About the Artist

In my mind, I’m always at sea, yet I long for the shore. I get so close to touching land, but the only way to truly feel the sand beneath my feet is to write about it or paint it. My own ecclesiastical blues. 

Two young students sit behind me. Aside from one patron at the bar and the staff, it's quiet. They are deep in conversation about literature and art. One insists Matisse painted novels, not canvases. The other doesn’t disagree, but says you can't read the words an artwork writes on the mind of the one in conversation with it. A work of literature exists entirely in the mind, while visual art can be overly read into. 

I don’t disagree with either. That’s the beauty of interpretation. You might turn a corner and find yourself face to face with the love of your life, three hundred years frozen beneath a dimmed coat of varnish, whispering secrets only meant for you. The right book at the right time can invite the same intimacy. 

My grandmother used to proudly express her joy in people-watching, be it in the mall or at the grocery store. Anywhere. She’d tell me how much she loved to see people. I caught glimpses of her in this act, her face soft, unjudging, adding page after page into a private book. 

This too is art, the engagement with life itself.

CV