My work is a kind of living prayer. Yet as open as I strive to be, I am also deeply private, an openly reclusive soul who finds refuge in the process and a painting space. When I create, I stop talking. I get quiet. I have stumbled in life many times; I am a flawed being learning to meet each moment with more tenderness. But painting has always been my grace, my medicine. It is where I am forgiven, where compassion takes form.

It is my bliss, and through it, I wish to share that feeling with others.

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I love connecting creatively with others, I feel myself opening, expanding; something begins to flow, a shared field, an interconnected awareness. At the same time, I also deeply cherish returning to the solitude of the studio, where it’s just me and my painting practice. The subtle dialogue that unfolds between myself and the work heals me and quiets my inner chatter so much that I remember (again) who I truly am beneath all the noise and striving. Each sway of the brush, each gesture, becomes a doorway back to the quiet, steady heart and source.

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I no longer really see art as something I make; it is something that moves through me. Each painting is seeking an owner. When I complete a work, it no longer belongs to me. When I paint, there is a deeper rhythm of being, a spacious that holds everything. I work a lot with tissue paper. I'm fascinated by the fragility, how it resists control and insists on its own way of moving. There’s something deeply human in that. It reminds me to let go, to accept the impermanence of things. The soft reconstruction that follows when I glue them on my gesso boards is when it becomes my teacher, inviting me to loosen my grip and trust the unfolding. There are wrinkles, dents, scars and each painting is imperfect. Does that really matter? What's important is that I loved

every moment creating it? 

 

The asemic writing that often appears in my work is part of this same conversation. It is prayer without language, the voice of the unseen, a whisper from the soul rather than the mind. These free flowing streams of consciousness and marks aren’t meant to be read; they’re meant to be felt. They are the sound of presence made visible. My practice blends together wisdom teachings, meditation, devotional ritual, Reiki, and cacao, all ways of opening the heart and remembering our natural wholeness. Whether I am healing, painting, guiding others, or holding ceremony, it is all the same higher feeling space , one awareness: an invitation to rest, to soften, to return home to ourselves.

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And then there are the dots. I return to them again and again, without needing to know why. Each dot feels like a heartbeat, a breath, a single moment of presence. They are small meditations, mantras in paint. The repetition calms the mind, allowing stillness to expand. In their simplicity, they speak of unity - of how each tiny point belongs to something infinite. They remind me that everything is connected, that even the smallest act of creation is part of a greater wholeness. 

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I have come to understand deeply creativity as medicine, not something separate from the spiritual path, but its very expression. It heals through beauty and tenderness, through the reminder that even our suffering belongs to the dance of awakening. There are days I paint nothing, there are days I paint everything. The paintings that emerge from this practice are reflections of consciousness and more about vibration; less about story and more about being. Each one carries a pulse of the ineffable, the divine moving through all things.

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These days, I find myself less interested in writing or talking about the work. Words feel too small for what the paintings are trying to say. The process itself, the space, the repetition, the quiet conversation with life has become enough. The paintings hold their own language, one made of breath and light. I’m learning to trust, to let the work speak in its own way, without interpretation, without needing to be understood. What’s left is a simple invitation to unplug, feel, to pause and become.

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Because of my dyspraxia, words don’t always come easily; they can feel clumsy or too small for what I’m trying to express. So rather than talk about the work, I invite you to experience it.

Come and paint with me.

Sit in the studio.

Feel the rhythm, chant, drink cacao, work in silence, or simply hang out.

This is how I communicate best - through shared moments of creativity.

Join me for a class and discover for yourself what words cannot quite say.

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