I spent most of my life as a forklift mechanic, the kind of work where you learn to listen with your hands. I lived among grease and hydraulic lines, chasing small problems before they turned into big ones—bad seals, sticky valves, misbehaving relays, the quiet language of metal under load. Every day had a rhythm: diagnosing, tightening, testing, and watching the machine come back to life like it was taking a breath. Now I’m retired from that world, but I still carry the habits—patience, precision, and the respect you learn for the way things actually work.

When I started painting, it felt like I was rebuilding something, just with a different set of tools. I try to capture light the way I once tried to capture performance—by understanding its direction, its pressure, its timing. I chase the glow that spills across a wall at dusk, the hard edge of sun on a window, the soft fade that happens when shadows loosen their grip. My canvases are attempts to translate that momentum into color and texture, turning the mechanics of observation into art. I’m not trying to recreate what I see exactly—I’m trying to honor what it feels like when light lands, and how it changes everything it touches.