Figuring It Out

I’ve always suspected that canvases have a life of their own when my back is turned. In this series, I’ve decided to stop trying to tidy them up. I leave the edges unpinned and the layers loose, letting the history of the work flutter like a hemline or a forgotten thought. It’s a bit “curiouser and curiouser”—a world where the glue has gone on strike and the margins are starting to fray.

And then, out of the white rabbit-hole of the void, these characters arrive.

They are my imaginary “figures,” a bit bossy and entirely uninvited. One might lean heavily against a yellow grid; another might stretch its charcoal limbs across a field of pink. They aren’t quite sure what they are, and I’m in no hurry to tell them. I’m simply “figuring them out”—coaxing them into the light with thick black oil and a bit of grit, just to see what kind of mischief they intend to get into today.

It’s a bit of a pun, of course, and a bit of a riddle. Am I building a figure, or am I solving the mystery of my own life? Probably both. But don’t look for a map here—there isn’t one.

Instead, look at the way the light catches a loose corner. Follow the path of a charcoal smudge that doesn’t know where to stop. Let your eyes wander into the pockets of color where these strange guests are hiding. There is so much to see in the “not-quite-finished” and the “just-imagined.” Come in, lean close, and get lost in the middle of it all. It’s much more delightful when you don’t know the way out.

Subtle

Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.  Anne Sexton

In a world that demands our loudest selves, I invite you to look closer. 

Subtle is an exploration of the power found in settling down and the profound act of paying attention.

Through large-scale canvases—reaching up to five feet—I am paradoxically seeking smallness. This is not the smallness of hiding, but the smallness of the palm of the hand: a focus on what is within our immediate reach and our inherent power. 

By repeating hand-cut lino block patterns and layering encaustic and oil in soft, ombre gradients, I’ve created a visual rhythm that mimics a steady breath. These works command attention not by shouting, but by vibrating with a quiet, undeniable strength. 

Subtle reminds us that beauty isn’t always found in the grand gesture, but in the steady, creative work we do right in front of us.

Palimpsest of the Void 

This series of mixed-media reconfigurations that explore the cyclical nature of creative and personal renewal. By dismantling existing works on paper, cardboard, and canvas, I treat my own artistic history as raw material. These fragments are restructured into new, singular compositions—secured with industrial staples and unified by layers of white gesso.

The “blank canvas” is traditionally a site of anxiety or potential; here, it is a hard-won destination. Through a process of accumulation and editing, the original images are not lost, but rather hushed. The textures of the cardboard ridges, the frayed edges of the canvas, and the ghost-like outlines of previous marks remain legible beneath the surface. This work navigates the space between starting over and carrying the weight of what came before, transforming the act of “covering up” into a radical act of transformation.

The staples are not merely fasteners; they are the sutures of an internal repair. The gesso does not hide the past, but offers it a state of grace—an interior whitewashing that allows the spirit to inhabit a new, expansive quiet.

Reassembled histories, steel-bound fragments, and the quietude of gesso.

Well okay, maybe just one

I’ve always suspected that color has a secret life when we aren’t looking. In these pieces, I wanted to catch it in the act—to let the oil paint spill across the paper in a slow, syrupy crawl until it finds a shape it likes. There is a delicious, defiant freedom in a line that wiggles simply because it can, or an edge that pools like a quiet afternoon.

And then, right in the center of that fluid world, a bloom arrives. It’s a quick, gritty exhale of spray paint—a soft, fuzzy “hello” that anchors the drift of the hue.

The title, Well okay, maybe just one, is the internal whisper of a Tuesday afternoon—the one that gently pulls at your sleeve when you stumble upon something bright. It is the irresistible impulse to lean in for a single, decadent taste and finding, quite happily, that the first bite was only a tease. It’s a celebration of the “too much”—the sugar-rush of a blue so deep it feels like a dare, or a shape so simple it feels like a long-held breath finally released.

There is a tactile magic in the way the grit of the spray meets the slickness of the oil, and a certain music in the wide, breathing spaces where the paper is left to dream. I find myself returning to these edges again and again, captivated by the way a single mark can change the temperature of the room. Perhaps you’ll find a favorite among them, or perhaps, like me, you’ll find that one is never quite enough.