Every Part of You Has a Secret Language
2025, acrylic and collage on canvas, 24x30"

Printing my own patterns on translucent paper changed everything for me this year. It took time—trial, error, and more than a few wrong turns—but it became the missing piece. The way I could finally say what I needed to say through the work.

This painting is layered with those printed marks, soft and lacy, like whispers under the surface. It’s about how every part of us—seen or hidden—speaks its own language. We just have to find the right way to listen.

“What do you want from me?”
“Grace.” — Rumi

Grace
2025, collage and acrylic on canvas, 30x30"

This piece came from that question. Turquoise and pink flow like quiet emotion, and lace veils fall gently through the space—like suspended breath. I added touches of gold foil, not as decoration, but as light. As presence. As something sacred that shows up, quietly, in the folds.

To me, this painting feels like a hanging garden of tenderness. A place where longing rests. A place that asks nothing but to be seen.

2025, acrylic and collage on panel, 20x20"

This one unfolded like the first chapter of an epic. I felt like I was crafting a world—lush, strange, and layered with secrets. A faraway kingdom stitched from florals, lace, and forgotten maps. Creatures with wings of wallpaper, castles from vintage print.

At some point I thought: “No one remembers exactly when the forest started whispering. Only that it never stopped.”

This painting might be book one of a three-part tale. Or just a portal you fall into when you’re not paying attention.

For One Seed You Get a Whole Wilderness
2025, acrylic and collage on canvas, 24x30"

This piece came together slowly, layer by layer. As I worked, I kept thinking about how a single seed—an image, a shape, a feeling—can grow into something much bigger.

Each bit of collage felt like planting one. The painting became its own kind of wilderness—unplanned, alive, full of texture and movement. It’s about how something small can start everything.

2025, collage and acrylic on canvas, 30x30"

I’ve taken more photos of trees than I can count—especially when the light filters through just right. That soft glow feels like a quiet conversation I never want to end.

This painting is built from that feeling. A tree in bloom, petals beginning to fall. Collage, lace, light, and memory—all layered into a moment that feels both full and fleeting.

Where are you?
It’s the question I ask myself in front of such majesty. Not to find something lost, but to feel more present.

They Will Carry Me

2025 collage, acrylic on canvas, 30×30”

It’s about something safe, something wild, something true.

This painting holds a place I imagine exists inside all of us—a secret, sacred spot surrounded by love, friendship, and the quiet power of being seen. The blue elements feel like a map, as if we’re looking down from above onto a place we’ve always known but can’t quite explain. A hidden refuge ringed with waterfalls and winding waterways.

I built it slowly, with layers of collage—my printed papers, decorative scraps, even pieces of napkins. All of it pieced together to form a kind of invitation. A world you could step into. One where, when you're too tired to go on, you know: they will carry me.

Hear Blessings Dropping Their Blossoms Around You
2025, collage and acrylic on canvas, 30x40"

“Stop being sad.
Hear blessings dropping their blossoms around you.” — Rumi

This painting began the moment I read that line. Rumi’s words have a way of stopping me mid-thought, mid-breath. I can’t read a single one without seeing something—images rush in, full of light, color, and stillness.

This piece is a response to that feeling. A kind of prayer made with pattern and paint. It holds space for sorrow, but gently redirects it toward wonder. Toward the soft rain of unseen grace.

“Walk in Your Garden”
2025, acrylic and collage on panel, 18x24"

This one is about moving through your own reality—part walking, part floating. The figure isn’t lost, just fully inside a world of their own making.

I built this garden with scraps and softness, the way we build inner spaces—with memory, imagination, and instinct. It’s a reminder that we each carry places like this inside us.

Private, strange, and deeply ours.

Some days, the only way forward is through the world you’ve made for yourself.

What is your intention?
2025, collage and acrylic on canvas, 18x24"

A figure swims in their own reflection—neither above nor below, just suspended in the in-between. Their body holds a painted landscape: trees lining a river, like memory printed on skin.

This piece is about that quiet moment before movement. When you ask yourself not just what, but why. When you float in your own thoughts long enough to see the truth ripple back.

The question isn’t always answered out loud. But it’s always worth asking.

The Hanging Gardens of Jackalope
2022, collage and acrylic on canvas, 40x30"

Somewhere between the LED billboards of Times Square and the drifting scent of spring blossoms, this painting began. I was walking through all that noise and light when I looked up—and there they were: tiny petals floating through the chaos like a glitch in the simulation. That’s when the jackalope arrived.

