My work begins in the quiet place beneath the noise—

the place where intuition, spirit, and the body speak in ways words can’t. I make art as a form of listening. Each piece starts with a felt sense: a tug in the chest, a flicker of light, a truth I haven’t yet named. Painting is how I stay in conversation with that unseen interior world.

Much of my recent work has been created in seasons of rupture—illness, heartbreak, uncertainty—and the canvas has become a place to metabolize what is too heavy to hold alone. I build my surfaces slowly, with layers of plaster, marble dust, thread, or raw linen, because healing itself is layered. Some marks are carved, some stitched, some washed with color until they glow. These materials help me make emotional truth tangible—something you can touch, not just sense.

The themes that move through my work—resilience, renewal, the return of light, the power of intuition—are not abstract ideas to me. They are lived experiences. Each collection traces a different facet of becoming: the hope that rises in dark seasons, the honesty required in grief, the courage of rebuilding, the tenderness of beginning again.

I consider myself a spiritualist artist. My practice is less about producing an image and more about entering a state of presence where something larger than me can come through. Every painting is an act of trust. Every mark is a conversation with what is asking to be healed, held, or transformed.

My deepest intention is that the work offers the viewer a moment of recognition—a sense of breath returning, a softening, a reminder that they are not alone in their own thresholds. These paintings are invitations to pause, to feel, to remember that even after the hardest seasons, there is always a way forward, and always a way back to yourself.