I kept thinking about flight. Not literally — emotionally. Spiritually. What does it feel like to finally rise after carrying so much for so long? What does power look like when it’s quiet? When nobody’s forcing it out of you? This show became very personal for me. Every piece feels connected to memory, movement, longing, ambition, exhaustion, beauty, survival. I spent years trying to prove myself academically, professionally, artistically… and somewhere during that process I realized I was becoming interested in softness again. Rest. Openness. Breath. The figures in these works are floating, suspended, climbing, dissolving into darkness, emerging into light. Some feel alone. Some feel divine. Some feel like they’re in transition between versions of themselves. I wanted the work to feel like a dream you almost remember when you wake up. Heavy and weightless at the same time. Growing up as a military child, I was always adapting to new environments, new schools, new people. I think that’s why I became obsessed with building emotional worlds through art. Painting became a place where I could create my own gravity. My own mythology. My own sense of home. There’s a lot of tenderness in this exhibition, but also scale. I love that contrast. I love when something feels emotionally intimate but visually monumental. I wanted people to walk into the space and feel surrounded by longing, light, silence, and possibility. Almost like the work is holding its breath. For me, How to Fly is about becoming. It’s about imagining yourself beyond survival mode. Beyond fear. Beyond labor. It’s about allowing yourself to exist in suspension for a moment instead of constantly proving you deserve to be here. I think that’s what flight really is. Not escape. Freedom. This work comes from real life: financial stress, heartbreak, rejection, starting over, and still choosing love anyway. Flying, here, doesn’t mean escaping responsibility—it means finding ways to rise inside it. Being lifted can look like sitting with people who love you, sharing cake and wine, watching a show that lets your body rest, or remembering who you were before the world told you to shrink. In these paintings, ladders become small acts of faith. Landscapes split into ways up. Childhood wonder returns as strength, not nostalgia. Imagination becomes emotional technology—a way to come back to yourself, again and again. How to Fly is about building softness without losing power, about moving forward while carrying where you come from, and about learning that flight doesn’t always look dramatic—sometimes it looks like staying.”