I work in colored pencil on black paper, building light slowly until the image begins to reveal itself. The process is quiet and steady, unless the cat decides the drawing board is the warmest spot in the house, much like the way I move through memory and the parts of life that sit in the background.

Most of my drawings begin with something small: an object I’ve kept, a moment that stayed with me, or a detail from nature that feels like it’s trying to say something. I’ve always paid attention to those subtle signs, a fallen leaf, a snapped branch, a bird calling from somewhere you can’t see. They’re simple things, but they carry meaning if you sit with them long enough.

Birds appear often in my work. They feel like watchers or messengers, grounded but ready to lift off at any moment. Their presence shifts depending on how they’re placed. They can speak to freedom, vigilance, motherhood, or mystery, and they often become the voice of the piece.

I’m drawn to objects that feel worn or long kept. A bit of aged metal, a piece of gold, something with patina or history. These objects carry memory and a sense of time passing. They add weight and continuity to the work, and occasionally the dogs contribute their own… atmospheric commentary in the studio.

Some symbols come with a heavier human presence. A gold shoe, a worn boot, a length of chain. These aren’t dramatic props. They’re reminders of the lives we live, the burdens we carry, and the stories we inherit. They ground the surreal elements and connect them back to real experience.

My work sits somewhere between memory and imagination. It isn’t meant to be pretty or happy. It’s meant to be honest. I draw from who I am, where I came from, and the quiet corners I’ve always been drawn to. If something in the work resonates with you, I’m glad you’re here.