Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18
Ink and watercolor on paper, 2022
Four vertical trees stand quietly, about to be enveloped in light and lush green vines. The lines are black ink trunks rising through soft, living color.
This drawing echoes the spirit of Sonnet 18: enduring beauty, held in nature. It’s not about a literal summer’s day, but the way something can stay alive—growing, wrapping, returning—long after the moment has passed.
A Slow Falling Tree in an Unseen Forest
Black ink on paper, 2025
Drawn with loose, inky lines and a steady hand on a large sheet of precious paper. This piece feels like witnessing something you weren’t meant to see—silent collapse, slow transformation, beauty in motion and in mystery.
What falls quietly still makes a sound.
Assortment
2025, watercolor and ink on paper, 22×30”
A dozen splashes. Water drops frozen in motion, like they’ve just struck a pane of glass between you and something else. Ink washes ripple and collide—each mark its own small moment of impact.
Twelve is a number we trust: eggs, a jury, donuts, months in a year. Familiar, orderly. But here, it’s unpredictable. Scattered. Emotional.
Assortment is about how many things can land at once—thoughts, truths, memories—and how they rarely arrive clean or contained. Just honest.
Liberty
2025, ink on paper, 30×22”
She appears at the forest’s edge—part woman, part wind—clutching a great translucent orb as if it holds her name. The trees don’t restrain her. They summon her. The forest is her threshold, and she's answering its call.
She’s not running away. She’s being claimed. Drawn upward, outward, into something ancient and weightless.
Liberty is a moment of becoming. A letting go that is also a returning. The kind of freedom that doesn’t separate you from the world, but stitches you more deeply into it.
Un Aviateur de Quinze Ans No.1
2022, collage on paper, 34 x 26”
This piece is the first in a series inspired by Un Aviateur de Quinze Ans—a 1927 French comic book written by Arnould Galopin, who drew on the aviation fever of the time and the global fame of Charles Lindbergh. I stumbled on a box of these at an attic sale in Southern France last fall and couldn’t stop laughing at the mix of drama, invention, and wildly outdated ideas of adventure.
The collage reimagines those serialized exploits, slicing comic panels into a dense, vertical forest of vintage book pages. The sky behind is bright and surreal, a dream of open air beneath improbable action. Canoes dangle in midair. Jungle escapes collide with airborne mishaps. Every figure seems suspended mid-chaos—and yet, completely at home there.
Un Aviateur de Quinze Ans No.1 is part tribute, part satire, and part time-traveling fever dream. It’s a collage born from curiosity, amusement, and the pure joy of slicing up the past to build something entirely new.
Un Aviateur de Quinze Ans No.2
2022, collage on paper, 34 x 26”
This second piece in the Un Aviateur de Quinze Ans series takes the high-flying drama of the 1927 comic and spins it into a visual engine. Pages, headlines, and pulp illustrations radiate from a central scene like the blades of an airplane propeller—turning, repeating, gaining speed. At the core: three boys in bathing caps caught in some urgent, comical rescue, as if the whole universe is revolving around their moment.
The repeating blue title banners—UN AVIATEUR—become both design and declaration, surrounding the composition with the urgency of old-world adventure. Around the edge, soldiers, explorers, and wide-eyed witnesses orbit like fragments from some larger story mid-crash. It’s chaos, collage-style, stitched from melodrama and nostalgia.
This piece leans into the pulp of it all: the exaggeration, the excitement, the slightly ridiculous glory of boys’ adventure stories from another time—reassembled here with fresh energy and a wink.
Un Aviateur de Quinze Ans No. 4
2022, collage on paper, 34 x 26”
In this fourth chapter of the Un Aviateur de Quinze Ans series, the spectacle goes full tilt. Against a saturated blue sky, a collage mountain of characters climbs, clashes, and tumbles—pilots, prophets, soldiers, animals, and explorers locked in a theatrical scramble. Planes hover mid-air, weapons are drawn, and drama unfolds in every direction like an overacted stage play collapsing under its own weight.