This is a garden built by myth. It blooms in the sky, loops through dream logic, and spills over with invented species and tangled symbols. Blossoms hang midair, vines curl into synthetic color, and fragments of memory snap into place like mosaic. It’s too much—but on purpose. The kind of too-much that feels exactly right.

The Hanging Gardens of Jackalope is part fairy tale, part fever dream, and part protest against the idea that beauty needs to make sense. Sometimes the flowers just fall, and we’re lucky enough to catch one on the way down.

In the Palace
2025, collage and acrylic on canvas, 30x30"

“Where have you been the most comfortable?”
“In the palace.” — Rumi

This piece carries the feeling of that line. A place both real and remembered. When I lived in the countryside of England as a child, we had a garden wall with a moat tracing its edge—it felt like a secret kingdom tucked inside our everyday life.

As I built this painting, I kept thinking about that garden. The hush, the hidden corners, the quiet kind of comfort that stays with you. A palace not of gold, but of memory, pattern, and light.

Dappled Dawn
2018, enamel, oil sticks, oil, resin on panel, 96×60”

Dappled Dawn is a memory held in color and texture—a foggy blue forest with pink light just beginning to break through. It’s not a literal place, but it carries the imprint of a life spent among trees. For 25 years, I lived on the side of a mountain, surrounded by acres of forest and a cast of wild neighbors: bears, deer, guinea hens, and woodpeckers that drilled their rhythms into the day. The mornings were slow and holy. This painting holds that stillness, and also the sense of slow emergence.

Created after I moved to New York City, the piece became a way to keep the forest with me—large, layered, and immersive. Oil stick lines suggest branches and movement; resin gives a gloss of mist or memory. The trees no longer surround me physically, but their presence hasn’t left. They still shape the way I see light, space, and silence.

Dappled Dawn is both a farewell and a return. A map of the in-between: city life layered over rural memory, the past bleeding softly into the present. The forest hasn’t gone—it’s simply changed form.

Diptych, 60 x 80" (each panel 60 x 40")
Enamel, oil, and oil stick on canvas, 2024

Garden Path captures a fleeting moment that never truly fades—the sun setting over the Hudson River as seen from Fort Tryon Park, just steps from my home in Manhattan. This large-scale diptych is built from repeated visits, where I returned again and again to catch the light shifting, shadows lengthening, and color blooming across the landscape. The layered surfaces—enamel for luminosity, oil for depth, and oil sticks for gesture—invite the viewer to walk the path with me. It’s a place of quiet drama, where nature insists on showing up, evening after evening, with something new to say.

My Earth My Life My Soul
2024, collage and acrylic on panel, 12x12"

Fragments of houses and front yards, collaged like fabric, loop through soft yellow greenery—an image of the home that houses my soul. It’s honest and alive. Do you like my yard?

Prize the Parts

2024, collage and acrylic on panel, 12x12"

A small painting about a big feeling—home, memory, warmth.

I imagined a house tucked into the landscape, held together with vines and sunlight, like the kind you return to for long meals and familiar voices.

Sometimes the smallest pieces hold the most love.

The Hanging Gardens of Tessie
2022, painting with collage on canvas, 40 x 30”

What if the garden wasn’t below you, but above—dripping with light, pulsing with hand-drawn patterns, swirling like a portal cracked open to let beauty spill through? The Hanging Gardens of Tessie is both a tribute to a real garden and a vision of something beyond it—botanical wonder reimagined through color, memory, and dream logic.

Lush layers of collage and psychedelic textures build a landscape that doesn’t sit still. It lifts, it hums, it climbs upward like vines in a fever dream. This isn’t just a garden. It’s an invitation to see beauty as something wild, sacred, and slightly untethered from gravity.

The Hanging Gardens of Babylon
2022, painting with collage on panel, 40 x 30”

This version of Babylon is underwater—drifting, layered, and softly blooming. Deep blues and cool greens ripple across the surface like light through moving water. Collaged florals and patterned fragments float and settle, as if carried by a slow current. You don’t walk through this garden—you swim.

There’s no clear ground here, no horizon—just a suspended world of petals and shadow, reflections and echoes. It feels like a myth half-submerged, kept alive by memory and movement. Every mark suggests depth: lace turned to tidepool, leaf to liquid, pattern to shimmer.

The Hanging Gardens of Babylon imagines beauty not as something rooted, but as something that drifts, dissolves, and keeps returning—wave after wave.

