My Work

There's no photograph of the life that used to be here. Just a color that won't sit still. A texture with no clean edge. That's the closest thing to true.

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I call it a room, though I don't mean walls. I mean whatever held something real and let it go — an old farmhouse with wallpaper curling off the plaster and shoes still by the door. A summer night thick with fireflies, decades gone, still living under my skin. A self I used to be and can't get back to, because I kept moving and it didn't come with me.

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I stand witness to life, painting it a way to be seen anyway.

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It isn't only my rooms. Every life carries a farmhouse, a firefly night, a self outgrown. Painting is how I stand in one of those rooms, mine or anyone's, and say: this happened, someone was here, it counted.

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Being witnessed is one of the most valuable things one person can offer another, and painting is how I offer it.

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Witnessing doesn't only look backward. It points at what hasn't happened yet — the next room, unbuilt, waiting on nothing but the willingness to walk toward it. Getting there takes recklessness — you don't get to keep the old room and build the new one at once. At some point you let go and move, before you feel ready.

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That's the real subject of this work: every room any of us has stood in, are standing in, or have yet to build, all of it seen, all of it held at once.

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That's the argument for working abstractly. A finished picture would lie to you, pretending the room is still intact. Layers and unresolved color tell the truth instead: most of what mattered doesn't come back whole.

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You're left with fragments — the unseen and unspoken, given form without being explained — left to do some of the finding, and the witnessing, yourself.

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I'm not asking you to see my room. I'm asking you to notice you have one too. The painting is how I share mine — not explained, just offered — a color, a layer, a fragment left for you to sit with.