In my Provincetown studio, I work instinctively letting images arrive without a fixed plan. A painting might begin with a familiar landscape, but something strange or playful always pushes through: a giant chicken foot, a floating eye, a crocodile with red nails and a yellow bow. These odd, sometimes humorous details help express a truth that can’t always be explained, only felt.
I’m drawn to the unexpected. My paintings often begin with a phrase, a memory, or something from nature, and take shape through a kind of quiet rebellion—doing what I’m not supposed to do. That freedom, that honesty, is what keeps the work alive. I follow where the painting leads, even when it surprises me. Especially then.
