Inside the Process of Creating Each Piece

Most of my work begins long before I ever sit down to paint. Ideas tend to arrive when I’m doing something ordinary—walking, showering, waking up in the middle of the night with a random art idea. I usually sit with artwork ideas for weeks to months before acting on them. Creating a piece of artwork requires a real investment of time and emotional energy, and I’ve learned that I need to be deeply connected to an idea before I bring it to life.

At its core, my work is about connection.

When someone stands in front of one of my pieces, I hope they feel joy, peace, love, or meaning. Nearly everything I create is rooted in helping someone connect to a person, a place, or a moment in time that mattered deeply to them. Many people tell me they purchase my work because it reminds them of someone they love dearly or a place that holds significant memories. This is especially true with my state and location-based pieces. Over time, I expanded beyond U.S. states to include countries and Canadian provinces because people weren’t just buying the art....they were telling their family stories through it.

My creative process is almost entirely intuitive. I don’t plan color palettes in advance. Often, I don’t even know what colors I’m going to use until right before I begin painting. Occasionally I’ll do a very faint pencil outline of the subject, but that’s the extent of my preparation. I’ve learned that too much planning actually works against me as it creates anxiety, and the piece loses its natural rhythm.

As for the time each piece takes to paint, it's usually anywhere between 4-20 hours. The time isn’t dictated by size. In fact, some of the smallest pieces I’ve created, like the hummingbird paired with foxglove, required the most time because of the level of detail involved.

While painting, I’m often thinking about feelings rather than technical execution. When I painted the Doe & Fawn piece, I kept returning to the moment I first saw my son. Translating something that emotional onto paper is difficult, but that was the intention behind the work. Even if the viewer doesn’t know the story, that feeling is still present in the finished piece.

Sometimes a piece doesn’t go where it needs to go. When that happens, I let it go completely. I usually wait at least a day before starting again so that my thoughts about the abandoned piece don’t affect the next one.

Every original piece is created entirely by hand. No computer is involved in the creation process. That means you see the imperfections. The subtle inconsistencies. These are not things that can be replicated by a machine or AI, and I believe they’re essential to the soul of the work. Hand-drawn art carries a presence that’s difficult to explain but easy to feel. Ultimately, it’s up to each viewer to decide what resonates with them—but for me, creating by hand is the only way the work can truly communicate what I want it to say.

In a world filled with quickly created, mass-produced imagery, I believe it’s more important than ever to create, collect, and share handmade work.

Not everyone can—or wants to—own an original painting, and that’s where prints come in. I don’t view prints as “copies.” I see them as an extension of the original—a way for more people to live with the art at a more accessible price point. My goal is always for the print to feel as close to the original as possible. Many people tell me they can’t tell the difference at first glance, and that’s intentional.

I’ve also been very intentional about protecting the integrity of my work. I’ve never shared digital files of my artwork. Everything is copyrighted and trademarked, and I personally oversee how reproductions are made. I work closely with my print partners to ensure the process is done correctly and with respect for both the artwork and the customer. That level of care has been important to me from the very beginning.

When I think about someone owning my work ten or twenty years from now, I hope they feel exactly what they felt the first time they saw it. I hope it becomes a keepsake. Something that’s passed down. A reminder of a season of life, a person, or a place that mattered. Art has the ability to quietly hold memory, and that’s something I take seriously when I create.

Getting to this point hasn’t been quick or easy. It’s taken years of learning—some of it painful. Learning when to say no. Learning to protect my work. Learning that while many people are kind and trustworthy, others are not. Learning to share my art even when I was scared. Learning to trust my own compass and ignore opinions from those who aren’t fighting the same battles.

I’ve also learned that my family comes first. Always.

Today, I’m able to make much more thoughtful decisions, creatively and professionally, than I could five years ago. That growth shows up in the work, even if it isn’t immediately visible.

This work isn’t for everyone. But it is for people who value time, skill, and intention. For those who respect an artist’s voice and style. For those who believe that art can carry meaning beyond decoration.

I create because I it's in my soul to create, and because I love the people who invite this work into their homes. It’s my way of sharing something deeply personal with the world, and I’m grateful every time someone connects with it.