At the tender young age of 42, I decided what I want to be when I grow up, and I began dedicating myself to it with some degree of purpose. I think we all want to be surrounded by things that make us happy, but not all of us take the time to figure out what those things are. The act of existing can be so complicated, there is often no time left over for living. And before we know it – poof! It’s too late. My own personal roadmap delivered me to a place where I finally gave conscious thought to what makes me happy, and in doing so I decided who I am. I gave myself permission to actively pursue a creative outlet and it is incredibly rewarding to see the way ideas and half-formed images in my head manifest themselves in real life. Creating something beautiful with my own hands gives me a great sense of accomplishment. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness wasn’t spending it on the right things. Semi-precious stones. Glass beads. Copper wire. Paint. Mostly paint.

I have no formal art training, but rather than allow this to be a stumbling block I believe it frees me to embrace the unconventional. My drawing skills are dismal, but my painting skills are quite unique. I love color and texture and words, particularly all mixed up together, and it is sometimes surprising yet always fascinating to see what ends up on the canvas.

I appreciate how art appeals to many senses at once. I love the texture I can achieve with molding paste, or chunky paint and a palette knife. I adore the smell of oil pastels. I am fascinated by the way colors create different patterns when they swirl together on the canvas. And I am most at peace when I am splattered with paint, a glass of bubbly in one hand and good music playing in the background.

My art makes me happy. Everything makes sense; there are no hidden meanings. I am not attempting to capture a multi-spatial perspective, my work contains no ambiguous fragments, and I have no idea how to combine metaphysical time/space elements. I paint, and when I think I am done, I stop.