I was recently asked to reflect on what motivates me to make art and what the act of creating means to me. If I’m fortunate, that reflection may be included in a book, with a celebration this spring at one of my favorite galleries. Of course, I’ll share more if it comes to pass.

Something unusual happened in my studio last year.

Normally, I work on a small group of pieces at once, whatever fits on my main work table, sometimes with a few more on an auxiliary table nearby. I take those pieces through all the stages together, moving them forward on the same timeline. Even when the works are small or varied, there’s usually an unspoken cohesion, as if they’re all part of one larger conversation.

A little while back, I scattered some poppy seeds at our local park.

I’m still choosing hope, just as I’m still looking forward to seeing those poppies bloom in our neighborhood. Some of the seeds will undoubtedly survive. Others won’t. Seeds don’t become gardens on their own. They need tending: attention, protection, and patience.

I’m entering this new year thinking about seeds, and about hope.

Hope, I’ve learned, isn’t something we either have or don’t have. It’s something we can cultivate. Something that grows slowly, often invisibly, and very often underground, just like the seeds we plant or the transplants we tuck into the garden, trusting that something is happening even when we can’t see it yet.

In a world that feels loud, rushed, and heavy, I find myself returning again and again to the same question:
How can we slow down long enough to notice what really matters?

My work has always been rooted in that longing. I create art to bring hope and healing into everyday life, art that invites us to pause, to look closely, and to reconnect with the natural world, the place we all come from.