The source material—pulpy 1920s French adventure comics—offered a dizzying mix of colonial fantasy, exoticism, and earnest heroics. This collage doesn't flatten that complexity, but throws it into a whirlwind. The cut-outs are rearranged into a new kind of terrain: part absurd tableau, part fevered archive of imagined dangers and overblown missions.
No. 4 is where things start to look unstable. As if the boy aviator’s world—once held aloft by wide-eyed idealism—is now losing altitude, drifting toward satire, myth, or maybe just a rough landing in the absurd.
Dream Chronicles
2025, watercolor and collage on paper, 7.25×9.5”
A small, lighthearted portrait of the dreaming mind. Inside the man's head: camels, flowers, a spider in its web—odd and vivid fragments that surface like echoes throughout the day. His crown of flowers adds a touch of absurd beauty, as if even his thoughts are blooming on their own schedule.
It’s a gentle nod to the way dreams linger—disjointed, strange, and strangely familiar. That quiet moment of "Oh right… that was in my dream."
A snapshot of the surreal logic that stays with us, whether we understand it or not.
We Built Bridges, Didn’t We?
2025, watercolor and collage with cut paper text, 7.25×9.5”
This small piece holds a sharp question: after all the years of progress, why does it feel like we’re going backward?
Soft washes and collaged text explore the persistent divide between the sexes. The title isn't nostalgic—it’s frustrated. Reflective. Even after building bridges, the gap remains.
Why are we still circling the same road?
she her
2025, watercolor and collage on paper, 15.5 x 15.5"
This piece is personal. A self-portrait with my fist raised, flanked by towering quotes—bold, unapologetic, and necessary. For a long time, I struggled to find my voice. she/her is the moment I claim it.
It’s my protest against the continued erosion of personal rights, especially those tied to our bodies and choices. I don’t understand how we're still debating autonomy—how equality remains conditional.
This work is a declaration: I’m here. I’m speaking. I’m not asking.
Boyhood
2025, collage and mixed media on paper, 7.25×9.5”
A quiet piece in muted tones. Inside the boy’s head, shapes begin to settle—horseshoe, horse, cattle, rope. Not fully formed memories, but impressions. Symbols of a world being absorbed before it’s fully understood.
Not a portrait, but the beginning of a story.
Girltalk
2025, collage and mixed media on paper, 7.25×9.5”
This piece offers a side view of a girl, but it’s her inner world that comes forward. A tiger, a horse, a chicken, a line of music, an old handwritten letter—all floating in the space around her head like thoughts in mid-formation.
These aren’t just memories or fantasies—they’re clues. Symbols of who she’s becoming. Some wild, some domestic. Some handed down, some entirely her own.
Girltalk is about the quiet discovery of identity, the way thoughts take shape before we have the words. It's not what she's saying out loud. It’s what she’s starting to understand, privately, inwardly—piece by piece.
Begin Diorama
2022, watercolor, collage, and cut paper in layered shadow box, 17 × 22.5"
Begin Diorama invites you to peer inward—literally and metaphorically. Built as a two-layered shadow box, its cut-out figures cast shifting shadows that move with the light in the room. At first glance, it’s a symmetrical design. But spend a moment with it, and the shapes begin to feel like something more intimate: a quiet reunion, a coming back into alignment.
The space between the layers holds a kind of pause—a breath between who you were and who you’ve become. The negative space creates both distance and definition, echoing the way we sometimes lose ourselves in the shuffle of life, only to return clearer and more whole.
This piece is about beginning again. About the small, profound relief of finally feeling like yourself again.
Assimilate Diorama
2022, watercolor, collage, and raised cut paper in layered shadow box, 17 × 22.5"
Assimilate Diorama maps out a quiet, intricate world—an imagined neighborhood filled with birds and their nests, each framed, each tucked into their own square of space. Raised paper silhouettes stretch across the composition, bridging these homes with flowing lines, suggesting shared roots, unseen connections.
Each figure appears mid-task: shaping, nurturing, preparing. There’s a sense of repetition and purpose—as if this is the daily rhythm of life in a place where everyone tends their nest. While the outer frames may echo sameness, the interior life is rich with pattern, care, and individuality. No two birds rest the same way. No two homes hold the same story.
