My art practice explores what remains amidst flux—what endures across time, through loss, memory, and transformation. As a long-time meditation practitioner I begin each piece in stillness and allow it to unfold in dialogue with material and moment. This process mirrors the inner life: the way memories surface and recede, the way presence gathers around absence.

I work in layered media to trace the slow rhythms of time: the swell and ebb of tides, the erosion of stone, the drift of wind across sand. These are quiet forces that speak of endurance and impermanence, echoing my core question: What persists? Each piece is a kind of ecology—a meeting place of matter, memory, and motion. I see this practice as an act of attention and reverence—a way to witness the more-than-human world and reflect the interdependence we so often forget. The natural world does not ask to be remembered; it asks to be honored and upheld as the beautifully alive presence she is.

My work is a layered conversation—between media, memory, and the unknown. I begin each work with no fixed destination, only the curiosity of what the material might want to become. I work with pencil, found objects, charcoal, inks, acrylic, monotype, and photography—building palimpsests that carry traces of what came before. Some marks are buried. Some reemerge. It’s a process of obscuring and revealing, of listening for the image beneath the surface.

At times I work simply—transparent washes, dripping paint, stains and gestures. Other times, the canvas becomes a site of excavation, where history presses forward through texture and shadow. There is always something left behind—a trace, a scar, a whisper of form. This layering reflects the way we live: in moments accumulated, in histories embedded in the body, in stories half-remembered.

My art is a devotional act, not in a religious sense, but as an offering of attention. I follow the drift of ink, the gesture of a brush, the surprise of a print lifted from the press. Through this attentiveness, I hope to hold space for fierce compassion—for a kind of seeing that is both tender and unflinching. In a culture often driven by speed and certainty, I offer slow questions. My work is not an answer, but a place to rest in the asking.

My studio practice is meditative. It’s a space for fierce compassion—where I meet complexity with kindness, and invite ambiguity to speak. I don’t paint to capture something, but to be in relationship with it. In this way, the work becomes a field of presence—alive, changing, incomplete, and wholly itself.