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5 articles
The neon of a Vegas concourse, the pewter sky over a Seattle runway, terracotta dust on a Santa Fe tarmac — fifteen airports rearranged something in how I mix color. A travel memoir about place seeping into paint.
For thirty days I set up an easel in Union Square and let the city become my studio. What I learned about performance, unsolicited critique, and the strange economics of painting for an audience that never stops moving.
After a decade of canvases that required a rented van and two strong friends, I started painting postcards at my kitchen table. What I lost in spectacle, I gained in honesty — and what that says about American ambition is worth sitting with.
When my grandmother's letters finally crossed the ocean in a battered leather suitcase, I inherited sixty years of handwriting and no instructions. This is the story of how I turned fading ink into pigment, and correspondence into composition.
Long before I owned a single tube of professional paint, I had a palette pressed into ceramic on my grandmother's kitchen wall. This essay traces how domestic spaces become an artist's first color theory class — and how memory, once translated honestly, can anchor a lifelong visual language.