Some things can only be seen by those willing to match the vulnerability that made them. When you look at art, do you stop? Lean in? Allow yourself to sit in it. To be moved. My paintings don’t open themselves to people passing through — only to those choosing to experience them. And in that choosing, something shifts. You aren’t just seeing the painting anymore. The painting is seeing back.

I grew up in 1960s Texas watching strong, capable women move through a world that regularly diminished their authority and dismissed their value. The dissonance between who they were and what the world allowed them to be was something I absorbed early. I learned early that autonomy and self-worth were not given. They had to be built — through risk, defiance, survival, and the persistent act of listening inward. Painting became the place where I could practice trusting my own instincts without asking anyone’s permission.