South Mountain 5

Medium: Ink & Acrylic on Canvas, Size: 60cm w x 90cm h, Year: 2025

Light scatters like thought—half-clear, half-gone. The mountains don’t rise. They glow. A deep ember behind blue-violet mist. There’s no horizon line, no boundary. Only movement—slow, soft, sweeping. Colors bleed into one another, as if the ground is dreaming in full color. Not to drench, but to reveal. A veil of time stretched over a place too familiar to name. You don’t stand in this landscape. You dissolve into it. Golds sink into purples. Greens lean toward flame. The whole field is alive, not with life, but with light pretending to be still.

South Mountain 3

Medium: Ink & Acrylic on Canvas, Size: 80cm w x 120cm h, Year: 2025

It begins with yellow—so much yellow it feels like light, not pigment. The kind of brightness that doesn’t blind, but softens. The kind that says: stay here, just a little longer.

Behind the blooms, trees rise not as barriers, but as witnesses. Holding space. Letting shadow play across their branches. They don’t interrupt. They frame. And beyond them, the mountains. A soft silhouette in lavender haze. Distant but present, like a thought you’re not ready to finish.

Robbers Cave

Medium: Ink & Acrylic on Canvas, Size: 90cm w x 60cm h, Year: 2025

A slope of rock and leaf caught in the in-between—between sun and shadow, sound and hush. The light doesn’t fall here. It lingers. It slides across stone like a memory you almost forgot to keep. Color hums softly in layers—amber and moss, rust and smoke. There’s no urgency. No spectacle. Just the quiet cadence of things existing exactly as they are. The trees don’t reach; they remain. And the hillside doesn’t rise to meet you—it continues, whether you follow or not.

Grand Canyon 1

Medium: Ink & Acrylic on Canvas, Size: 60cm w x 90cm h, Year: 2025

The sky is unraveling. Not in panic, but in release. As if it’s finally allowed to fall apart, drip by drip, into the open mouth of the canyon below. Light stutters through clouds in broken rhythms. The rain doesn’t arrive—it lingers. Hangs. Threads the scene in loose strands of water and time.

Broken Bow Lake

Medium: Ink & Acrylic on Canvas, Size: 90cm w x 60cm h, Year: 2025

The water doesn’t rush—it remembers. It curls through rock like breath, tracing old paths, older than names. The stones below shine with color, not for beauty’s sake, but because they’ve been worn honest. This isn’t just a riverbed. It’s a ledger. A memory. A ground that’s been walked, carried, crossed.

Arizona 1

Medium: Ink & Acrylic on Canvas, Size: 60cm w x 90cm h, Year: 2025

The cactus stands tall like a keeper of place, rooted in a land where silence hums with ceremony. The mesas in the distance aren’t background—they are memory, shaped and reshaped by heat, erosion, and story. This is no empty desert. This is land that listens, and in turn, asks to be heard. It moves from darkness to light, from shadow to form, layering color like memory—a slow unfolding of place. There is no conquest here. Just continuity. No spectacle, only presence.

Bison Park

Medium: Ink & Acrylic on Canvas, Size: 36"w x 24" h, Year: 2025

A tree stands, not to be admired, but to be leaned against. No monument, no metaphor—just presence. Its roots feel close to the skin. Around it, the ground breathes in fields of yellow and pink - these are Indian Blanket Flowers. Not flowers for the eye, but for the memory—half-bloomed, half-recalled. This is not a place you visit. It’s one you return to, over and over, in dreams and stories.

South Mountain 4

Medium: Ink & Acrylic on Canvas, Size: 24" w x 36" h, Year: 2025

You have to get close to feel it. This one isn’t about distance—it’s about nearness. Texture takes over where shape used to be. The flowers don’t rise—they hover, glimmering like secrets half-spoken in a warm breeze.

Around them, the earth is layered and listening. Green dissolves into rust. Mauve leans into gold. There’s no hierarchy here, no spotlight. Just everything growing toward the same gentle light.

South Mountain 2

Medium: Ink & Acrylic on Canvas, Size: 24" w x 36" h, Year: 2025

Pause.... Not out of hesitation—but out of respect. The desert doesn’t shout here. It glows. A cactus watches over everything, tall and unconcerned, while below it the brush and blooms murmur in waves of color: lemon, sage, plum, smoke.

The sky folds gently over the land, not blank but breathing. Rain doesn’t fall—it sways. Diagonal threads drawn from memory, catching on air like the outline of a lullaby. Everything here is in motion, but nothing rushes.

South Mountain 1

Medium: Ink & Acrylic on Canvas, Size: 24" w x 36" h, Year: 2025

There is no center here. No frame. Just saturation. A thicket of color so dense it hums. You don’t look at this—you enter it. Let it cover your ankles. Let it rise to your chest. Let it pull you into the chorus.

The ground is layered in rust, magenta, moss, and memory. Not painted, but conjured. This is not a landscape—it’s a threshold. Every shade sings over the next. Every shape refuses to stand alone. The leaves shimmer like coins, the soil pulses like breath. There’s no stillness. Just fullness.