Julia’s Party
2019, oil sticks, oil, and collage on panel, 36 x 48”

This painting is an invitation. Julia’s Party is that once-a-year gathering where the garden is overgrown, the table is beautifully set, and there’s a surprise waiting at every place setting. It’s a party of color, laughter, clinking glasses, and the kind of generosity that feels effortless but is deeply felt.

The composition is layered and bursting—floral textures, bold patterns, bits of gold and velvet color mingling like guests mid-conversation. You can almost hear the music, see the hostess breezing past in something fabulous, always two steps ahead of the fun.

Expect anything from her. This is a celebration of togetherness, of shared history, of the art of showing up—with gifts, with joy, and with the wildest dress in the room.

The Hanging Gardens of Loveland
2022, collage and acrylic on canvas, 40 x 30"

This garden is built from lace—stitched, tangled, delicate. The Hanging Gardens of Loveland draws on the long history of handmade ornament: the kind passed down, worn thin by touch, or tucked into the corners of heirloom drawers. Here, lace becomes landscape.

The painted forms loop and spiral like petals and thread, bright with pattern and possibility. Everything feels gently unruly, like a garden that’s grown wild but still holds the imprint of human hands. It’s not just a surface—it's a story. A place where craft and memory bloom together.

This is a lacey garden of love, made not of flowers, but of patience, gesture, and care.

Bodacious
2016, oil sticks, collage, and resin on board, 34.5 x 48”

Bodacious is built from abundance—layer after layer of painted and collaged lushness. Florals, textures, and delicate veining form a kind of living architecture: petals as pillars, blossoms as scaffolding, vines as the threads holding it all together. It’s a celebration of natural beauty, but also of its strength.

In this painting, flowers don’t just bloom—they build. The forest becomes a façade and a fortress. There’s nothing fragile about it. It’s a portrait of the earth in motion, always layering, always reimagining itself. This is nature as a master of reinvention.

I believe in that power. I believe our planet shows us, day after day, how to adapt, how to begin again. Bodacious is a reminder: we are part of this wild infrastructure. And it is worth saving.

The Hanging Gardens of Tazekka
2022, painting with collage on panel, 30 x 40”

This is what a garden feels like in the final light of day—when the last, rich wave of sun moves across everything and saturates it in warmth. The Hanging Gardens of Tazekka is filled with bold, blooming color, a moment when the world glows and every shape feels more alive.

I wanted this painting to feel like sunlight on skin, like the first afternoon you leave your coat behind and step into the open. The vines and petals stretch freely here, joyfully. The whole piece is in motion—radiant, rhythmic, and full of ease.

This is the garden unfiltered. A celebration of the warmth we wait for all winter long.

Saucer Magnolia II
2022, mixed media on paper, 24×20”

When you’re suffering from saucer magnolia fever, the only cure is to make them—endlessly, beautifully. In this work, I took scraps of my drawings and slices of my favorite art paper, cutting out petals with abandon. I discovered something mesmerizing: no matter how carelessly or deliberately I cut, somewhere out there a petal exists in that exact configuration.

These blossoms are fleeting, delicate beauties whose brief lives are captured in the sexy silhouettes of their forms. Saucer Magnolia is a tribute—a playful, heartfelt homage to those moments of creative serendipity, where nature’s design seems preordained and every cut feels inevitable.

In celebrating the ephemeral allure of these petals, this piece becomes more than art; it becomes a meditation on impermanence, beauty, and the persistent drive to recreate the sublime—even if just for a moment.

Waiting for Light
2022, oil on panel, 30 x 40”

There’s a moment just after dawn when the fog begins to lift, and what was once hidden starts to show itself—softly, slowly, like the world remembering its shape. That’s what I was thinking of while painting Waiting for Light. The way morning light filters through the trees, not all at once, but in pieces. Revealing, not declaring. A quiet unveiling.

This piece isn’t about a single tree or scene—it’s about the feeling of looking up into branches as the light begins to pour through. That subtle glow where leaves blur and edges dissolve. Where everything becomes color and pattern. I’ve always chased that feeling in my work, and during two semesters spent copying Bonnard paintings at the Met, I began to understand how to catch it—how to wait, how to see what emerges.

Waiting for Light is a memory of stillness, of slowness, of that beautiful in-between when the world begins to show itself again.

SOLD

2025, acrylic and collage on panel, 16x12"

A circle of dancers spins across a wildflower meadow—light, almost weightless. At first glance, it might seem playful, even frivolous. But I’ve learned that what looks like decoration is often devotion.

