I have long been drawn to the threshold where water meets land—a place both fleeting and eternal. My earliest memories are stitched with fog, salt air, and the rhythm of crashing waves along the New Hampshire shoreline. The beach was never a calm retreat, it was wild, mercurial, and full of energy. That early exposure to the raw, unsettled weather of New England’s coast shaped the way I see and render the world.
My work is a meditation on the ocean, not just as a subject, but as a force. I am interested in the tension between the natural world and our attempts to interpret, contain, or shape it. Organic forms collide with human geometry; swells and spirals echo the movement of water, fog, or light, but they are anchored by structure, by mark, by intention. These tensions unfold slowly in the work, never with the declarative clarity of realism, but with the suggestive ambiguity that abstraction allows.
Conceptually, images like lighthouses, swirling water, and dense fog inform the atmosphere of my paintings. They are not always visible, but they haunt the surface. There is something deeply compelling about the way such coastal elements serve as symbols, guides, warnings, veils. My paintings ask viewers to wander through these visual cues, to consider what is hidden and what is revealed.
Artists like Robert Motherwell have deeply influenced my approach. His Beside the Sea series, painted from his Cape Cod studio, resonates with my own desire to translate landscape into gesture and tone. I also carry with me the language of Budd Hopkins, Wendelin Glatzel, and Dave Hay. Each of them shaping my understanding of movement, surface, and restraint.
I work primarily in oil, often building layers that mimic sediment or tide lines, using brush and palette knife to sculpt the surface. The paint moves like water at times, but there is always an edge, a resistance. That is where the work lives for me—in the space between flow and form, between memory and material.