This morning, I woke up buzzing—not because of anything particularly remarkable happening today, but because of a quiet revelation. After years of dancing around creativity, I finally found the courage in 2023 to step fully into my identity as a fine artist. My first show came in May 2024, debuting a body of work that included a primitive, almost childlike cat drawing—so different from what I create now. It’s exhilarating (and humbling) to see how much I’ve evolved in such a short time. There’s a bittersweet ache for the years I didn’t allow myself to explore this path more fully, but today, I’m focused on who I’ve become.

My art lives in two distinct worlds: one is deeply rooted in my life here in Lancaster County, and the other is my darker, weirder, truest self.

The Lancaster series is steeped in “dreamy memories”—soft moments of local life, rendered on wood panels and inspired by the people I love. These pieces are expanding in every sense: visually, emotionally, and communally. I’ve recently been creating a stream of small, tender portraits—pets and people, each one a kind of love letter. They’ve helped me connect to others in a profound way, and I’m working toward a larger body of work that centers these personal stories.

Then there’s the stranger side of my practice—one that pulses with nostalgia, VHS-C tapes, old family videos, and surreal beauty. My most prized tape captures two older lesbians rehearsing clown routines and later performing at clown school. It’s soft, joyful, deeply strange, and profoundly moving. Watching found footage like this—home videos from the 1990s—feeds my soul. They remind me of a childhood that had moments of warmth and whimsy before things fell apart. These memories, alongside bizarre relics like rotting fruit, dead fish, and bird figurines, have become my muses.

From those tapes, I began pulling stills—chairs, curtains, little dogs—and eventually moved on to full portraits. But recently, I painted those beloved clown women. I’m no longer limited to quirky cartoons (though I love them, too)—I now have the tools to paint real, soulful, tender portraits that honor these unseen lives. In many ways, it feels like I’m painting long-lost family… or maybe even my retro clown guardian angels.

My multimedia practice incorporates ink, pencil, pastel, and collage materials like paper mache, handspun newspaper, and textured paper borders. I often return to recurring characters: my hand-knit octopus "Tank," bewildered birds, or a series of one-eyed beings inspired by my beloved cat, Roger. The recurring cyclops imagery speaks to resilience and seeing the world differently—Roger only has one eye, but he lives joyfully, unbothered.

My time in sales has also shaped my work. I create characters like “Marsupial Sue” (inspired by a car saleswoman) and “Financial Advisor Bird” (a bird spotted in a parking lot) that reflect the strange sincerity of everyday professional life. Viewers often see themselves in my characters. One young woman looked at “Cutie Patootie Bird” and said, “That’s how I feel at work.” Those moments are gold to me.

Ultimately, my work celebrates what’s often unseen—mundane details, forgotten objects, soft absurdities. I want my paintings to feel like long-lost memories or tiny myths. I hope people see themselves in my work and walk away feeling that their own lives—awkward, heartfelt, funny, strange—are worth honoring, too.