My pen and ink gardens meander through playfulness, love, loss, struggle, nostalgia, hope. Bound together by throngs of intertwining flora, fauna, and pattern, my portraits and narratives transfigure and transcend, telling abstracted stories within stories. Collages of line interlock and overlap. Colors define spaces and muddle others. I isolate and overcrowd, flatten and distort, simplify and complicate. As I create my sea of layers, I'm swallowed deeper into the souls of the depicted, often becoming neither lost nor found upon completion. They pull me back to my beginnings, beyond the white walls and concrete, to my childhood in the eucalyptus forest of Hayward, California.

I grew up in a blue, cookie-cutter house at the edge of undeveloped wilderness, surrounded by my father’s woodblock prints hanging on our wallpapered living room walls, and blankets my grandmother crocheted draped on the side of every bed. Antique clocks, gears partially exposed, chimed every hour; fish, the few pets I owned, swam in a bowl atop my roll top desk, carnivorous plants gaped from our kitchen bay window; polished, petrified wood remnants rested on shelves between science fiction novels and medical encyclopedias, and my mother’s fuchsias and roses, voluptuous and vibrant, blossomed near cemented sidewalks where deer tread during the night to eat them. The mismatch of old and new, imaginative and informative, organic and ready made comprised my childhood home, and I find myself returning to it in every piece I create.