I was born an artist, but in true rebellion, it took me 36 years to finally say yes to pursuing it.

Over the years, I’ve created so many wonderful things—portraits, cartoons, florals, and a plethora of art projects that have allowed me to explore the many ways creativity can take shape. Today, that looks like everything from painting windows and murals to taking on freelance projects that bring color, character, and a little wonder into the places we gather. I’ve come to realize that my love for art has never been just about what I can create on a canvas. It’s about where that art can take me, the people it allows me to meet, and the community I get to be a part of along the way. I love creating amongst my community, not tucked away from it—bringing art into everyday spaces, telling stories through color, and helping people see the familiar world around them a little differently.

And yet, no matter how many directions my creativity takes me, I always return to Floral Fauvism. Again and again, I find myself drawn to flowers because they feel like a quiet doorway back to the Garden—an echo of everything that should have been, but because of rebellion, remains a dream to us. The soft geometry of a bloom, the whimsical way flowers dance with abandon, the unrestrained language of color—I’m not simply capturing a flower; I’m reaching for the memory of an untouched world.

There’s something about the anticipated vibrance, the translucence that lets the light lead, and the fragility of beauty over time that whispers of Eden. A place where nothing was hidden, nothing was rushed, and beauty wasn’t something to be earned, but something simply given. Painting florals allows me to rest in that remembrance. Each stroke feels like a return to innocence, to the first language of creation, where color, form, and breath were enough.

Florals remind me that restoration is possible. That even after seasons of loss, abandonment, or upheaval, life has a way of unfolding again—softly, insistently, defiantly. They anchor me in the belief that the original design of the world was harmony, not harshness; beauty, not brutality. In that way, every bloom I paint becomes a small act of rebellion against everything that tries to harden the heart, and a quiet coming home to who I was created to be in my Creator’s perfect plan.

Perhaps that is also why I love painting in the spaces where people live, work, gather, and connect. A painted window can turn an ordinary storefront into something magical. A mural can breathe new life into a forgotten wall. A freelance project can become a shared experience, a memory, or a small piece of beauty woven into the fabric of a community. These works may look different from the florals I return to on canvas, but to me, they come from the same place: a desire to bring people into presence, to make room for wonder, and to remind us that were designed to be surrounding by all things beautiful.

When I paint flowers, I’m not recreating Eden. Our sin-sick minds can’t possibly fathom the goodness and glory of such a place. Instead, I’m remembering it as I hope it to be. I’m positioning my mind back toward perfect peace and offering my audience a glimpse of what it might be like to walk with Him, talk with Him, and experience the joy of simply tarrying there.

Whether I’m painting a flower on canvas, transforming a storefront window, bringing a mural to life, or saying yes to an unexpected creative project, my hope is the same: to make the world feel a little more vibrant, a little more connected, and a little more full of wonder.

Because for me, art is more than something to look at. It is a way of remembering, a way of restoring, and a way of bringing a little of that Garden into the world we live in now.