From the shimmering canals of the Netherlands to the towering Canadian Rockies, I grew up in landscapes that asked you to slow down and look closely. Now I live where the mountains tumble into the Pacific in Malibu — a place of raw beauty and, at times, wild instability.

Life has a way of humbling you here. Fires come through. Things change overnight. What lasts isn’t the structure — it’s the people, the relationships, quiet moments of faith & hope, the fragments of beauty that hold everything together.

Most days, I help run my family’s veterinary hospital, where children and animals wander the hallways and no two days unfold the same way. It’s fast, deeply human work sprinkled with gentle furry creatures, great & small. Then I come home and work with my hands. Back and forth. Urgency to stillness. Problem-solving to instinct.

Lately, I’ve been drawn to the simple ritual of charcoal—gathering it in the Malibu hills and coaxing the land back onto paper as I experience it. Making feels tied to living: the moment something begins to exist that wasn’t there before. Each moment starts empty. Something happens, or it doesn’t. Even charcoal can have a new beginning.

I return to mountains, birds, roads, and water—not for what they depict, but for what they carry. Weight and lightness. Stillness and movement. Endurance and freedom. They become less like places and more like ways of seeing.

My work lives in that space—where something gives way, and something else, unexpectedly, holds.