Painting quiets my mind. Each piece begins as a kind of puzzle, and I work intuitively until it feels complete—until the image settles into something that no longer asks for more. I paint in acrylics for their immediacy and ease. They're practical, forgiving. Oil still feels like a future language I’m learning to speak.

I tend to work quickly, often from reference, because memory can be elusive—faces shift, limbs drift. When I try to paint directly from my imagination, the image won’t stay still long enough. It begins to move. Anchoring the figure helps me stay in conversation with it.

As I get older, I’ve become more attuned to the many forms of quiet. Not absence, but presence without noise. Painting is one of those spaces. At times, it feels like a silent dialogue with God—wordless but deeply clear, full of grace and direction.

At its core, my work is about witnessing. The experience of being unseen—especially in moments of grief or inner disarray—can be quietly devastating. These paintings attempt to sit with that experience, to make space for it. Not to solve or explain, just to notice.

My perspective is shaped by many things: womanhood, cultural inheritance, personal loss. These don’t make my work exceptional, but they do inform my sense of what feels appropriate, what feels disruptive, and what deserves tenderness. Expression and connection remain central to what I do. If the work offers a moment of recognition, or even quiet companionship, then it’s doing what it’s meant to do.