The Painting

This 5x6 -foot mixed media painting contains 72 portraits of women, layered into the surface through ink transfer. Each image was once hosted on a government site. Each one is now gone. The names of all the women are around the perimeter. 

I’ve archived every image on my website, where viewers can scan a QR code to access names, roles, and any data I was able to recover. Most of the original links now lead to the same message:   Content Not Found.

This painting preserves what someone tried to erase. It restores visibility. It holds a record of presence, service, and refusal to be forgotten.  

The Search

I began with a list of URLs compiled by the Associated Press. It contained over 26,000 links to Department of Defense images flagged for removal. And it was only a fraction of what was taken down.

I went through them one at a time. If the image was still cached, I saved it. Most weren’t. Most showed the same cold message:

Next, I turned to DVIDS-the Defense Visual Information Distribution Service. It’s an official Department of Defense platform that hosts military photos and videos.

On DVIDS, I searched by image number, title, or keywords. If the asset page still displayed the image, I knew it was live. If I got a 404 error, it had already been removed. Sometimes, one search term like “women’s history month marines” would surface a few related images, which felt like a win.

Many times, I found nothing.

When a URL still showed a thumbnail but no downloadable image, I took a screenshot and used Photoshop to crop it. If the resolution was too low, I used Topaz Labs to upscale it with AI. This allowed me to preserve even the smallest traces of what had been deleted.

The Internet Archive

One of the most useful tools I discovered was the Wayback Machine, part of the Internet Archive. It’s a digital library that allows you to view archived versions of web pages from different points in time.

Using the list of URLs provided by the Associated Press, I entered them into the Wayback Machine one by one. For each URL, the tool displays a calendar with colored circles that represent how and when that page was captured:

●      Blue circles mean a successful snapshot was taken, and you can view the full page as it looked on that date.
●      Green circles show that the URL redirected to another page when it was archived.
● Yellow circles indicate the page was already unavailable -usually returning a 404 or other error.

I could visually track the life and disappearance of many of these images. For several URLs, I saw years of blue circles, snapshots taken regularly from 2016 through 2024. Then suddenly nothing in 2025. The digital trail just stopped.

In many cases, I was able to retrieve full pages and images from those archived versions, long after they were removed from the original source. The Wayback Machine helped me recover some content and helped me understand the timeline of erasure.

It was fascinating, and a little haunting, to see pages that had once been viewed regularly go completely dark after 2025.

Other Tools

When URLs failed, I searched by filename in quotes on Google. Tools like TinEye helped me track down reposted images or related files. Each time I found something, it felt like recovering a piece of someone’s legacy.

Making the Painting

Once I had gathered and documented the images, each one saved along with any available names, ranks, or identifying information, I began the building the painting itself.

I first decided on the overall scale of the piece and the size each portrait would need to be in order to hold presence but also work within the larger composition. Each image was opened in Photoshop and carefully prepared. I converted them to grayscale, reversed them for transfer, and layered in a transparent white background to ensure a uniform contrast across all portraits. Every detail mattered. I laid out the images two per page on 8.5 x 11 paper and saved each batch in groups of around twenty.

With the images printed and trimmed, I turned to the canvas. I mapped the surface, measured spacing, and marked where each image would lie. But instead of assigning them intentionally, I shuffled the 72 portraits face down. I wanted the final layout to reflect the randomness of erasure - that none of these women had chosen to be deleted. I drew each one at random, turned it over, and paused. I thought about the woman I was placing. What she gave. Who she might have been. I did this seventy-two times.

The transfer process itself was physical and intimate. I applied gel medium to the canvas and pressed each image down with my hands, making sure it adhered fully to the surface. I waited 24 hours, then began the delicate work of removing the paper. One by one, I soaked each section with warm water and used my fingertips to roll the paper fibers away, slowly revealing the image beneath. It was slow. Messy. And deeply human.

Once all images were revealed, I added additional media to the surface and sealed the entire painting. Around the edges of the canvas, I wrote the names of each woman I could identify. 

At first, this project came from a place of anger. I was outraged that these women, and what they represented, were being erased without acknowledgment. But as I worked, the project began to shift. I realized that like everything I create, this too needed to carry light. It needed to elevate, honor, and witness - not just resist.

And that’s what Content Not Found became. A protest, yes. But also a preservation. A tribute.