I work in oils on canvas and charcoal figure studies, rooted in the traditions of the French and California Impressionists. I live and paint in Los Angeles.

For five years, I told myself I'd get back to painting. I studied light through photography, scouted locations, developed my eye — but always found a reason to wait. In late 2019, I was hospitalized with what doctors initially believed was cancer. After two biopsies, a Whipple procedure, and a nine-month recovery, it turned out to be a rare autoimmune condition. But the weeks I spent in that hospital — watching people on the cancer ward fight for their lives — changed something in me permanently. I understood, in a way I hadn't before, that time is not guaranteed.

When the world reopened, I stopped waiting. I enrolled at the Kline Academy of Fine Art in Los Angeles and committed myself fully to the craft. I haven't looked back.

What I paint are moments — small, fleeting, easily missed. A house with a single porch light glowing. Lilies sitting on still water. A figure at the edge of the ocean, lost in thought. A skater passing through. These are scenes most people walk past without a second glance. I stop, photograph them, and bring them to the canvas because I believe they deserve to be seen.

Some of my work includes figures caught in quiet, unguarded moments — private enough that the viewer feels like a witness to something they stumbled upon. Other paintings are pure landscape, capturing light and atmosphere as they exist for only a few minutes before shifting. Both come from the same impulse: to hold onto what's here before it's gone.

My influences include Sorolla, Guy Rose, the California Impressionists, and the quiet narrative stillness of Edward Hopper. Among contemporary painters, I admire Glenn Dean, Michael Obermeyer, and Russell Case. But my truest influence is the simple act of paying attention — something I no longer take for granted.