I grew up in upstate New York, where the seasons felt like sacred teachers. Spring, especially, held a quiet kind of wonder—the slow rising of life from frozen earth, the gentle assurance that nothing is ever truly lost, only resting. Outside my bedroom window, robins nested in a maple tree, returning each year with patient devotion. By ninth grade, I was already translating these moments of renewal onto paper.

But beauty was not my only teacher. The tension within my childhood home found its way into my early work—blank faces, searching eyes, silent questions pressed into paint. Over time, my creative voice retreated, tucked away like winter ground.

Years later, after moving to Florida, art found me again. Though I initially chose a practical path in accounting, creativity continued to flicker beneath the surface—appearing in quiet gifts, murals, and private moments of expression. Working in an art gallery as a bookkeeper slowly drew me back into the rhythm of the art world, until, in my fifties, I fully embraced the call to paint.

Mostly self-taught, I devoted myself to refining my craft, eventually opening a gallery where I taught and exhibited before returning to the intimacy of my home studio. Each chapter—whether dormant or flourishing—has shaped the work I create today.

My paintings are born from seasons: of awakening and waiting, of sorrow and restoration. They are reflections of resilience, of faith, of the quiet miracle of renewal. I believe the creative spirit, like the earth in spring, always rises again.

Collectors often tell me they feel both strength and stillness in my work. Perhaps that is because each piece carries the journey within it—a reminder that beauty can emerge from every season of life.

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