This piece reflects the subtle, beautiful work of building lives—parallel and personal. Like neighbors in a tightly-knit block, we each carve out our corners, raise our young, and prepare them to fly.
Home Diorama
2022, watercolor, collage, and raised cut paper in layered shadow box, 17 × 22.5"
In Home Diorama, two figures kneel in mirrored gestures—offering, holding, supporting—surrounded by delicate towers topped with tiny houses and birds. Each pedestal feels like both architecture and altar, a place where something cherished is being carefully tended. The background is split into green and blue halves, like land and sky, anchoring the work in a balance between the grounded and the aspirational.
The cut paper silhouettes are filled with vintage imagery—nests, owls, birds in flight—all symbolic of the quiet labor of home-building and care. There's reverence in these gestures, a visual reminder that what we call "home" is made not just of walls, but of attention, devotion, and small daily acts of love.
Home Diorama speaks to the emotional infrastructure of domestic life. It’s not about perfection, but about presence—what it means to show up, hold space, and create shelter with intention.
Stomping Ground
2022, watercolor, collage, and layered cut paper in shadow box, 17 x 22.5"
Stomping Ground captures a flash of collective energy—figures moving in unison, caught mid-motion against a backdrop that shimmers with heat and pattern. The layered silhouettes are filled with their own internal choreography, suggesting memory, repetition, and rhythm passed between people.
The canopy above seems to rain color, echoing the feeling of a moment too full to last. This piece is about that rare sense of shared momentum—when everyone’s in step, if only for a beat.
It’s a memory, but also a reminder. We’ve had this before. We can make space for it again.
Make Merry Diorama
2022, watercolor, collage, mixed media, and layered cut paper in shadow box, 17 x 22.5"
Figures leap across a swirling ground of golds and blues, suspended mid-motion as if caught in the act of celebration. The cut silhouettes and shifting shadows give the piece a sense of movement and lightness—like a moment that won’t last, but matters all the more because of it.
“The time of life is short; to spend that shortness basely were too long.” —Shakespeare
This is a reminder: make room for joy. Make merry while you can.
Neighborhood Diorama
2022, watercolor, collage, and cut paper in layered shadow box, 17 x 22.5"
Neighborhood Diorama is a tribute to the dream of belonging—to a place where people know your name, your story, and maybe even your grandmother’s too. The silhouetted figures move in a line, hand in hand, across a vivid backdrop. Below them, snippets of vintage illustrations form winding paths—suggesting memory, history, and the stories we carry.
This piece comes from my own upbringing, moving often and living in distant places. While my childhood was full of wonder, I always longed for a town to return to, a place where I was rooted and recognized.
It’s about that deep human want: not just to live somewhere, but to be part of something.
Gather Diorama
17 x 22.5", collage, cut paper, and layered panel
There’s a quiet precision behind the swirl of movement here. The figures don’t just dance—they align, repeat, shift in rhythm, much like the patterns in lace. Choreography and lace-making share this: the balance of beauty and structure, the discipline that allows for fluid grace.
This piece is about togetherness, but not in chaos. It’s order in motion. A lace of bodies. A dance held in place.
Teapot
2024, watercolor on paper, 14 x 11"
This piece is my quiet nod to centuries of blue-and-white ceramics—specifically, the richly detailed porcelain traditions of Chinese art. The scene inside the teapot is invented: a boy fishing, lost in a moment of calm. Painted in indigo watercolor, it echoes the natural dyes and intricate storytelling often found on antique porcelain.
Teapot is both a study and a small act of homage. A simple object, holding a world.
3 Tea Cups
2024, watercolor on paper, 14 x 11"
There’s something endlessly satisfying about painting these blue-and-white vessels. In 3 Tea Cups, a small stack of porcelain doll sized cups balances in the foreground, while a mountain scene rises quietly behind them—like a daydream just beginning.
Each brushstroke feels like a moment of calm. I could make these all day.