Modern dance stuns me. It holds a kind of reverence I rarely see elsewhere—one that honors the body, the spirit, the unspoken. I painted this for the dancers who move like they’re carrying something ancient. A mystery passed down in motion.

As Twyla Tharp once said:
“Art is the only way to run away without leaving home.”

Sometimes, the way forward is a circle. Sometimes, it's a dance.

The Park at 5pm
2021, oil on panel with cast sculpture

During the early days of the pandemic, I found comfort in watching New Yorkers rediscover their parks. I filled notebooks with sketches—people sprawled on blankets, reading, talking, doing nothing. There was a tenderness to it, a quiet joy in the return to something as simple as being outside.

In The Park at 5pm, the figure arrives without color—blank, white, still absorbing. It’s my way of showing how we soak up light, atmosphere, and each other when we’ve been deprived for too long. The sculpted figure is cast in plastic, part of my ongoing exploration of bringing dimension into painting. Unlike bronze or encaustic, this material gives me speed and spontaneity—freedom to build and revise as I go.

This piece is about that moment of pause. Of shared air, golden light, and sitting still enough to feel full again.

Sunday in the Park
2021, acrylic with attached sculpture figures, found frame, 22 x 38”

In 2020, the parks of New York City became sanctuaries. With museums closed and sidewalks thinned, I found myself walking more than ever—wandering through paths I hadn’t noticed before, watching strangers spread out on the grass, share food, nap, laugh. It felt sacred in its simplicity. The smallest groups of people radiated joy just by being together, outdoors. I felt it, too—like something essential was slowly being restored.

Sunday in the Park grew out of those moments. It’s a collage of gestures and scenes, assembled from sketches of these quiet gatherings. I’ve added sculpted figures made from clay molds cast in lightweight plastic, posed just as I found them—caught in the act of living. Framed by a found object, the piece feels held, as if you’ve walked into a memory or a paused hour in late summer.

The figures remain white—not to erase identity, but to reflect something emotional: the blankness I felt in isolation, and the sense that, for many of us, color and breath only returned when we stepped into sunlight again. If you ever visit The Cloisters on a warm afternoon, you’ll see them—these unspoken moments of presence—still unfolding in real time.

Please note the frame is an antique find and is beautiful in its imperfections.

In the Park at Noon
2021, acrylic with attached sculpture and found frame, 36×24”

This piece captures a moment of shared stillness—two people on a bench, sitting side by side, surrounded by the layered color and filtered light of a garden at its peak. It's the kind of pause that happens on an ordinary afternoon, when there’s nothing urgent to do but sit together and take in the day.

The figures, cast in white, are intentionally quiet—stripped of detail to focus on gesture, posture, and presence. The backdrop is all movement and bloom, a contrast to the simplicity of their form. It suggests that the world can keep shifting, expanding, and unfolding—even as we take a moment to simply be.

2019

12x12”

oil on panel

The Golden Rule
2022, enamel, oil sticks, resin on panel, 96 x 60”

Along the Hudson River in New York City, a series of grand porticos offer quiet, formal places to pause—thresholds between city and river, architecture and nature. This painting captures one in particular: the columned terrace at Ulysses Grant’s tomb on the Upper West Side. A place where you can stop time for a moment, and watch sunlight filter through the trees in layered brilliance.

The Golden Rule is about that pause. That merging of the monumental and the ephemeral. The architecture is rendered in deep blues and purples, while the surrounding garden explodes in shifting light and color. Using oil sticks, I filled the canvas with hand-drawn circles, symbols, and lace-like patterns—a prism of energy breaking across the surface.

What began as a view became a kind of portal. A place to witness beauty, order, nature, and humanity all colliding into one glowing instant. This is not just about the Hudson, or even the trees—it’s about reverence.

Chipped Cup
2022, oil and collage on canvas, 48 x 36”

Saturdays are the best days. You’ll usually find me in the backyard of The Chipped Cup—a well-loved coffee shop in Harlem—sitting with my adult son, catching up on life over lattes and pastries. The backyard is a bohemian mix of antique finds and quiet charm. I always bring my tiny sketchbook. Like Bonnard, I make a quick drawing on-site, then return to the studio where memory does the rest. The colors always end up better than real life.

