"Where the Light Finds Me" | I painted this after years of silence... brush untouched, colors waiting patiently for my return. This is me, standing at the edge of a new beginning, where the waves hush the past and the sun promises nothing but light. Each morning, I wake to this view on my wall, a memory and a wish, reminding me to rise with wonder, to chase the dawn, and to meet each day with open hands and a full heart. Because some sunrises aren’t just in the sky. They happen within us.
"Saltwater Sanctuary" | The sea has always known me; before the noise, before the unraveling. It holds the sun, the sky, and the breath I forgot I was holding. This is my Saltwater Sanctuary. A place that doesn't ask for anything but presence. Miami remembers me. And wave after wave, I remember her back.
"Let the Colors Dream for You" | I didn’t paint this to be precise. I painted it to pause. This piece isn’t about perfect perspective or realistic proportions. It’s about soft rebellion. The kind where you let the figure stay small so the sea can stay vast. Where the back of a woman becomes an open doorway inviting you to step into stillness, not performance. Her hair isn’t styled. The ropes aren’t even. And still she’s held. By the hammock. By the sky. This is what it looks like when presence wins. When we let go of needing to get it “right” and just let the bright colors dream for us.
"While the Light Unfolded" | She didn’t chase the light. She let it find her curled in softness, bare against the hush of tide and sky. This piece is about stillness, and the quiet kind of healing that happens when no one’s watching. A moment to simply be.
"She was the Bubble and the Light" | Inspired by a photo of me as a child blowing bubbles at the beach, this piece became a quiet journey back to joy... layer by layer, moment by moment, an exercise in reconnecting with my inner child, the part of me untouched by shame or sorrow. No past to outrun. No noise to untangle. Just presence. Just me. Raw. Real. Worthy. A little girl blowing bubbles in her happy place, full of wonder and light. Painting this was a return to her.
“Before the World Arrives” | She hasn’t been added yet...the figure at the edge of the sand. But I think she’s coming. Sometimes I paint the ocean to remember how it feels to be held without question. This one was born from quiet, from softness, from light folding into color.
"Before the World Arrives, She Greets the Quiet" The sky doesn’t rush to bloom. The ocean doesn’t beg to be seen. She learned from them. And so she stands... steady, open, radiant, a woman who knows that peace is power.
"Bubbles & Blondes" Series
"Bubbles at the Beach"
"Bubbles in the Park"
"Bubbles in the Dessert"
"Writing my Own Story" Series | These two pieces, gold and silver, survivor and shapeshifter, completely transform in direct sun. What was subtle becomes radiant. What was quiet becomes undeniable. They’re part of the same storm. Painted from different pieces of me. One born of grief. The other, of defiant joy. But both say the same thing: You don’t get to write my story. I do. In every color. In every light.
“Scars into Brushstrokes” | Some stories aren’t told in words. They’re told in layers. In textures. In colors mixed with memory. This piece poured out of me in the midst of anger, clarity, and a reclamation of self. I started with chaos, using paint and: berries, cotton, twine, broken bits, and then she appeared. Not soft, but sovereign. Not broken, but becoming. They tried to write my story. But I turned the scars into brushstrokes and made something beautiful.
"She Came Out Dancing" | In full color. In full control. With glitter in her scars and a beat in her chest. Because healing doesn’t always look quiet. Sometimes, it struts. Sometimes, it sways. Sometimes, it storms the canvas in bare feet and rhythm.
"Unmapped Light" is a journey through instinct, shadow, and the unexpected paths hope takes. This series began with a question: what if we let the process lead? Each piece explores how light moves; not in straight lines, but through curves, chaos, and quiet returns. This is a map drawn by feeling. A celebration of permission, play, and the grace that comes when we stop needing all the answers.
"Light and Shadows" | Traced from balcony shadows that only lasted a moment but left their mark. A scrap of torn wood with traced shadows turned fractured pathways, freestyled lines, and spirals like the mind trying to organize a dream. This is hope glowing through destruction, a happy memory etched into wreckage. A punk-sci-fi-spiritual kind of meditation in tribute to my father. Part 1 of 3 in Unmapped Light, a series about instinct, chaos, and the grace in not having all the answers.
"Light Finds Its Angles" | It doesn’t always come through clean lines or perfect moments. Sometimes, it breaks. Reflects. Finds you anyway. Part 2 of 3 in Unmapped Light, a series about instinct, chaos, and the grace in not having all the answers.
"Curves of Light" | This final piece is a quiet reminder that resolution doesn't require rigidity. Sometimes, it looks like letting go. Letting it flow. Like texture, like instinct, like trust in the process. The light didn’t follow a straight line; it curved, doubled back, meandered. But it never disappeared. Part 3 of 3 in Unmapped Light, a series about instinct, chaos, and the grace in not having all the answers.
"The Vivid Series" | Three pieces. Three daydreams. Each one rooted in something real...but stretched by color, emotion, and imagination. This series poured out without planning, just brush to canvas and feeling to form. Bold, instinctive, and a little chaotic...just like the best kind of dreaming.
"Cafecitos and Periquitos" | Part I. Vivid Series.
"Dress-shirt with a View" | Part II. Vivid Series.
"Soaking Suds" | Part III. Vivid Series.
A love story dissolving in space dust | "The Weathered Heart" | Emotional weather, captured in layers. A soul untangled. A love that wasn’t really love. Just something familiar dressed as safety
Turbulence disguised as tenderness | "Storm Lock" | The pressure built quietly. Clung like clouds to skin. A love mistaken for shelter ... until the sky cracked, and I realized I was holding on to the thunder.
