It is incredibly important to me to be self-aware; to pick things apart, understand them, and set them aside. As a kid I made messy, angry pastel drawings and paintings, as if paper and canvas were mirrors that reflected my insides, and I painted distorted self-portraits in college as I wrestled with skill, identity, and loss. I strove to make painting a conduit for self-discovery, but the completed works were devoid of the emotional weight I felt while painting them—just faces frozen in time. So, after college, I spent 15 years working on behalf of other artists as a curator, writer, and business consultant, making unsatisfying paintings only for myself.

The COVID-19 pandemic upended many people’s lives, including mine. I lost many things—a baby, a teaching job, consulting projects. My ego, which I had been clinging to with clenched fists all my life, had quietly slipped out of my hands. I felt unmoored; a heavy fog of meaninglessness settled over me in 2020, thickened by the clarity of my mortality. Compelled by the same desire for understanding that drove me all those years ago, I made a narrative painting (Michael) unlike anything I had ever made before. I found something to say, and a way to say it.

I no longer expect paintings to reveal who I am or translate my feelings like the Rosetta Stone. I allow myself to look at a person or object—a friend, a skull, a sunrise—and feel something, live there for a moment, let it go to return to the present, and construct a painting from whatever lingers. What matters most to me now is my ability to provoke real feeling in others. Like a film that captures the mood, breadth, and emotional impact of a story, I want to transport people to another place and give them an opportunity to see, think, and feel differently.