All my life I wanted to be an artist, specifically a painter. My first memory is of drawing on sheets of newsprint spread on the floor by my mother. I drew throughout my childhood, but as life would have it, my path was forced in a different direction. On the side I tried oil paints but they didn’t resonate with me. For a time in my teens and twenties I worked on pastel portraits (at 17 years old I was offered a job at Opryland in Tennessee as a portraitist), pen and ink, and always, pencil. It wasn’t until the early 2000s, after moving to Arizona, that I took actual painting classes at the local college. There I discovered acrylics, which fit everything I wanted to be able to do as a painter. Life interfered again, but in 2016 I finally
I don’t have a deep and metaphoric secret to convey. I have no ideas about sending messages to the world via my art, or changing the way people think or understand concepts when they study my work. I just want to paint. Quite simply, when I stand in front of a canvas, time has no meaning. There’s nothing but me, the brushes and paints, the canvas, and a sometimes nebulous, sometimes crystalline image in my head that I want to share with the world. If there is anything to say, it is that I try to make someone who looks at my paintings as happy as I was when I was painting them.