to be my favorite holiday, the days leading up to it filled with joy. But that December, we were faced with a two-week countdown, and everything changed. The anticipation felt like it was burning through my bones, making them weak. Christmas became heavy, suffocating. But over the years, with all the love and support around me, Christmas slowly began to feel happy again—like the light was finding its way back.
Untitled, 2024, Inkjet print, 20 x 16 inches.
During hospital visits, I always wished I could be outside, playing with other kids and feeling free. The only days I could escape were when my friends came over, but those days grew fewer as my brother's cancer got more serious. My parents were always focused on him, watching every change in the monitor, caring for him. I understood, but the longing to be outside, to just be a kid, never stopped.
Daydreaming, 2024, Inkjet print, 12x16 inches.
I used to get in trouble for being too loud, too excited. Every time, it felt like a piece of me shrank, like I wasn’t allowed to just be. So I got quieter. I learned to silence my voice and my thoughts. But I found freedom in the clouds—watching them drift, shapeshifting, endless. Sometimes, I wish I could stay there forever.
Feliz Navidad, 2024, Inkjet print, 16 x 20 inches.
Christmas used to be my favorite holiday, until it became my darkest memory. After years of grief, it felt impossible to enjoy. But slowly, things started to shift. Decorating, baking, opening presents—it all began to bring joy again. Christmas no longer felt like a burden but a warm, comforting holiday once more.
Untitled, 2024, Inkjet print, 16 x 20 inches.
My life shattered the moment I heard the news from my father. I felt broken, like I would never be the same again. The weight of it all felt unbearable, and in that instant, a part of me felt lost forever.
Waiting, 2024, Inkjet print, 27 ½ x 19 ¾ inches.
My childhood was built on waiting. Waiting for my turn, waiting in line, waiting for surgery. Some days, I dreamed of playing with my Barbies, but reality always pulled me towards the hospital. The day before my brother went in for surgery, pain, or exams, I knew it was serious. The waiting room didn’t feel so bad at first—games, books, distractions. But on other days, the room was filled with a quiet, heavy anxiety. I didn’t fully understand it then, but now I realize how much fear and love were wrapped up in those moments, waiting for my brother to come back to me.
Isolation, 2023, Inkjet print, 16 x 20 inches.
Sometimes, it felt like no one could understand. It felt like I had to solve all my problems myself. I decided never to bother anyone, patiently waiting, hoping my struggles would eventually work themselves out—never asking for help, just silently carrying it all.
Happy Birthday to Us, 2025, Inkjet print, 16 x 20 inches.
My birthday is April 16th; his is April 20th—just four days apart. Some years we celebrated separately, other times we shared, to save a little money. I secretly loved it, sharing a cake, a party, the wishes. One birthday stands out, though. It made me the happiest. Laughter filled the air, and the decorations—Monster High and Spider-Man—felt just like us. Our cake had a photo of both of us, and I cherished that moment so much. But the next year...it wasn’t the same.
Mi Corazon, 2024, Inkjet print, 19 ¾ x 27 ½ inches.
Memories surround my mother’s mind, and she loves talking about my brother and reliving the moments they shared. Every Sunday, she visits him, listening to his favorite music, holding onto the memories that keep him close. But there are days when I see that the weight of it all is too much. The depression presses on her chest, like the weight of an elephant. She doesn’t know how to keep going without her son. I see the memories and the love they shared helps her keep moving forward.
Dia De Los Muertos, 2024, Inkjet print, 16 x 20 inches.
Even though I didn’t believe in religion, I still hold on to the stories and traditions, especially Día de los Muertos. Losing my brother, grandma, godfather, and grandpa made this day feel different, heavier. I didn’t really think they were there, but I decorated their graves with marigolds, let my brother “try” my coffee and bread, and listened to music, letting grief fill the silence. Marigolds circled my heart, a reminder that the love never truly leaves.
Amen, 2024, Inkjet print, 20 x 16 inches.
In a culture rooted in religion, I felt unheard. I was taught that a man could protect me, bring me comfort—but when I begged, no one answered. Religion felt like a foreign language, one I could never understand. My mother worked tirelessly to keep us in church, enrolling us in Sunday school. I hated it. But the story of La Virgen de Guadalupe changed everything. It taught me that sometimes, just believing is enough. Believing that I’ll be okay, even when everything feels broken. That soon, the hard days will pass, and I’ll be saved.
My Boy, 2024, Inkjet print, 27 ½ x 19 ¾ inches.
My father only had one son, and they shared drives and did all the stereotypical "boy stuff." They connected over cars, music, and movies—those little moments that meant everything. But then, my father, the man I’d never seen cry before, broke down in front of me. He couldn’t hold it in anymore—he realized he would never again share those moments with his only son. He tried to put up a strong face, but I saw the emptiness in his eyes.
In Our Hearts, 2023, Inkjet print, 16 x 12 inches.
It’s the little things that make me the happiest. I loved collecting tiny finds, sharing them with my family, and adding them to our ofrenda. Each piece felt like a way to show them I was thinking of them. On a wooden shelf, my mother’s and my collection grew, surrounding the photos of our loved ones—our silent reminder that they’re always in our hearts.
December 17, 2024, Inkjet print, 16 x 20 inches.
