05/26/2026
There’s a moment in Avalanche Lilies where the landscape stops feeling like scenery and starts feeling like memory made visible.
Not the kind of memory you recall clearly—but the kind that returns in fragments. Cold air. Quiet weight. The feeling of something fragile surviving where it really shouldn’t.
The room in these paintings feels like it’s been shaped by that same tension—between what’s been buried and what still finds its way upward.
Everything is hushed, but not empty. The silence has texture. It presses gently against the edges of the space, like the world outside has softened just enough to let something tender exist without interruption.
And then the lilies.
Not loud. Not triumphant. Just persistent.
They make the room feel like it’s holding its breath and slowly learning it doesn’t have to anymore. Like grief hasn’t disappeared, but it’s no longer the only thing filling the space. Light comes in the way thawing does—not sudden, but inevitable.
This is what the work does to a room:
it turns survival into something quiet enough to live inside.
And somehow, that quiet starts to feel like hope that hasn’t fully named itself yet.