Contact, but only with her own rising | "Contact Light" | A hush between weather systems. She lands ... not where she meant to, but where she can finally breathe. The transmission clears: I see myself now. Not through his eyes. Not for his rescue.
She exits orbit | "Atmospheric Fade" | The shape remains, faint as moon shadow. But the pull is gone. He drifts like vapor, no longer a storm, just residue on the horizon of memory.
"The Space She Claimed" | She needed no witness; only breath, only stillness, only the pulse of her own becoming. Painted in dusk-skin and honey-gold, she arches into herself, a prayer answered by her own hands. This is not surrender to anyone else. This is what it looks like to come home to the body that stayed when everyone else left. She is not waiting. She is waking. She is hers.
"Not Yours to Hold" | Painted in watermelon pink and wound-red, she glows from within: raw, holy, unashamed. She is her own warmth, her own worship, her own wild bloom. She does not ache to be chosen. She is the choosing. A soft storm wrapped in stillness, a body that remembers... and forgives, but never forgets. To be near her is to meet her where she already is: untamed, unhidden, utterly whole. She is not art for your pleasure. She is altar. She is myth. She is home.
“Portal of Pages” | A girl, a book, and a door of light. When the world was too loud, she stepped between the shelves and disappeared—into stories that saw her, saved her, and stitched her back together. Each spine a doorway. Each chapter a breath. Even in the darkest moments, fiction never failed her. The library was her portal. The pages were her sanctuary.
"Behind the Green Eyes" | This piece is quieter. Not because it hurts less but because this kind of silence was trained. Perfected. Expected. She was never allowed to scream. So she learned to hold it in behind steady eyes, a still face, a single tear she didn’t dare let fall. But don’t mistake her silence for consent. Don’t mistake composure for peace. This is the second in a series about voice, erasure, and survival. If Splinters of Silence was the scream I was never allowed to release, then this is the moment before it. The breath held. The truth swallowed. The knowing gaze that says: I remember everything.
"Splinters of Silence" | Carved from reclaimed wood, stained with pain, and layered in acrylics and truth, this piece was born from rage I could no longer carry in my body. The handprint at the throat isn’t just symbolic; it’s the invisible grip of years spent silenced, diminished, manipulated, and erased. The phrases etched into the background are the soundtrack of surviving in a world that tries to tame and shame women into silence. This was never about pretty art. It was about making the damage visible. About honoring the emotional wreckage as real. About taking back the power of my voice: in texture, in color, in every splinter.
"My happy place" | Made on a broken-down Trader Joe's paper bag, with the last bits of paint and random supplies I had, and yet somehow, this became my most treasured creation. Sometimes, you don’t need perfection. Just a quiet space, a good soak, and the audacity to make beauty out of scraps.
"Beautiful Mess" | Some canvases come blank. Others come from the trash. This 4'x3' beauty was rescued, reused, and reborn with a neon sunset, blooming wildflowers, and zero pressure to be “perfect.” It’s not polished... it’s playful. And honestly? That might be my favorite kind of painting. Here’s to second chances, bold colors, and art that makes your heart smile.
"Sunset Silhouette Series" | From palm-lined boulevards to desert dreams and mountain stillness, each canvas captures a California sunset through my eyes as a Miami girl learning the language of new landscapes. Same sun, different shadows.
"Coastal to Concrete" | From Miami’s swaying palms to LA’s sky-touching cousins. This piece is a love letter to the trees that lined both my childhood beaches and my freeway commutes. Palm trees, but make it bi-coastal.
"Quiet Altitude" | Inspired by the pine trees in Angeles Forest and Big Bear, this one is for the chill that hits just before dusk, the hush between the mountains, and the peace that sneaks up on you. Sometimes, the sky doesn’t shout... it exhales.
"Still Wild" | The Joshua Tree taught me that silence has texture, and sunsets stretch wider out here. This silhouette came from a memory where the sky looked like it was lit from inside. Somewhere between surreal and sacred.
“Tides of Light” – A Series | Three versions of the same shoreline. Three chapters in a story told by the sea: ☀️ First Light – soft beginnings 🌤️ Golden Hour – a moment held in warmth 🌙 Last Light – the hush of ending Painted in motion, painted in memory.
“First Light” | The beginning of something, soft and dreamlike. The start of the day, or the start of a dream? “First Light” captures the moment the world stretches awake, painted in pastels and promise. The ocean here isn’t loud... it’s whispering. And she’s listening.
“Golden Hour” | That golden-pink liminal space between day and night, presence and memory. That hush before goodbye, when the sun leans low and the waves soften. “Golden Hour” is about lingering...on the shore, in a memory, in a feeling you don’t want to lose just yet.
“Last Light” | Closing chapter. A deep exhale. The tide is still talking, even after the light has gone. “Last Light” holds the weight and peace of endings...the kind that don’t need words, just waves.
"Held by the Moonlight" | This tree… I passed it often while walking the dogs. I’d always stop, tilt my head back, and just breathe it in. There’s something sacred about how its branches stretch toward the moon, carving stories in the sky. Returning to this kind of painting felt like coming home to myself.
“Walking Home Through The Jungle, With Love at His Side” | For my neighbor, the father who walks these streets with love beside him. A familiar corner, a quiet night, a Dad and his boys walking beneath halos of streetlight. This piece was inspired by a father's love, the way light softens everything after sunset, and our neighborhood, Baldwin Village, The Jungles.