Are you curious as to what your space says about you?

Working in residential design has provided me the unique opportunity to learn about people by the spaces they keep.

Our surroundings tell a story.

Symmetry may seek balance and order while clutter craves comfort.

Helping clients to see how they impact their space and how their space impacts them is often the first step in making personal change.

Our relationship to our interiors is no metaphor - Uncovering how we choose to express externally informs how we relate to ourselves and others.

Rainclouds have manifested in my life to help me explore the beauty and power in nature. The series has evolved in a very organic way, allowing me to “let go” and honor gesture over detail, flow over control.

Each cloud expresses its unique combination of materials, undulating edges are driven by palette knife and tempered by washes of color. The signature of each cloud are the drips and light catching gold leaf.

“Those who look for the laws of nature as a support for their new works collaborate with the creator.” - Gaudi

All displayed works have been sold. Inquire via the contact form for commission.

Sponge rollers, a reclamation:

It's hard to place the idea of "home." Stories and location evolve like rings of a tree, pushing the circumference out in strange pockets of experience. My childhood memories are like looking through a pinhole, unfocused around the edge, but acutely aware of the emotion at its center.

I have flashes of a winter in the Pocono mountains. Deer and snow, a quiet panoramic off the front porch. We lived in a duplex, shared with another family. My dad worked in construction, running drop ceiling and laminate tile with my mother at his side. Nicole, the girl next door was my closest friend, but imagination; she was my steadfast companion.

Surrounded by wood paneling and utilitarian furnishings, "she" helped me see the potential for each day. My four year old self took great pleasure in one task in particular, sponge rolling my hair.

How the rollers or the skill to adhere them to my head came into my possession, I have vague recollection. I often stole away, among the scatter of clothes piled on a bed or behind a door slightly ajar to witness my mother's ritual. The way she started with her eyes and brought color to her cheekbones. Maybe here is when it started. A desire to create beauty, mimicking the ritual of her, a priestess tucked away in the woodlands of Pennsylvania. I wanted so much to come into her power one day. Nails filed to a soft point, hands that carried chopped wood from a stack into our den. Of the many gifts she could bestow on me, my need to create is one I wield with reverence, a kind of sacred charge.

The permission and encouragement. The time spent.

Rollers, kept neatly waiting.

This is a kind of home, where innocence is protected. A reclamation and knowing that all I have ever needed is within me, a deep well sourced by "her." I need only to draw up the bucket.

A taste of what inspires: capturing vibrant portraits of the only city I call home.

Sharing pages from my Art Journal and more on a romp through the streets of Nola.

A Love Letter to Venice

I answered the call of wanderlust my sophomore year of college. A summer in Italy, exploring history by foot through the lens of art and cuisine. Respectfully, that initiation into travel is for another story.

This is my love letter to Venice, the city of canals and queen of the Adriatic.

Looking out over the waves as we water taxied into the port, I understood the sense of “ La Serenissima,” – how the ghost-fleets of this city’s seafaring past made it the epicenter of diplomacy, justice and prosperity.

Gothic spires pushed upwards into the naked sky, providing a perch for those figures which guard the city into perpetuity. The winged lion, glorified in the Piazza San Marco opposite la Giustizia, lady justice herself – the embodiment of Venice. Archangels tucked into zodiac and weathervane, anchor the compass of the city, silently guiding tourists through the labyrinth of bridges and canals.

Stepping on-shore, you are struck by the briny waft downwind of the fishmonger and then, the heavy foot traffic, shuffling along the cobblestone, fearless to wander with no vehicle in sight.

The city is meant for lovers, to dreamily stroll and pause in shadowed alleys to steal a kiss, with a passionate hand pressed up against the peeling stucco and stone.

Seeds carried high up into window seals make home to lush, trickling foliage which longs to touch the ground, winding back down to earth. One’s walk is perfumed by flower boxes and planters that take the place of soil to root trees or grasses.

I recall the rattling of boats along the dock, echoing in the distance as we passed under domed archways which shaded the cafes and shops. Clattering tableware mingled with merchant’s solicitations as the uninterrupted commerce of Murano glass and fine metals were faced out for the grazing eye.

Medieval trappings aside, my most revered moments were set with checkered tablecloth and bottles of wine, during long, lazy afternoons with my love, Andrew. Gondoliers serenaded exhausted tourists, as we smiled, content to sit back and twirl our fork into one last bite of pasta or sip upon the endless assortment of aperitivo.

Arrivederci, Venice

Animal Magic: Capture the love for your pet and companion in an original watercolor pet portrait.

Not accepting commission at this time