Brushstrokes of Becoming
Art That Speaks Without Explaining
My art is not decoration. It’s conversation.
Every painting on this page began in a moment when words failed me.
Some were painted through grief. Some through joy. Some through sheer curiosity.
But each one became a kind of silent conversation—between me and the canvas, and now, between the painting and you.
What you see here isn’t just art. It’s evidence of my transformation.
Welcome to the gallery of what I survived, what I felt, and what I finally had the courage to say in color.
Love what you see?
You can purchase prints of my work over on Fine Art America. Bring a piece of soul and story into your space.
Sanctuary
Painted in gratitude for a rare season of being truly seen, Sanctuary is a portrait of gentleness, honor, and quiet safety. A mountain cradles the valley like a steady companion—strong, soft, unshakable. This is what it feels like to be held without demand. To belong. To exhale.
There’s a moment—just before the sun crests the hills—when everything is still, and the world holds its breath. Dawn Beckons was born from that hush. A winding path cuts gently through the quiet terrain, inviting the viewer to remember what it feels like to be guided—not by urgency, but by soul.
This piece speaks to the quiet call we often ignore: the invitation to return to ourselves. To pause. To listen. To trust that the path back home might be softer, and more beautiful, than we imagined.
Painted in layered hues of rose, moss, and violet, this work captures more than a sunrise—it captures a beginning.
There are places that don’t just exist—they call to you. This quiet, sunlit shoreline was captured on a scorching summer day, painted from a photo I took when the world felt still and open. No footprints. No distractions. Just sky, sea, and sand—waiting for someone to notice.
Over 1,500 people have viewed this piece in the past year.
Maybe it’s calling to you now.
Maybe it always was.
Bring the calm home. Let this be your place to exhale.
Bold blues cascade like memory, layered with gold like hope that refuses to dim. This piece is for anyone who’s ever felt both longing and light at the same time. It holds contrast and shimmer, ache and beauty—an abstract landscape of emotion, aliveness, and the quiet kind of joy that comes from simply feeling it all.
She drifted through the fog, untethered, unclaimed—yet still afloat.
A portrait of presence without direction, memory without anchor.
Painted in a season of quiet ache, this piece is for anyone who's ever felt like a ghost in their own life… and longed to find the shore again.
I painted this at 54, after my sister Melba challenged me to paint from my heart, not just from technique. Up until then, I made "safe" art—pretty, pleasing, and quiet. This was the first time I allowed myself to get lost in the process. I didn’t know who it was for. I just knew I had to let it out. It went through many versions—pink trees, then purple. But eventually, I returned to my true color: blue. She wasn’t always like this. But becoming who she truly is didn’t make her soft. It made her sure. Giclee Prints available here.
I painted this on a day I almost gave up. The sky held my sorrow. The water carried it.
There are no figures in this painting, and yet—it held me like a friend. This piece is where I learned that peace isn’t the absence of pain. It’s the presence of something steady, even when I’m not. Seascape Print.
They say sunflowers are yellow.
But I wasn’t feeling yellow that day.
I was listening—softly—to a blue that kept showing up in my chest.
So I followed it. Not because it made sense,
but because it felt like the truest conversation I could have.
Blue Sunflower Prints
This one came through gently—like it already knew what it wanted to be. I just listened and let it lead. Day Dreaming prints available.
This painting went through many transformations before it settled into truth.
Most lavender fields are painted in straight, tidy rows. I tried that. But no matter what I did, it felt wrong—forced. I stepped away for weeks. Then one day, with no plan, I picked up my brush and felt something deeper take over. I moved the rows into soft, sweeping curves. And with that motion, my soul whispered yes.
Only after I finished the painting did I understand:
We want life to follow clear, straight lines—easy to track, easy to manage.
But the truth? The path will always bend.
Sometimes softly, sometimes suddenly.
And in that disruption—that’s where the mountain lives.
This piece reminds me to let the rows curve. To allow for the unknown. To trust the turn.
There was no plan. No brush. No scene to recreate.
I was bored—tired of landscapes, tired of structure, tired of myself, if I’m honest.
My art was going in circles.
So was my thinking.
So was my life.
So I let it show up that way—layered, tangled, restless.
All of it poured out in my favorite hues of blue.
This piece doesn’t ask to be understood.
It just wants to be felt.
Pathways to Peace
Oil on birch panel
