There was a time when my work leaned into the harshness of things. A few years back, I painted a series of underwater faces and figures that was very different from my current work. These paintings reflected some of the hard aspects of being human — powerlessness, vulnerability, my own grief. At that time, I needed to process some realities that weren’t pretty, and as an artist, this was my path through. There’s an important place for work that doesn’t turn away from what’s difficult, disturbing, and even ugly.

In more recent years, my work has shifted. It's become focused on beauty — light, water, nature, peace. Some might call it “pretty,” and maybe it is, but I hope not in a superficial way as I'm not trying to decorate or distract. Instead, I have a desire to hold onto something real and eternal in a fractured world.

I’ve realized that painting beauty is not about ignoring brokenness. It’s a way of responding to it, of saying: this isn’t all there is. There’s something greater, deeper, more whole. The world can be ugly, but painting what is beautiful can be a quiet act of resistance—one that insists on hope. I don't think everything is fine. Far from it, but I believe in the possibility of redemption.

I believe in a transcendent reality—something beyond what we see and experience here. I believe in a Love — with a capital ‘L’ —who embodies truth, beauty, and goodness. I want my work to reflect that. Not to sentimentalize or simplify, but to bear witness to what is still true and lasting.
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So yes, I "paint pretty" because I believe beauty points beyond itself, and because I need to remember that there is more. I need to remember that even in a world marked by suffering and loss, there remains a deeper story  — a story of restoration, of presence, of grace. When I paint something of beauty, I'm pointing toward that story. I’m trying to create work that invites others into it too — not to escape reality, but to see it more clearly in light of something greater.

I am, by nature, an explorer. I’m the one who wants to take the little side trail on a hike, grow an exotic vegetable, or try something completely new just to see what happens. (Wild and crazy, right?) Curiosity has always been a guiding force in my life—and it’s very much present in my art practice. I often get asked how I came up with my process. The truth? I explored and played with my materials. I followed the path of curiosity.

Let’s start with texture. The use of texture on a 2D surface is nothing new. You’ll find it throughout art history: from ancient Egyptian tomb paintings to the carved plaster walls of Renaissance Italy, to the thick, expressive impasto of Van Gogh’s brush. Texture has long served as a tool to convey emotion, energy, and movement. It adds depth and dimension, drawing viewers into a painting not just visually, but almost physically. For me, it’s a vital component—something that brings each piece to life.

Then there’s metal leaf—gilding. This too is an ancient art form, dating back thousands of years. Gold leaf has adorned Indian temples, Egyptian sarcophagi, Byzantine icons, and Medieval manuscripts. The Japanese used it exquisitely for centuries. It’s a meticulous process: the metal is hammered into impossibly thin sheets (often 1/250,000th of an inch!), then applied with a special adhesive to create a glowing, reflective surface. Historically, it was often used as a background—what’s known as “gold grounding”—to elevate the subject in a literal and symbolic light. I incorporate this same technique, using it to create a unifying base layer of luminosity and color temperature.

During the lockdown of 2020, with a cleared calendar and time to spare, I dove into experimentation. I took online classes, tried new materials, and let myself wander creatively. I leaned into traditional methods—those rooted deeply in art history—but allowed myself the freedom to use them in ways that felt entirely my own.
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The Reflections on Metal Leaf series was born from this season. It’s a culmination of curiosity, historical influence, and contemporary expression – a development of a deeply personal visual language. These works reflect not just the light they catch, but the beauty, complexity, and movement of the world around us. 

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