I make art for the people who have forgotten themselves, so they can have a quiet moment to come back to center.
Once we learn to do that we can start to make meaningful connections with the people and communities we live in.

I believe in the quiet power of small moments of stillness because those tiny pauses are where awareness unfurls — where the noise softens enough for the first true feeling to arrive. Over a practice of making art for people who’ve forgotten themselves, I’ve seen how a single intentional breath or a minute of quiet reflection can be the hinge between drifting through life and beginning to feel content. Small moments aren’t a magic cure; they’re the first step that makes continued care possible. They teach you to notice what’s been muted, to feel without being overwhelmed, and to choose one gentle action that opens the next.

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I want to give busy people a gentle place to stop, and to hand them the first step when they feel unsettled or frustrated but don’t know what to do next. I wanted paintings and a practice that whispers: start here.

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The problem that kept me from offering that was the pressure to keep moving, to prove everything was “fine” by staying busy. Not even realizing how profoundly things has affected me because "This is how things are" and "just get this done and we can rest" types of mentality. I'm sure it’s the same thing many of you face: you’ve built a life you thought should make you happy, and yet there’s this persistent unease. You feel unsettled or frustrated and you don’t know why — or how to begin fixing it.

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The solution for me came when I found myself standing in the middle of an empty street, in a foreign country, surrounded by unfamiliar signs and silence. In that small stillness, clarity arrived: the things I had been avoiding inside myself were the source of the unrest. That single quiet moment gave me more clarity than months of movement ever had. From that discovery the whole practice grew a deliberate attention to small pauses, translated into color, texture and space in each piece. My work is shaped by those minutes of noticing, by the idea that clarity can begin in a single calm breath.

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The transformation since committing to making art from those moments came gradually, my life and my practice have changed. I move with more willingness to stop, to feel, and to return to the work with honesty. The paintings now act as small sanctuaries in people’s homes: places that name both sorrow and gratitude, invitations to begin. When you bring a work into your life, my aim is that it feels the same as that gentle permission I found on that empty street — the permission to pause, to see what’s been there all along, and to take the first step toward repair.