Before I was ever a painter, I was a singer-songwriter. A multi-instrumentalist. Music was my first language — the way I made sense of the world. But over time, something shifted.
As much as I loved music, I began to feel boxed in. The structures. The bars. The formulas. There’s a rhythm and repetition to songwriting that can start to feel like colouring inside the lines. And for someone like me, that slow squeeze of predictability began to weigh heavy.
That’s when I found painting — or maybe it found me.
With a brush in hand, I wasn’t thinking about verse-chorus-verse or counting beats in a bar. I was chasing something raw, unfiltered, instinctive. Painting became a place where I could move beyond the rules. Beyond structure. It was freedom, pure and simple. Where sound ends, colour begins — and suddenly, everything opened up.
To this day, that’s what drives me.
I don’t work from templates. I don’t chase trends. I don’t paint to match your couch or complement a Pinterest board. I paint to feel something. I paint so that you might too.
Each piece is a kind of improvisation. A moment of clarity, or confusion, or both. And I never know where I’m going until I get there — that’s the point. The uncertainty is the magic.
There’s enough formula in the world. Enough neatness. Enough “shoulds.”
I want my art to be a place where you can breathe.
So if my work feels a little wild, a little unpredictable, a little like music with no chorus — now you know why.
It’s not meant to follow a script.
It’s meant to move you.