Sometimes, it feels as if the universe and I are in conversation. In moments of uncertainty, I pose a silent question, and the world responds—not with words, but through intuitive signs: an animal crossing my path, an object pulling my attention, a subtle shift in energy. My work emerges from this ongoing dialogue. It’s an act of trust—a way of listening, responding, and allowing transformation to unfold.

I move between different ways of painting—at times, open and fluid, with quick washes and gestural marks, and at others, dense and controlled, as if layering paint offers a place to hide. I questioned this contradiction for a long time, wondering if my work lacked cohesion. But I’ve begun to see these shifts as essential—an extension of my body, a reflection of how I move through the world. Some paintings feel vulnerable, embracing the mess. Others feel like a shield, a kind of resistance, or a need for protection.

This tension—between surrender and control, intuition and structure—mirrors the rhythms of nature that I return to again and again. Animals often appear as symbols of this movement: a fox leaps through a bed of flowers, a coyote wanders, a cat rests on a woman’s lap. They exist in states of transition, much like the changing gestures of my hand. Through them, I explore the evolving nature of selfhood, the push and pull between what is revealed and what remains hidden.