"Snug" Painting

I was born in Detroit, Michigan on July 31, 1950. I currently work in oils but have also worked in water colors and stained glass.me.
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I paint to try to preserve moments before they disappear. I move fluidly between portrait, landscape, and narrative scene, but what unites it all is a deep attention to mood, memory, and the quiet emotional charge of ordinary life. Whether I am painting a river crossing, a lighthouse at dusk, or a tense domestic scene, I treat each subject not simply as an image, but as a container for feeling.
What makes my work distinctive is the way it balances realism with atmosphere. My compositions are grounded in recognizable places and human figures, yet they are never merely descriptive. There is always something more happening beneath the surface: a sense of history, a current of unease, a trace of tenderness, or the lingering presence of memory. I try to turn everyday scenes into small dramas, inviting viewers to enter the work and complete the story themselves.
Color and brushwork play a central role in that effect. My palette moves between restraint and warmth, allowing atmosphere to do much of the emotional work. Rather than overpowering the subject, the paint seems to hold it in place — softening edges, deepening shadows, and creating the kind of visual hush that encourages longer looking. The result is work that feels intimate without being closed off, specific without becoming literal.
There is also a strong narrative intelligence running through my practice. I am drawn to scenes where people are suspended in the middle of something: conversation, reflection, memory, conflict, travel, or transition. I use that sense of suspension to give my work its tension and its humanity. I try not to have my paintings explain themselves. Instead, I want to invite viewers to sit with ambiguity, to notice posture, gesture, and setting, and to find meaning in what is left unsaid.
.I try to build images that reward attention, not distraction. In my paintings I try to suggest that the ordinary is never truly ordinary — that a room, a road, a shoreline, or a figure in thought can still carry the weight of a larger story.