About me

In 2022, during a period of deep anxiety and depression, I picked up a paintbrush and returned to something I had loved and lost. I did not return to painting because I had a plan. I returned because I was desperate for stillness, and somewhere in the layering of colour and light on canvas, I found it.

What happened in that studio surprised me. The act of mixing colour, of chasing the warmth of late afternoon light across a mountain face or the cool shift of an ocean at dusk, did something to my body that nothing else had managed. It quieted me. Science would later give me the language for what I was experiencing — that immersion in natural light and colour actively soothes the central nervous system, lowers cortisol, and restores the body to a state of calm it so rarely finds in modern life. But I had already felt it. The paintings were doing that work long before I could explain why.

Nature does not speak in one register. It offers us everything — the glassy stillness of an early morning sea, the slow drama of a storm building on a mountain horizon, the hush of a valley after rain, the blaze of colour that arrives without warning and is gone before you can name it. I am not drawn to any one of these above the others. I am drawn to the full conversation — to the way calm and intensity exist alongside each other, each giving the other meaning. It is the contrast between them that allows us to truly witness beauty. Without the stillness, we would not feel the weight of the storm. Without the storm, we would not know how deep the stillness goes.

This is what I hope lives inside each painting — not drama for its own sake, but the full and honest range of what nature offers, held together in a single moment of colour and light. Beneath every canvas, no matter its mood, there is a quiet sense of joy in the wholeness of it all. A recognition that every register nature speaks in — fierce or tender, vast or intimate — is part of the same profound and beautiful whole. And that we, standing before it, are part of that whole too.

This is why I paint. Not to capture perfection, but to be present. Not to offer escape, but to offer belonging — a moment of rest for your nervous system, and a reminder, however brief, that you are held by something larger than yourself.