Artist Statement

I’ve lived for fifty years with something that reminds me, every day, that life is not guaranteed.

I was thirteen when I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. Old enough to understand what the word meant. Young enough to lose the illusion of invincibility overnight. Since then, there hasn’t been a single day when I haven’t been aware of my own body, my fragility, and my responsibility to stay alive.

That kind of awareness changes you.

It teaches you to pay attention. It teaches you that survival is rarely dramatic. It’s disciplined. It’s quiet. It’s built from small decisions made over and over again. It teaches you that love often looks like vigilance. A spouse checking for warmth. A daughter hiding emergency supplies. A friend bringing candy “just in case.”

It also teaches you that memory isn’t sentimental. It’s structural. It shapes how we stand in the world.

My work begins with photographs. Sometimes they’re found. Sometimes they’re given to me by someone who wants to honor a parent, a partner, a story that still carries weight. A photograph is a fragment of time. But a memory is a presence. A tone. A way someone moved through a room.

I listen carefully. I ask about the person in the image. Who were they in life? What did they mean to you? Then I work until the piece holds more than likeness. It has to hold essence.

I use etching, hand-dyed paper, and layered processes because I want the surface to feel lived in. Ink and dye meet. Control and surrender meet. In recent years, I’ve carried this same language into glass, translating imagery into luminous panels and architectural-scale works where light becomes part of the experience. The goal is the same in every material: to make something you feel, not something you simply recognize.

I split my time between Madison and Utrecht, between American emotional directness and Dutch visual restraint. That tension sharpens my eye. It keeps the work honest. It keeps it grounded in both vulnerability and clarity.

We’re living in a moment where images are endless and easy to dismiss. At the same time, many of us are sorting through boxes of photographs. Caring for aging parents. Crossing into new chapters. Realizing we’re now the age our parents once were. We’re asking different questions, not about accumulation, but about meaning.

My work is for people who understand quiet stakes. People who know you can do everything right and still rely on grace. People who’ve survived something and don’t need to announce it. People who believe attention is a form of love.

When someone cries in front of one of my pieces, it’s not because the work is dramatic. It’s because something returns. A parent. A younger self. A story that was never fully spoken. The work doesn’t shout. It steadies.

I make art for rooms where people live, and for spaces that need to hold both strength and tenderness. If you’re in a season of reflection, thinking about legacy, or wanting your walls to reflect who you’ve become, I’d love to share the work with you.