When people ask where my work comes from, I always think back to my childhood.
I grew up in an Alabama neighborhood where every house felt like home. We spent our days outside—riding bikes until the streetlights came on, swimming all summer, playing tennis at the park, and wandering in and out of neighbors' homes as though they were
part of our own family. One sweet couple next door didn't have children of their own, yet my little sister Molly was just as likely to be found curled up on their couch taking an afternoon
nap as she was in our own house.
It was an idyllic childhood.
Sunday mornings meant church. Wednesday nights meant fellowship dinners and choir practice. The adults looked after all of us, and we belonged not only to our own families but to an entire community. Looking back, I realize what a gift that was.
I was the first grandchild on both sides of my family, the oldest cousin, and for a while the only little girl in the room. I grew up surrounded by women who quietly shaped the way I see the world. They taught me that love often looks ordinary—a meal shared around the table, creating a beautiful home, or simply gathering as a family on the sofa to watch TV.
I don't remember ever feeling unseen.
Today, I paint from my studio at House of Hearts, our Victorian cottage in Newnan, Georgia. Filled with sketchbooks, old photographs, rescued animals, flowers from the garden, and paintings in every stage of becoming, it is both my home and the place where my work unfolds. Alongside my own painting practice, I teach painting at the University of West Georgia.
Even now, I'm drawn to the quiet stories that often go unnoticed. The ordinary moments. The keepsakes tucked into drawers. The old photographs with no names written on the back. The traditions that are passed from one generation to the next without anyone realizing they're becoming memories.
If my paintings invite someone to slow down, remember, or notice beauty in the ordinary, then they've done exactly what I hoped they would.
Life at the
House of Hearts
The studio is rarely quiet. Sketchbooks pile up, paintings lean against the walls, feathers from my runs find their way into old jars, and there's almost always a curious cat keeping me company. These everyday moments are just as much a part of my creative practice as the paintings themselves.
