A small studio, made by hand

I paint from a converted barn studio at the edge of the Blue Ridge. My work lives somewhere between close observation and quiet abstraction — tiny flowers, field notes, moments of light.

I teach small workshops because I love the hush of a room full of people mixing their first wash of watercolor. Everything here — the prints, the classes, the commissions — is made slowly, in small batches.

How I work

I mix colors from memory more than from reference. A fog on the river, the exact gray-green of hemlock in late winter, the quiet pink of a dogwood flower right before it opens. I keep a notebook of small color patches, dated, with a scribble of where I was.

A painting is a record of how someone paid attention.

I draw first, almost always. Pencil, quick gesture lines, then a wash. I like a piece to feel a little uncertain — a little breath of the hand still in it.

What I'm after

I want the work to invite someone to slow down. To stop scrolling for a second longer than they meant to. I think that's what art used to ask of us, before everything got so loud.

If you own a piece of mine, I'd love to know where it lives. Send me a photo sometime. It'll make my week.