There is a paradox between the beauty of death and the fear of dying. My work lives in that tension. I make paintings that feel like beings, like someone standing in front of you.

In 2014, I survived a violent home invasion. Two men kicked in my door with guns and took everything of value, but more importantly, they took my innocence. They left my guitar, saying, “let him make music.” So I did. I poured the terror, pain, and love into my art more than ever before. Living with PTSD has taught me that the worst hell is often the one I create for myself.

My works are gentle bad dreams and blinding ecstasies. I explore mortality, compulsive behaviors, and belief systems born from trauma. Beautiful corpses erupting with flowers, tiny worlds in flux, and the redemption of tortured souls all speak to the balance between blooming and decay.

There is a paradox between the beauty of death and the fear of dying. My work lives in that tension. I make sculptural paintings that feel like beings, like something standing in the room with you. They are emotional terrains shaped by memory, trauma, and tenderness.

I am drawn to the strange beauty of things falling apart. My surfaces bloom and crumble, like a skin that has been shed or a memory losing form. Using oil, beeswax, clay, pigment, and found objects, I build layered ecosystems that evoke both decay and renewal.

My work explores mortality, compulsive behaviors, and belief systems shaped by trauma. I create spaces where pain and beauty can coexist without resolution. They are gentle bad dreams and blinding ecstasies. Blooming and decaying simultaneously.