WELCOME
There’s a story I’ve carried for a long time.
As a teenager, I remember a conversation with my older brother about whether making art could actually count as a real career. He knew my work, but wasn’t convinced. To him, “pretty” wasn’t enough—art had to carry weight, provoke something larger, change people in some measurable way. That idea didn’t come from him alone; it echoed from other corners too. The message was clear enough that I accepted it.
So I redirected. I studied Communication Design and spent the next 12 years working in graphic design and advertising, trying to make things that did something—communicated, persuaded, performed. It was a useful education in structure, clarity, and intention.
I stepped away when I started raising a family, expecting that to be the pause. Instead, it became the beginning of something else. Without the external assignments, the work shifted. Painting returned—not as a departure from that earlier discipline, but as something quieter and more personal that had been waiting underneath it.
What I’ve ended up with is less a reinvention than a long negotiation with myself: the permission to make work that doesn’t have to justify itself through impact or argument. Just attention, light, and the stubborn belief that “pretty” was never actually the problem.
I spent years trying to make art with purpose, then learned beauty was purpose enough.
I survived winter in Upstate New York by painting what the snow forgot to hide.