This painting grew from one of those Saturdays. I couldn’t stop thinking about the wrought iron gate—its curving forms like lace, tangled with vines, soft petals, and the filtered light of a good conversation. I used collage to build that layered memory: paper leaves, delicate florals, shadows, and soft bursts of color that recall the moment more than they record it.

Chipped Cup is both a place and a feeling. It’s routine made sacred. A quiet backyard in the middle of a loud city. A portrait of what lingers after the sketch is done and the coffee is cold.

Painting Collage on Panel, 24”x24”, 2022

The Hanging Gardens of Thunderbird
2022, collage and acrylic on canvas, 40 x 30”

This garden is not passive. The Hanging Gardens of Thunderbird speaks to the power struggle embedded in botany—the push of life against decay, the reach of roots through resistance. The palette here is sharper, more elemental: teal blues and ochres collide with shadowed undergrowth, and collaged forms curl like tendrils with intent. Lush, yes—but alert.

This painting explores how plants fight to live. Every new shoot is a strategy, every leaf a map of survival. Even the dead matter—fallen petals, decomposed bark—is pulled back into the system. Nothing is wasted. The garden, in all its beauty, is a battlefield of persistence.

It’s a visual mythology of life recycling itself, of energy passed between generations of growth. Here, the garden doesn’t just hang—it clings, climbs, reclaims.

This painting reflects how I credit the earth for her eternal growth with minimal resources.

Enamel, Oil Sticks, Paper Collag, Bingo Daubber and resin 40" x 30"

30" x 24"

oil sticks, collage, resin on board

Large 48” x 36” on wooden panel.

enamel, oil sticks, resin

Sweet Delights

2024, 12×12”, collage and acrylic on panel

Last Summer I spent a lot of time with my 94 yo Mom in Austin. After lunch she would go off to read and I would tear up her kitchen and paint the afternoon away on 12x12” panels. Then at “Happy Hour” we’d have a critique. Either you’re riding in a boat down the stream of life or sitting having a cocktail with your sweet mom, what could be better?

Rows of sprawling trees in strict rows dotting the many magical gardens of Paris and benches to sit and adore them. Spray paint, oil sticks and collage elements on panel. 18” x 14”

36” x 30” x 2”

oil sticks, oil, resin on board

24" x 36"

enamel, collage and resin on panel

SOLD

Forevermore
2022, oil sticks, oil, collage, resin on panel, 96 x 60”

For 25 years, I stood at the same kitchen window, watching the sun set over the Hudson Valley. Each evening brought a variation—lavender clouds, golden bursts, deepening blues—and without knowing it, those colors, that rhythm, etched themselves into me. Forevermore is the culmination of all those sunsets layered into one.

This painting isn’t a single view—it’s every view. The light shifting over seasons, the sky folding into the mountains, the feeling of being held by a place that changed me. The surface is built in layers—collage, oil, resin—echoing the way memory stacks and softens over time.

It’s not just about looking back. It’s about carrying that beauty forward. Permanently burned into my vision, and now, into this painting.

Painting Collage on Panel, 24”x24”, 2022

Hanging Garden of Moons
2022, collage and acrylic on panel, 20 x 20”

This painting began the way many of mine do—with no plan, just spray paint and lace. Layers of fluorescent color laid down in wild, unpredictable patterns. I wasn’t sure where it was going until I remembered the 1984 World Atlas I’ve used in so many collages. I’m down to the last pages now, and there they were: the constellations. A sky full of them, waiting.

The Hanging Garden of Moons came together like a strange alignment—intense, glowing color meeting the quiet logic of stars. The lace patterns feel like space dust, the bright hues like alien flora, and the cut maps like a moonlit archive of a forgotten galaxy.

It’s not just a collage. It’s a constellation I built from scraps and instinct. And I love it.

Large 48” x 36” painting on wooden panel.

enamel, oil sticks, resin

Ace of Hearts, Redbud
2021, collage, spray paint, lace, acrylic on panel, 24 x 20”

Spring in New York City after 2020 felt almost unreal. The redbuds burst into bloom like they had something to prove—wild sprays of pink that stopped me mid-step. That year, everything was sharper. The blossoms more electric. The light more tender. This painting came from walking those streets, turning corners and finding trees fully alive again, just when we needed it.

There’s something about that pink—the way it doesn’t apologize for taking up space, for being beautiful, for being here. Ace of Hearts, Redbud is about that moment when the world reminds you: we’re still growing. Still reaching. Still making something new from everything we’ve just been through.

This is spring as declaration. As color. As hope returning to the body.