I paint what I live and what I see.

The quiet weight of everyday life. A snapshot. A moment felt before it could be named. The connection between myself and what I witnessed, rendered in paint before memory has a chance to soften it.

I do not want to stray from the beauty that is already present in this life. My work is an act of paying attention to it.

What I seek is truth in the telling. I am a narrator of captured moments, painting peace, solitude, loneliness, and hope. These are not invented stories. They are reinventions of real ones, rebuilt from memory in the studio, where recollection and instinct negotiate the final image together. Scenes from my dog walks or observations of human solitude. 

I approach the canvas with complete abandon. Paint moves spontaneously, even recklessly across the surface as if I am sculpting with clay. The paint glides and then resists. Layers accumulate. Texture becomes its own language. Color against color creates the drama, the tension, the exploration. Light is your entry point into the painting. Light is how you find your way out.

The canvas tells me what it needs, and I listen. This is not a monologue, it is a conversation, and I do not always know where it is going until we arrive. That exchange, that unfolding, is where the story lives.

I work in invented color. Color becomes both the surprise and the offering. I want the viewer to feel they can step inside what I have made. To pause. To find something that feels familiar and something they have never seen before, side by side. And then to find their own way out. That is the painting. That is the story. It belongs to both of us now.