What do you hope viewers experience or feel when they encounter your artwork?

Joy. Unwavering, unequivocal, unapologetic joy. 

A radical kind of joy—the kind that feels like freedom. Like deep breath and warm light. The kind that arrives unannounced, even in the midst of grief or change, and reminds us that beauty still exists. That we still exist.

I hope my work creates a soft landing place for emotion—for wonder, memory, even longing—but ultimately, I hope it brings people back to something essential and alive in themselves. A sense of possibility. A feeling of being connected to something greater.

That said, there’s what I hope people will experience . . . but who am I to say what my work means to someone else? My paintings are experienced by the viewer. Only they can report on their feelings. I know nothing. And maybe that’s part of the beauty too—the moment when someone sees something in my work that I never could have imagined.

That’s the power of color. Of form. Of flowers. Of art. It reminds us that we belong.

How do you stay motivated and inspired, especially during periods of creative block or self-doubt?

I’ve learned that creative blocks often have more to do with what I’m consuming than what I’m producing. If I’m feeling uninspired or unmotivated, it’s usually a sign that I haven’t been nourishing my creative life—maybe I’ve been zoning out on too much Netflix (a bit of post-Covid residue). In those moments, I know I need to reconnect with the things that light me up: going to the cinema, reading something beautiful, walking in nature, seeing an exhibition, or listening to emotionally resonant music—especially from my younger years.

Lately, I’ve been revisiting music from the ‘90s, and it’s brought me close to the girl I once was. Painting from her point of view has shifted something in me—I notice my colors are bolder, my strokes more decisive. It’s as if she had a confidence I’m just now learning to claim.

And when things get especially hard—like now, when sales feel slow and those “maybe I should give up” thoughts creep in—I do the only thing I know how to do. I march myself to the art store, buy a canvas, and keep painting. That’s the only way forward for me.

How do you typically find inspiration for your artwork, and are there any recurring themes or motifs in your pieces?

I typically begin with a single brushstroke—a strike of color, an impulse made visible. My work always begins from within. It’s a direct response to my emotional life, shaped by my experience as a bereaved daughter and as a single, childless, aging woman. More recently, any shifts in my work reflect a recent move to Paris, and changes in my social and romantic life.

Flowers are a recurring motif in my work. They help me remain present to the passage of time and, more and more, to the laws of impermanence. Painting flowers has taught me how to live with change and with loss. It’s helped me come to peace with the ephemeral nature of all things—including, and especially, myself. My body. My being.

Flowers bring me joy. And painting them has helped return joy to me, especially in seasons when it felt far away.

Through art, I’ve learned how to ground in this body, how to soften toward my past, and how to believe that I—like you—deserve beauty. Deserve goodness. And most of all, love.

We are all deserving of that.

What initially drew you to the world of art, and how did you begin your journey as an artist?

My journey into art actually began with very different intentions—I set out to write a book. But if I’m honest, it really started even earlier, with the sudden death of my father. At that time, I was deep into my PhD, feeling stuck and miserable. His passing shook me awake in a way nothing else had. It made me face the reality that none of us truly know what happens next until it happens. From that moment, I felt a powerful call to live more aspirationally and creatively. Writing was my first outlet—a way to process, to heal. And alongside that writing, my visual art started to emerge, becoming another vital part of my healing and self-expression.

Can you share a particularly memorable experience or moment in your artistic career that has impacted your perspective or trajectory?

One of the most meaningful experiences in my artistic journey was a residency I completed at El Sur in Mexico City in April 2024. It came during a time of personal transition—emotionally, creatively, spiritually—and I arrived in need of recalibration.

The title of my exhibition at the end of the residency was Searching for the Living Thing. And by the time it came to a close, I knew—without a doubt—that the living thing was me.

With the distractions of everyday life stripped away—no pressure to earn, no outside demands—I was able to focus solely on creative practice. I painted and wrote every single day. Some mornings and many afternoons, I would walk through a nearby nature preserve, listening, observing, breathing. Letting the rhythm of the place reawaken something in me.

That kind of immersive solitude created a container for deep artistic risk-taking. I wrote my first performative text piece while there, and I also created my largest painting to date: a 3-meter by 2-meter work that demanded everything of me—physically, emotionally, creatively.

There was one moment, midway through, when I felt something crack open. I was alone in the studio, covered in paint, totally lost in the process, and I remember this powerful rush of joy and certainty. Not in the outcome—but in the act. In the devotion. I belonged to the work again.

How do you approach experimentation and innovation within your art, and how important is it for you to push boundaries?

I’m not sure if my answer fits exactly under “experimentation” or “innovation,” but I can say this: sometimes something unexpected rises up inside me and profoundly influences my work. For me, that something has often been rage.

For years, I believed I wasn’t allowed to feel or show anger, especially as a woman. But lately, as I navigate aging and shifting identity, rage has become a surprising ally—a powerful force that demands attention and change.

Just recently, while preparing for an exhibition, a wave of rage over an injustice hit me with such intensity that I felt like I could lift a car. When I couldn’t move it physically, I took it to the canvas. My marks were sharp, erratic, unplanned. But then, something shifted—the painting began to breathe. I didn’t destroy it; I made space. I found clarity. I could see the flowers again.

To me, that’s what letting something unexpected into the creative process looks like: allowing the work—and myself—to transform, sometimes by abandoning plans or sitting in discomfort. That edge, that risk, is where I truly come alive.

Pushing boundaries isn’t a goal for me—it’s a necessity. If I’m not changed by the work, I’m not really in it.