Creamer
2024, watercolor on paper, 14 x 11"
This painting is inspired by a tiny blue-and-white ceramic doll’s set I’ve cherished for years. Creamer continues my exploration of invented scenes, loosely drawn in indigo washes that echo traditional porcelain designs. Inside this vessel, a group of figures gathers under a tree—part folklore, part fantasy.
It’s a small act of play, a way to create new stories in the style of an old tradition. Like the doll set, this piece holds more than it seems.
I Will Sing
2019, watercolor collage on paper, 22 x 30" (framed 26.5 x 34.5")
This piece grew from sketches made at the Bronx Botanical Gardens, where the gladiolus were standing tall and bold in their peak season. Their confident spires made an impression—each petal like a note in a chorus. The structure behind them is the garden's dome, a striking presence that shelters and frames the abundance inside.
With layered paper and bursts of color, I Will Sing is an ode to growth, to voice, and to the quiet power of showing up in full bloom.
Where the Water Flows
Collage on paper, 30 x 22”, 2018
An exploration of movement, memory, and flow. Each shape in this piece feels like it’s in the process of becoming—lifting, curling, trailing like water slipping past stones. I let the textures guide me, letting them suggest the flora of some imagined watershed.
A quiet map of where energy collects and spills. Where we’ve been, and where we’re headed.
I am painting with my emotions. On Nov 28, 2022, I learned that a dear friend was transitioning to the next world. I followed my intuition on colors and subject in my heart.
After her death it appeared on the cover of American Book Review, Spring 2023.
Six Sigma
Collage on paper, 30 x 22”, 2018
A meditation on order and mutation, Six Sigma takes the language of precision—repetition, calibration, containment—and tilts it into the unexpected. Polka dots, lunar phases, and lace patterns float in and out of sync. The symmetry starts to slip.
It’s a system being questioned. A rhythm interrupted. Beauty where the plan breaks open.
Whirling Dervishes
spray paint and ink on Fabriano paper, 22 x 30", 2024
A circle of figures surges forward, arms linked, feet lifted—caught mid-turn in ecstatic motion. Inspired by the Sufi ritual of spinning into spiritual release, this work captures the edge between groundedness and flight. The figures—inked in silhouette—are layered with lace-like patterning, evoking the pulse of shared breath and rhythm.
Their movement becomes a meditation. Not individual, but collective. Not just spinning, but ascending.
Always Good
2016, graphite and spray paint on paper
Two hands meet at the center, delicate and tentative. The background—lace stenciled in cobalt blue—feels like a curtain parting or a stage set for connection. I’ve always believed gestures speak louder than words, and this one is simple: hold on. Like many in this series, it began as a drawing from life and later found its place within a new environment of pattern and mood.
It Just Made Sense
2016, graphite drawing and spray paint collage on paper, 30×22”
After years of filling sketchbooks in life drawing sessions, I began pulling the figures back into new visual contexts. Here, a seated figure—rendered in quick, confident graphite—rests atop rows of spray-painted lace. The juxtaposition feels absurd and oddly right, like an inside joke between parts of myself. The seriousness of figure study meets the whimsy of stenciled pattern, and somehow—it just made sense.
Un Aviateur de Quinze Ans No.3
2022, collage on paper, 34 x 26”
In this third installment of the Un Aviateur de Quinze Ans series, the world spins a little faster and stranger. A full cast of vintage comic characters—explorers, warriors, exotic animals, even a fleeing man with a canoe—are caught in a dense globe of adventure, chaos, and colonial-era spectacle. The scene is framed by orbiting fragments: broken text, bits of title, and propeller-like pieces of visual debris.
The original comics, found at an attic sale in Southern France, mix early 20th-century heroism with wide-eyed myth-making. Here, those pulp storylines have been cut loose—freed from their linear plots and flung into orbit. The globe at center feels like both an island and a memory—some overstuffed dream of danger and glory, surrounded by the disintegrating machinery of its own legend.
Un Aviateur de Quinze Ans No.3 doesn’t try to make sense. It plays with the mess of nostalgia, hero worship, and visual spectacle. Everything’s in motion, everything’s up for grabs—and the boy pilot is nowhere to be seen.