The Shape of Silence
ACrylic on Canvas
36 x 36 x 2”
A painting that hums with restraint and quiet dread. "The Shape of Silence" doesn’t shout , it lingers. A fractured landscape, half-memory, half-emotion, where every soft edge feels like something slipping away. The artist resists spectacle and finds something better: presence.
Man in orange light
36 x 2”
acrylic on canvas
This painting hums with conviction. The artist risks everything, scrapes, drips, collapses, and still finds balance inside chaos. The color sings dirty and luminous at once; the orange heat feels like it’s burning through swamp air. The figure in the small boat isn’t a person so much as a pulse of existence, a moment of human color in a dissolving world. It’s raw, fearless, and utterly earned.
Acrylic on Canvas
36 x 36 x 2”
A single figure lingers in a fever-pink thicket, half-formed and fading.
This is a forest where memory snarls with growth — where every branch is a nerve ending and every root is trying to remember something important.
The figure doesn’t arrive or leave. They just are.
This isn’t some grand, mythic vision. It’s quieter — more human.
A painting about that liminal place between recognition and forgetting — between presence and vanishing.
It holds your gaze because it doesn’t beg for it.
Just enough. And that’s everything.
The Clearing
The Crossing
36 x 36 x 2”
Acrylic on canvas
A moody, psychological swamp rendered in thick paint and haunted color. The figure is barely there, more shadow than man, and yet we feel his burden, his motion, his loneliness. This is not a place you look at, t's a place you enter, slowly, and get lost in. The trees aren't trees. The water isn’t water. It’s memory, collapse, time. A painting that hums with quiet authority. You didn’t illustrate a moment, you conjured one.
36 x 36 x 2”
Acrylic on Canvas
What remains standing
Stark, spectral, and quietly menacing, this painting stages a surreal drama in a forest where nature is both witness and accomplice. The white tree trunks cut through the canvas like bones, bleached and rigid, while shadowy, hooded figures perch like watchful phantoms—silent and unknowable. There's a haunting rhythm here, a push-pull between light and dark, clarity and ambiguity. It’s gothic, not in style but in atmosphere, like a dream where the trees remember what the figures forget. The dripping paint adds a sense of decay, as if the image itself is rotting inward. It sticks with you.
Acrylic on Canvas
36 x 36 x 2”
White Scar
This painting feels like a wound in the landscape. The burning sky presses forward, the foliage collapses into shadow, and the white scar slices across it all like a fracture in time. It’s blunt, haunting, and more symbol than scene—an image that lingers because it refuses to heal.
The listening pool
36 x 36 x 2”
acrylic on canvas
This painting feels like memory burned into a swamp. The black figures aren’t spirits anymore—they’re shadows that forgot how to leave. The forest hums with color but can’t shake the weight of what’s missing. Spirals pulse like the last signs of life on a heart monitor. Less elegy, more reckoning.
What the forest remembers
36 x 36 x 2”
acrylic on canvas
This is a painting that hums with wet, buzzing tension. Rain slices through the scene in vertical white streaks, not so much falling as marking territory. The forest is thick and stylized, a collage of green gestures and painterly shorthand, but it’s the figures—ghostlike and half-dissolved into the watery foreground—that steal the air. They aren’t bathing or wading; they’re waiting, watching, maybe haunting. The ripples are too perfect, too serene, a pattern fighting chaos. There’s something cinematic here, like a freeze-frame from a dream you’re not sure you want to remember. It’s beautiful and vaguely terrifying.
This is the kind of artwork that rewards repeat viewing. Its emotional tone and symbolic ambiguity make it both accessible and profound. It doesn’t rely on technical realism but rather on mood and metaphor—an approach that resonates strongly in contemporary visual culture.
36 x 36 x 2”
Acrylic on canvas
Liminal Nest
36 x 36 x 2”
Acrylic on Canvas
Where the Reflection Breaks
Where the Reflection Breaks is a raw, haunted, painterly poem. A lone figure stands not on land or in water but at the edge of memory itself. The reflection below doesn’t mirror, it dissolves. Colors bleed, drip, and pull downward like memory slipping out of reach. The verticals weep. The surface holds trauma, time, and tenderness in equal parts. It’s less about looking at a figure and more about being one, still, present, and slowly disappearing. This is a painting that whispers, then lingers.