Creating art, for me, is an act of worship, a still point in a chaotic world.

I came to it late.

My brother, Charles, a classically trained artist, once told me, “You have an artists’ eye.” When I lost him suddenly, tragically in the prime of his life, his words came back. To process my grief, I painted.

I am self-taught. Layering mediums, color and shapes is in my DNA. My mother was a seamstress, embroiderist and fabric artist. My father was a painter. He painted houses. His tools were joint compound, lath and plaster, enamel and oil.

I’d say I am most like my dad. I too love viscous, earthy compounds and paint. Unlike him, who labored to create a smooth substrate to paint on – I scratch, sand and mark surfaces. I let the emergent image surprise me. If it satisfies me, it remains. If not, I continue to explore.

My intention is always the same – to honor my Creator, to bring joy to others; to provide a one of a kind, grace-note to their homes.

My husband, Michael, a gifted woodworker, makes the frame that graces your painting. His approach to life is more measured then mine. He likes plumb lines and plans.

That is an apt metaphor for our marriage. Michael frames and focuses my energy and creativity. I stoke his. It’s a good fit.

I don’t display many of my own works here unless related to a point I want to make… It is difficult to capture textures and nuance… without filters and manipulations, so I stopped trying. If you are interested in seeing my work that can be arranged.

When I am not painting, I am grandmother, writer and a Well-being Strategist. Our home is and always shall be in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

In the days ahead, I will be adding reflections on art, faith, culture and family.

Feel free to hang out with me here.