About

The first "real" art I ever made was a crayon drawing of our family dog when I was six or seven. Through my eyes, it was astonishingly realistic — I was amazed at my ability to capture her likeness and energy. It felt powerful. However, the adults in the room did not share my assessment. I think that is the point where I realized, on a subconscious level, that art, though it connects with others, is essentially for yourself.

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My mother was an artist, so making art never felt like an outlier. It felt like a language that was already in the house.

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For the last twelve years, that language was collage. It started quietly — fragments of found paper appearing in my paintings, a reference here, a connection there. Very quickly the collage elements overtook the paint entirely, and paint became relegated to the background — literally. I used exclusively, found papers and objects that had lived a life, had a history, and they brought it to the work. Collage for me was thoughtful, intentional, meditative. I collaborated with the found items and they told stories I couldn't see until the piece was finished. I needed that magic. I loved the structure, the introspection, and the stillness.

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Until I didn't.

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I can't fully explain why painting suddenly became my language again — and in such a different way. Loose. Wild. Color for the pure joy of putting it on canvas. I know that down the road I'll be able to look back and see why collage stopped being my primary language and this new way of communicating began. Right now, I don't need to know. I just feel the joy.

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My work has often been about women's experience. That was never a conscious decision. It just kept emerging.

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I'm seeing something powerful in the way women, especially younger women, are showing up right now all over the world. Strength. Boundaries. A steady gaze that says we are not asking permission. I want to be part of that. The bears series came from that place. First we chose the bear. Now we become her. I have no idea what comes after the bears. Isn’t that exciting?

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What I want for anyone who brings my work home is simple, and it isn't small: to be reminded of the strength, softness, and beauty of their feminine side. Of their ability to endure, bear witness, and push back. They walk past the painting every day and that message seeps in slowly, quietly. You are not alone and you have power.

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I've watched people look at my work in person — really look at it. They don't look at it so much as into it. It always makes me wonder: do they see something in the art, or does the art see something in them?