I came to painting in my early twenties—not as a trained artist, but as a broke graduate student studying to become a psychotherapist. I couldn’t afford art for my walls, so I decided to try making my own. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I had a hunch that not-knowing could be a place to begin.

​

That hunch became a way of working—and a way of living. I learned to trust my intuition, to let color and feeling lead, and to follow the process wherever it wanted to go. Two decades later, I’m still listening.

​

My work lives in the space between what I see and what I sense. I often begin with a reference photo—something I’ve noticed on a walk or glimpsed out a window—but the painting rarely follows the image. Instead, it wanders. It searches. It becomes something else entirely. The real joy happens when I lose the map and let resonance guide me home.

​

For me, landscape painting isn’t about place—it’s about presence. A way to stay with what’s real, even when it’s unclear. A way to feel my way through.

​

I paint until something inside me says yes. And I’ve come to trust that if I want to live with a painting, someone else will too.