Although my work is representational, I typically construct narratives that are conceptually abstract manifestations inspired by personal experiences—very often about devastating and painful events that have taken place in my life, but more recently, also inspired by nature and experiences that bring me joy; the two are not mutually exclusive or clearly defined. Self-expression through the art-making process has always felt instinctive, in the same way that a child will play make-believe, daydream, or have nightmares. The theatrical element of fantasy and play has never really left my creative process.

As a painter, I attempt to employ the expressive qualities of color to convey emotion—the way that a cadmium red can be so full of light and life and vibrance, and also so gruesome and uncomfortably hot. The versatility of a medium like oil paint allows for a thin application that runs and recedes but also has the capacity to bear a visceral, thick smear that thereafter echoes the motion and expression of its making.

Storytelling is the foundation of my artistic process and it is easiest for me to be receptive to inspiration when I am surrounded by nature. However, inspiration is everywhere and is in everything—good and bad all at once and without structure. Sometimes it surprises me, often appearing unexpectedly. Using that inspiration and applying it to my work has proven to be a journey with no discernable destination; I’m still trying to figure out exactly what it is that I’m waiting to discover but I know that I’ll probably never fully figure it out. It’s an ever-evolving, intangible thing that I get a taste of, and that’s enough impetus for me to keep on searching.

In the spring, we kept our eyes out for newly hatched birds on the sidewalks, featherless and translucent, like beautiful little dinosaurs. I was mesmerized by the complexity of their anatomy—the internal organs and bones, the curled feet still clutching at nothing, of a creature who tried too soon, to fly.