I never set out to become an artist.
Shortly after turning fifty, I picked up a paintbrush and began covering the walls of an old shed. There were no lessons, no rules, and no expectations—only curiosity. I dripped, flung, layered, scraped, blended, and played. What began as an experiment slowly became the language I had been searching for all along.
Years later, just before turning sixty, I discovered I have multi-sensory aphantasia—a neurological trait that means I cannot voluntarily create mental images or re-experience sights, sounds, smells, tastes, or touch in my mind.
The discovery answered a question I didn’t know I had.
I don’t paint visual memories.
I paint felt experiences.
Every painting begins with a feeling. Guided by curiosity and intuition rather than a mental image, I trust the process wherever it leads. Rather than recreating what I’ve seen, I translate what I’ve lived.
My work celebrates the beauty, complexity, and resilience of being human. Nature, joy, grief, healing, love, and wonder all find their way onto the canvas. Caring for my mother through Alzheimer’s deepened my understanding that while memories can fade, emotion often remains—and that understanding continues to shape both my life and my art.
Texture is central to my work. Many paintings are meant to be experienced not only with the eyes but, when appropriate, through touch. I believe abstract art becomes most meaningful when each viewer brings their own story.
I consider myself a naïve abstract artist in the truest sense of the word. I have no formal training, and I wouldn’t change that. My work is guided by instinct rather than technique, by feeling rather than formula.
If my paintings help someone feel less alone, more curious, more hopeful, or simply inspire them to pause for a moment, then they’ve already done exactly what they were meant to do.