December 15 was the day we opened our presents, a day filled with joy. But that joy faded just two days later. December 17—my brother was pronounced dead. My body went numb, and the days blurred until it was time to bury him. Tears fell, realizing I would never feel his warmth again.
60, 2024, Inkjet print, 16 x 20 inches.
This photo holds the moments that shaped me—the laughter, the silence, and the struggles. It’s more than just an image; it’s a reflection of love, everyday comforts, and a bond that endured even the hardest times. The note to my brother was written while he was admitted to the hospital. It is a reminder of the heartbreak we faced when doctors gave us two weeks left. Yet, through it all, my family remains my heart, my foundation, and my strength.
Pressure, 2023, Inkjet print, 16 x 12 inches.
I knew my brother endured so much. He would somehow manage to smile, even on the hardest days. I was oblivious to the amount of radiation and surgeries he went through until after countless procedures, I could see the anger building inside him. He became more handicapped, unable to speak or move. It was painful to watch. Sometimes, I wondered if it would be better for him to stop hurting, but the thought of losing him was too much to bear. So, I never let myself think of it again.
Big Brother, 2023, Inkjet print, 12x16 inches.
Everyone always says that even if they’re not physically with you, they’re always watching over you. I chose to believe this. My family and I would laugh whenever something or someone reminded us of my brother, like the way a bug seemed to help my older sister pass her driving test, or the butterfly that followed my mother everywhere. It felt like a sign—a little piece of him, still with us, in moments we needed him the most.
Untitled, 2024, Inkjet print, 16 x 20 inches.
My brother's diagnosis forced me to grow up faster than I was ready for. At first, I cried out for my parents, but their attention was consumed by his needs. I knew it wasn’t their fault, but in those moments, I felt invisible. I wanted them—needed them—but all I got were silent tears. No one to hear my fears, I turned to my stuffed animals, the only comfort I had and the only thing that understood my unspoken pain.
Untitled, 2024, Inkjet print, 12 x 16 inches.
On the loneliest days, I would remember that my older sister was there—always by my side, always having my back. In the midst of my sadness, we found comfort in each other, wrapping ourselves in moments that felt like a quiet refuge. Even when my heart ached, she and I created memories that reminded me that I was never truly alone.
Thumper…, 2024, Inkjet print, 27 ½ x 19 ¾ inches.
On a rare day away from the hospital, my mother took us to the Disney store. As a child, I didn’t understand our financial struggles—I only saw the things I wanted. My eyes caught a glimpse of bunny ears, and despite not even liking Bambi, I needed him. After what felt like begging forever, my mother bought me my new friend. He became my comfort, my constant in a world that felt uncertain. Every night, I’d talk to him, tell him about my day, and tuck him in beside me. He was there through it all—even when I heard the tragic news, he was the only one who stayed close, a silent witness to the pain.
Love You Always…, 2024, Inkjet print, 16 x 20 inches.
Whenever I was sad, my older sister held my hand, letting me know she had my back. When things got scary, I’d shut down, saying I was fine, but deep down, I was trembling. Her warmth always brought me back from that cold, dark place. Everything felt brighter when she was around.
Hand in Hand, 2024, Inkjet print, 16 x 20 inches.
My older sister and I have different love languages. She’s not a fan of physical touch, while I crave it. Every hug from me gets an “ew” and my silly response: “love me!”—but I know deep down she adores it. When I’m feeling down, she’ll hold my hand, that quiet gesture saying more than words ever could. It’s in those small moments that I feel truly loved, and my heart feels whole. I love my older sister, and I cherish every little thing that makes us, us.
MJ + Jazzy, 2024, Inkjet print, 20 x 16 inches.
“I will deny it if you tell anyone,” I told my older sister, my heart full of love and vulnerability. I almost lost her once, but never again. We promised to always be there for each other, and because of that, I shared everything—even things that I never thought I would. Through every fight, we still care for each other. Trust and honesty are the foundation of our bond, a love that never fades, no matter what.
Sisters, 2024, Inkjet print, 20 x 16 inches.
My constants. The days are always brighter when my sisters are there. Their presence fills the empty spaces and makes everything feel a little more bearable.
Untitled, 2024, Inkjet print, 16 x 20 inches.
Time has passed, and together, my sisters and I have faced countless challenges. But through every struggle, we’ve kept going—each of us leaning on the other, each hardship shaping us into who we are today.
Backstory, 2024, Inkjet print, 20 x 16 inches.
We are all different, shaped by our own experiences—some secrets still untold. But despite it all, we remain unbreakable. Our bond, stronger than any distance or silence, keeps us together through everything.
Untitled, 2024, Inkjet print, 19 ¾ x 27 ½ inches.
In it together.
I Am Sorry…, 2024, Inkjet print, 12x16 inches.
I felt awkward the first time I spoke to my brother, when he was buried. I told him about my life, about the pain I was carrying, but he never answered. Those awkward feelings lingered at first, but over time, they faded. Now, I joke with him in front of my family, sharing my sweet treats, as if he’s still here, laughing with us.
We Made It, 2025, Inkjet print, 20 x 16 inches.
Despite cancer slowly taking a toll on his body and mind, my brother was determined to finish high school. He pushed through, attending school robotically, working tirelessly to get it done. I, an average student, felt the pressure to measure up. I never could. But watching his strength, his relentless drive, taught me how to keep going. He's my motivation to push through, even when high school feels like it's breaking me.