B   A   R   O   N

​I paint to hold onto moments that might otherwise disappear.

 

My work often begins with instinct — loose marks, scribbles, fragments of color to activate the surface. Somewhere in that movement, a memory attaches itself. Sometimes it’s from childhood. Sometimes it’s something as ordinary as a coffee cup sitting alone in space. I’m drawn to how simple images can carry unexpected emotional weight.

 

There’s a childlike simplicity layered with complexity in my work. What appears playful or minimal at first glance is built through layers of paint, collage, and text — pushed, scraped, buried, and revealed again. Some words and images remain visible. Others are hidden beneath the surface, where they’ll stay. The process mirrors memory itself: imperfect, selective, emotional.

 

Negative space plays an important role. I like allowing objects to float, giving them room to breathe — the way certain memories drift in and out of focus over time.

 

When someone chooses to live with one of my paintings, I hope it becomes more than an image on a wall. I hope it becomes a quiet companion — something that reveals itself slowly, and invites their own history into the surface.