Studio Treatise

I. The Act of Creation
Creating is living, the truest kind of motion. Each piece begins as an instinct, a pulse that demands form. I build from raw linen and pigment, layering until the surface feels alive, until it resists me. There’s a point when the painting starts to breathe on its own—when it no longer needs my direction but simply asks to be witnessed. That is the moment I live for: when something entirely new begins to exist, and I am allowed to watch it become.

II. The Frame
Framing is the final gesture of care: not containment, but completion. I choose each wood grain like a companion, coaxing its glow through layers of oil, stain, and wax until it hums beside the painting. The frame is a love story: the steady form that holds the work’s wildness, slowing the viewer’s gaze, drawing them into the same rhythm that shaped the piece. It is both threshold and embrace—a home built precisely for what cannot be tamed.

III. The Studio
The studio is my interior landscape—part workshop, part refuge, part experiment in controlled chaos. Steel cabinets guard the entrance, marking the shift from the world outside to the world within. On one side, white gallery walls where finished works breathe and converse; on the other, the territory of becoming—drop cloths, pigments, sand, tools, and the quiet orange glow from the window where the plants lean toward light. Paint splatters on stone and plank, stainless tables gleaming in the back where clean work waits its turn. Books line the far wall beside a well-worn couch and a pair of beanbags—one always claimed by Weezy, my headstrong dachshund and accidental muse.

IV. The Work in the World
My paintings are made to be lived with, not merely seen. They shift with the hours, revealing new textures and shadows each time you pass. I prefer them in soft ambient light—the kind that moves, that lets the surface whisper rather than shout. They converse easily when hung in groups, their energies overlapping like currents, creating spaces that alter time and pace. They invite pause. They reward attention. They breathe with the room.

V. Collaboration and Connection
The studio is most alive when others enter it—artists, friends, strangers who see something that stirs them. Those conversations remind me that art is never solitary; it only begins that way. Often, I find direction not in the finished surface but along the edges—where drips of old layers intermingle, raw and unintentional. Those accidental borders hold the truth of process, the place where creation shows its seams. From there, new work begins again—always expanding, always returning.