I make paintings and drawings that sit with the things we almost forgot — childhood objects, quiet still lifes, florals that feel like they’re holding a secret. My work returns again and again to nostalgia, not as sentiment, but as a lens. Memory distorts. It softens some things and sharpens others. I’m interested in what gets kept, and why.

My process is layered and deliberate. In colored pencil, I build slowly — texture, form, and light accumulating over time until the image holds the mood I’m after. In oils, I work more directly, laying down bold marks and then returning across sessions to deepen and complicate what’s there. Across all mediums, I’m chasing the same thing: the feeling of recognition. That moment when a viewer sees something familiar made strange again.

I want my work to create wonder and demand a second look. The themes I return to most — hope, joy, memory, growth, and occasionally grief — aren’t chosen for comfort. They’re chosen because they’re the ones I keep coming back to whether I want to or not. I believe art can hold both escape and clarity at once, and I try to make space for both.

My work lives in galleries, in classrooms, and on tables at art markets. Wherever it lands, the invitation is the same: look closer. You might remember something true.