A sampling of series work from the past five years
Click images for a full viewing. More from each series available upon request.
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.
It’s Pretty Simple Really
I’ve found that sometimes, the most profound things are the ones that don’t try too hard to be important. In this series, I wanted to return to the elementary—to the tactile, unpretentious honesty of construction paper and the expansive freedom of a large-scale sweep. There is something transformative about taking a material so humble and giving it the space to breathe across a six-foot expanse.
These works arrived organically, born from a desire to work large and expressive without the weight of a complex plan. I let the paint find its own way, following the natural rhythm of the hand until the paper began to speak. What emerged was a quiet, wild garden: the sudden lean of a tree, the soft weight of a petal, and the intricate architecture of a single leaf.
It is a celebration of the integrity found in the first mark and the depth that lives within a clear, vibrant color. It’s an invitation to strip away overthinking that can so often clutters our vision, and simply look.
I invite you to stand before these tall, expressive windows and notice the way the light sits on the surface. There is a raw, joyful energy here—a reminder that when we get back to the basics of shape and spirit, the world becomes a little more luminous. It isn’t a puzzle to be solved; it’s just a moment to be felt. And really, it’s as simple as that.
Dishabituality
There is a quiet danger in the familiar. In the studio, as in life, we often fall into a habituated way of creation—a repetition of gestures that, over time, can weaken the very energy they were meant to express. The vitality of a mark fades into the background noise of normalcy. To find the spirit of the work again, I break the habit.
This series of mixed-media reconfigurations act as a restorative jolt to my own artistic history. By literally taking apart old paintings on paper, cardboard, and canvas, I have interrupted their habitual existence. I treat these previous works not as finished objects, but as raw, sleeping energy waiting to be reawakened.
I cut, I dismantle, and I restructure. These fragments are brought back to full strength through the act of reconfiguration, some unified under a singular, expansive field of white gesso like the Palimpsest series.
Through this process of accumulation and editing, the original images are not lost—they are restored. The altered surface still contains the original marks and gestures of color, but by breaking the original, often tight or flat pattern, I have allowed the work to inhabit a state of grace once more and to enter into a new way of habitating their space.
Reassembled histories, interrupted patterns, and the vibrant return to a hard-won strength in the gentle quiet.
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.
Palimpsest
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.
Vertical Silence
My creative process is often an act of paying attention to the quietest vibrations, but in these works, that silence has a weight to it. Using charcoal and ink, I lean into the stark, gestural intensity of the unfinished. There is a stripping away of the unnecessary here; it is a visual record of things being pulled down by gravity and pushed up by a persistent need to bloom.
I choose to leave the scribbles and the heavy, dark stains visible as a form of honesty. In a world that prizes the solid and the polished, I am looking for the power in the fluid and the falling. These paintings command attention not by shouting, but by vibrating with the energy of a world in flux. They are an invitation to be still, even when everything feels like it is in motion, and to recognize the strength inherent in our own vulnerability.
Murmur
I have always been fascinated by the way a message moves—the quiet, succinct passing of an utterance from one to another
In nature, a murmuration is a wondrous community held together not by a single leader, but by the simple, immediate response of each bird to the five or six beside it
Murmur is my attempt to bring that sky-bound emotion down to earth
This installation is a prompt to return to the basics: to know, to connect, and to encourage
