My painting style has changed and evolved over the years — I’m always searching, experimenting, and finding new ways to express what’s inside me. Lately, I’ve found myself drawn toward something quieter, more personal: a kind of visual storytelling.
I’ve been asking myself what home means, especially after moving and entering this new stage of life. At 60, the questions come differently than they once did. What will I do with the years I have ahead? How will I make them meaningful? What will I remember — and what will I forget?
These questions find their way into my art, not always consciously. Sometimes, they appear as a small shape tucked into the corner of a canvas — a table, a window, or a cluster of dots that mark the rhythm of a day. Other times, they’re just colors and gestures, a feeling translated into paint.
What I love most about the details within my paintings is that they’re often the places where truth hides. A flick of the brush can hold an entire memory. A smudge can recall a passing thought. I might add a single line that reminds me of the dogs waiting in the studio, or a patch of light like the one that hits the wall in the late afternoon. These quiet moments are the language of my work — they speak of life unfolding, of noticing what is here, now.
Painting these details gives me a sense of calm, a kind of daily solace. When the world feels turbulent, the act of slowing down to paint — to record what I see or feel — soothes me. It’s how I make sense of things. My canvas has become a kind of diary, a place where I can hold on to moments that might otherwise slip away.
In a way, I think the details are where we all live. They’re what make up our stories — the small, ordinary things that give life its texture and meaning. When I paint them, I’m really saying: This mattered.