For nearly three decades, I worked as a designer, where my job was often to find clarity—to take something complicated and help it make sense.

Painting taught me something different.

Sometimes the interesting part happens when I don’t know the answer. I start with color, shape, a memory, an ordinary object, or something that catches my attention, and follow where it goes.

That balance between intention and discovery has become a big part of how I work. There’s enough structure to hold things together, but enough room for surprise, awkwardness, mistakes, and change.

Food often finds its way into my paintings as a metaphor. Different ingredients remind me of people—distinct, sometimes clashing, sometimes unexpectedly good together.

I don’t want to tell you exactly what to see in the work. I’d rather leave enough room for you to bring something of your own to it.

The same idea carries into how I teach. I’m not interested in teaching artists to make work that looks like mine. I want to help them pay attention to what keeps pulling at them, trust their curiosity, and discover a visual language that feels like their own.

Maybe that’s what all of this is really about: making something, staying curious, and seeing what happens.