My studio days are guided as much by mood as by schedule. While I do work to deadlines set with my gallery and shop representatives, I find I produce my best work when I follow my creative instincts. Painting tends to dominate my time — it's spontaneous and energizing in a way that really fuels my creativity. Pottery, by contrast, is a slower, more methodical process, and I embrace both rhythms depending on what the day calls for.

Nature is my greatest muse. Whether I'm exploring a familiar corner of Ontario or travelling further across Canada, I find myself deeply moved by the land around me. There's a genuine sense of connection — almost a conversation — between me and the landscapes I paint. That feeling of belonging to a place is something I carry into every piece I create.

As a general rule, I don't take on commissioned pieces. In my experience, clients often have a very specific vision in mind, and artwork rarely unfolds exactly as imagined — that unpredictability is part of the creative process, but it can lead to disappointment on both sides. While I deeply appreciate that people want to own my work, I encourage collectors to browse the pieces currently available on my website or through my representing galleries and shops, where something just right may already be waiting for them.

Honestly? It's more of a feeling than a checklist. A piece might sit in the studio for weeks — sometimes months — while I live with it, move it around, and simply observe it over time. Eventually, something clicks and I know it's done. Rushing that moment isn't something I'm willing to do, and that patience is very much part of my process.

I've traditionally worked in acrylics, but I've been enthusiastically exploring oils recently — on both wood panels and canvas — with exciting results. On the ceramics side, I work with a variety of clay bodies, firing in electric kilns using multi-fired and oxidation techniques, and I'm trained in both gas and electric firing methods. Glazes are a particular passion — I love experimenting with different formulas and firing schedules to see what surprises the kiln might offer up.

For me, the most meaningful moments aren't always the biggest events — they're the connections. Meeting collectors who take their time choosing a piece of art, really engaging with it, is deeply rewarding. So too is crossing paths with artists who've inspired me, such as Peter Powning, Kayo O'Young, and Shirley Clifford. And any opportunity to stand in front of the work of painters I admire — Joan Mitchell, Cy Twombly, Robert Rauschenberg — never gets old.

I no longer teach regular classes, but I do occasionally respond to requests to speak with small groups of artists or collectors. If you're interested in arranging something like that, feel free to reach out through the contact page.

Virtually everything that survives my studio scrutiny is available for sale. Between the house and the studio, space fills up fast — and with new work always in progress, there's a constant and very practical need to make room! If a piece has made it out of the studio, it has earned its place in the world.

I stay current by viewing the work of other artists, and I've taken courses and workshops with talented colleagues over the years. But the real engine of change is my own restless experimentation with different processes and media. I genuinely value evolution in my work and find it difficult to stay in any one creative period for too long — which I hope is good news for collectors, as there's always something new on the horizon.

People often ask me what I was thinking about when I made a piece, or what I was trying to say. It's not always an easy question to answer. What I can say is that nothing inspires me more than hearing that someone has found something of themselves in my work — that a piece resonated in a personal, unexpected way. Those moments remind me why I keep creating.