I’ve always believed that nature has a soul. Not just a look — not just a collection of trees, rocks, and light — but a true presence. A living, breathing energy that you can feel if you’re still enough to notice.

When I go out to paint, I’m not searching for the most dramatic view or the most famous landscape. What draws me in is subtler — it’s the places that whisper rather than shout. The curve of a hillside, the hush of pine needles underfoot, the way the light settles into a clearing like it’s come home.

These are the places that breathe.

When I paint, my goal is not to replicate what I see, but to capture the feeling of being there. I want my work to convey that quiet awe — the way your breath catches when the sun breaks through clouds or the peace that comes from standing alone in a forest with nothing but birdsong.

It’s not just about technique or detail. It’s about emotion. About the way a place moves you.

Southern Utah, for example, has been calling to me lately. The towering red rocks, the shifting shadows, the ancient stillness of it all — it feels sacred somehow. It holds a weight, a silence, that I’m excited to explore on canvas. I haven’t painted it yet, but the vision is forming. I’ve been letting it simmer while I prune the garden and prepare the studio for the season ahead.

I believe that when art captures the spirit of a place, it transcends decor — it becomes something timeless. It becomes a part of your life story, something you live with, something that speaks to you again and again.

That’s what I hope to create for my collectors — pieces that breathe life into their homes and echo with emotion long after the brushstrokes dry.

Warmest regards,