My paintings begin with a curiosity about how things are built, how they hold together, how they drift apart. I am drawn to the tension between form and freedom, between connection and individuality. In the studio, I construct colorful abstractions that echo the internal logics of nature: layered, alive, sometimes unruly, but always tending toward a kind of balance.
My imagery is invented, but it is deeply rooted in observation. I look closely at the natural world not just at its surfaces, but at its patterns, its repetitions, its unexpected harmonies. At first glance, nature can seem chaotic: a tangle of growth, competition, movement. But when I spend time with it, I see an intricate, sometimes strange, and often elegant order beneath that surface. My work is a way of translating that experience a process of distilling the complexity into a visual rhythm, a field of evolving relationships between shape, color, and space.
I think of the forms in my paintings as characters in a kind of ecosystem each with its own integrity, but part of a greater whole. They shift, interact, overlap, and sometimes collide, but they exist together within the larger framework of the painting. Color is a central element in how I explore these interactions—it’s not only emotional, but structural, a way of building connection or contrast.
There is a quiet thread of memory that runs through all of my work. Many of my paintings take their titles from lines of poetry written by my mother, who was both a poet and a painter, and who passed away in 2008. Her words feel like a foundation sometimes guiding, sometimes haunting, always present. Naming the work with her language is both a gesture of homage and a continuation of the conversation we began long ago.
In the end, my paintings are about making sense not through explanation, but through sensation. They are meditations on how things relate, how beauty arises out of complexity, and how meaning can emerge from the quiet arrangement of form and color on a surface.
