Something made me pick up a paint brush; it just took me forty years to figure it out.

For decades, I fondly recall being genuinely curious, wondering about my physical surroundings, but wondering without depth and substance. Then something triggered. Suddenly, I began to see, really recognize and appreciate the undeniable, mysterious, and often breathtaking things that surround me each and every day. Passive glances turned to deep observation and contemplation. The rising and setting sun no longer represented bookends to the day but, rather, provided me the opportunity to become acutely aware of how the glorious nuances of light inject beauty to everything it lays upon. Sometimes moody and stark, other times glaring and radiant, I came to fully appreciate all conditions of light with equal marvel.

I could no longer ignore my burning, rapidly-escalating desire to unleash my creative essence. I had to capture those things around me in a way that was my own. It was important to record what I saw and how I interpreted the light. The paint brush came calling. Now, with those tools at my disposal, I finally figured out how to express the latent creativity that I’ve felt for so long. I am no longer held captive; the landscape and those things that occupy its space are my release. I am an Artist.