2026, oil on canvas, 48x36x2 in.
There are spaces that go unnoticed—creek edges, park margins, the stretch of path between here and somewhere else. These paintings begin there.
Each painting begins with a run and a photograph. That image passes through AI mediation before I paint it alla prima in oil—all at once, wet into wet, no going back. Making the layers of looking visible, then asking what remains that is mine.
These paintings aren't only about place. They're about what happens internally when the body is moving and the mind goes quiet.
Research in neuroaesthetics is beginning to confirm what painters have always known: that sustained attention is not passive. It is a practice. And in a world designed to fragment it, choosing to look slowly is an act of resistance.
The titles are love letters—the people held in mind, the conversations continuing, the ones I miss.
Painting and running are the same practice.
This work is what I paused for. It's also what I almost missed.
2026, oil on canvas, 48x36x2 in.
There are spaces that go unnoticed—creek edges, park margins, the stretch of path between here and somewhere else. These paintings begin there.
Each painting begins with a run and a photograph. That image passes through AI mediation before I paint it alla prima in oil—all at once, wet into wet, no going back. Making the layers of looking visible, then asking what remains that is mine.
These paintings aren't only about place. They're about what happens internally when the body is moving and the mind goes quiet.
Research in neuroaesthetics is beginning to confirm what painters have always known: that sustained attention is not passive. It is a practice. And in a world designed to fragment it, choosing to look slowly is an act of resistance.
The titles are love letters—the people held in mind, the conversations continuing, the ones I miss.
Painting and running are the same practice.
This work is what I paused for. It's also what I almost missed.
