I have always painted people — searching, in every face, for something true. But it was only when I began painting lovers that I found myself at home.
There is a particular kind of solace that only art can offer — the kind that doesn't ask you to explain yourself, only to show up and be honest. Painting became that place for me, especially in the seasons of life when words were not enough. It taught me, slowly, that what I was really searching for in every canvas was the same thing I was searching for everywhere else: the feeling of being held by something that loves you without condition.
My work lives in the quiet moments that don't make it into photographs — the closed eyes, the unhurried hands, the particular weight of a head on a shoulder. I am drawn to intimacy not as drama but as ordinary fact: the way two people can become, without announcement, the whole world to each other.
I paint in oils, and I do not hide the brushstroke. The mark matters to me — it is where the feeling lives, where the hand gives away what the mind cannot quite say. Chagall taught me that love does not need to be realistic to be true. I carry that with me every time I pick up a brush.
I have been painting for four years. In that time I have slowly learned that what I am really making, painting after painting, is a single quiet argument: that ordinary love — unhurried, unperformed, simply present — is the most sacred thing there is.
That is what I hope you feel here.