A quiet fascination with art took root in me long before I had words for it.

The earliest seeds were those small, clumsy attempts at watercolor—puddles of pigment spreading across cheap paper, colors bleeding into one another in ways I couldn’t control but found endlessly magical. Even then, I sensed that making images was a way of seeing the world more closely, of paying attention to things that might otherwise slip past unnoticed.

As I grew older, that curiosity deepened. I began experimenting with oil colors, drawn to their richness and the slow, deliberate pace they demanded. Oils felt like a conversation rather than a quick gesture: each layer waiting for the next, each stroke carrying weight and intention. I wasn’t trying to become a master painter; I was trying to understand why creating images felt so essential to me.

Much of that impulse came from my mother. She had a gift—one of those quiet, unassuming talents that never sought an audience. With nothing more than a pencil, she could draw birds, foxes, or small woodland creatures and make them look startlingly alive. Her animals weren’t just accurate; they had presence. She was, in her own modest way, an illustrator of the natural world, capturing the spark of life in graphite and shadow.

Watching her work shaped me more than any formal lesson. She taught me that art begins with observation, patience, and affection for the subject. She showed me that drawing or painting isn’t merely about technique—it’s about honoring the world by truly seeing it.

My interest in art, then, is a thread woven from childhood experiments, adolescent curiosity, and the quiet inspiration of a mother who could make a simple pencil line breathe. It is a way of staying connected to her, to nature, and to the sense of wonder that first bloomed in those early watercolor stains.

Brush

Pencil

Watercolor

Oil Paint