I paint in oils because I like the way they hold a mark. A brushstroke can be direct, uncertain, rough, or tender, and that honesty feels like it matters to me. My paintings often begin with places I know -- houses, roads, fields, porches, weather, and the edges of familiar landscapes. I am less interested in recording every detail than in finding the few details that let a place open up. A line of snow, a dark window, an empty chair, or a shift in light can suggest a larger story without explaining it. That space is important. I want the viewer to feel invited into the painting, not told what to see. As a painter, photographer, and writer, I keep returning to the same question: how little can be shown, and still leave something true behind?