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I have always found my way back to making things.

From salvaged wood and house paint to watercolors after long shifts at work, art has been less a career choice and more a kind of homing instinct. Something I return to when life gets complicated, or quiet, or both.

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My formal training came later than most — Old Masters techniques, drawing from life, oil painting — begun in my forties through a year-long mastery program. When a New England winter made my studio too cold to paint, I picked up an iPad mostly out of stubbornness. I didn’t learn digital art the conventional way. I just painted. One layer, like canvas. Letting the medium do what it wanted while I did what I had learned to do — compose, observe, build light slowly from dark.

That happy accident became my practice.

No matter the medium, I work the same way — building layers slowly, then pulling back to reveal what was always underneath. The women I paint are archetypes more than portraits, carriers of something older than any single face. The animals arrive the same way — from the yard, from travels, from the corner of my eye — not chosen so much as noticed. I paint what shows up and asks.

I think of my work as altar art. Made for personal spaces and threshold moments — the corner of a room where someone keeps the things that matter. Not quite living room art. Something more personal than that.
I hope something looks back at you that you recognize.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​