Originally, from New York, I have spent most of my adult life living in the San Francisco Bay Area. My work is an osmosis of the influence of the New York Abstract artist attitude and the sensibility of light in the Bay Area landscape.

As an abstract painter I create impressions constructed from the thin line between memory and imagination. My gestural marks are organic and free from formula and conscious constraint. Whether painting, drawing or working with monotypes, my process is guided by a mix of intuition and tenacious experimentation. Compositions evolve as acts of discovery rather than having a planned destination. My practice is a process of working through vulnerability to intimacy to strength and the belief that I am a part of something larger than myself.

My Studio

The space is filled with light from around and above. The ceilings are high and color is demanding attention from surfaces everywhere. Shapes on paper, on panel, on clay talk to each other from across the walls. Along with computer desk, flat files, cubbies filled with art supplies, there are shelves of my precious art book library with more stacks of books everywhere.

Inspiring art materials fill tables, taboret, carts—inks, brushes, jars and tubes of paints, gels, mediums, markers, pencils, charcoal, glazes, sand papers, spray bottles, rags, paper towels, palettes, varying sizes of small to large paper, wood panels. Finished paintings, abandoned paintings, incomplete paintings, gessoed surfaces ready for a fresh start.

Visitors are often overwhelmed yet always understand when I refer to my studio as a sanctuary.


I order piles of thick paper, more hand

made inks in luscious hues and tints of red.

When I have the energy, I make

one small painting after another. Free

from setting goals, I use brushes, rags, spray bottles,

a spread or drip down the page creates

a sense of grace, fluidity. I take a

line for a walk, a whirl, a frenzy. I work

with immediacy, a direct relationship of hand to process.

I embrace chance.

I close my eyes and clearly see a saturation of red,

I imagine some pink. A thin lined brush suggests a body,

black opaque scribbling holds the remnant presence

of what is no longer there.

There is a pulse, a raging of chemicals inside me.

This is what it takes to have something to say.