I was raised in Ketchum Idaho, in the house next door to where Ernest Hemingway died. The house is exactly as he left it in 1961, and it has an eerie power to it. I remember feeling the strange ghostly presence of the writer next door. When I studied English Literature at Stanford I was determined to become a writer. I felt an overwhelming urge to create, but I didn’t yet have a voice. I wrote heavy stories and felt like I needed to create with seriousness in order to validate my choice to go into the arts. I put pressure on myself and felt confined by my ideas about writing. In the evenings I would draw in oil pastel and give myself total freedom to create like a child. It was a way to blow off steam. I liked bright colors and my sense of humor peeked through when the stakes felt low. I was addicted to the freedom and playful nature of this work that soon evolved from oil pastel to painting. That’s when things started to click for me and when my art started to resonate with people. When I listened to what came out of me naturally I heard a gentle, uplifting whisper. At its best, my art communicates joy, and it seeks to delight. I had to get out of my own way to let it be anything but serious.