“To copy nature is not art. To interpret nature is art.”
— Edgar Degas
Botany of New Beginnings, Carmel, CA, 2011
I walk into this garden the way one steps into a memory that hasn’t happened yet.
The flowers are not standing politely in rows. They are mid-conversation. Some lean in, others pull back, and a few interrupt with laughter. Lavender bells scatter their whispers through a warm haze of gold and amber, as if the sun has decided to stay late and listen. Nothing here feels frozen. Everything is in motion, even the silence.
This image was born from that moment. Not a garden as it was, but a garden as it felt.
The botanicals overlap like thoughts at the start of January, when resolutions collide with old habits, and hope insists on squeezing through the cracks. Leaves stretch and curl, repeating themselves like refrains in a half-remembered melody. The flowers drift across the surface, sometimes sharp, sometimes dissolving into the background, the way certain memories insist on clarity while others prefer suggestion.
There is humor here, too, though it hides behind elegance. A few blossoms seem to roll their eyes at the seriousness of being photographed. Others pose dramatically, fully aware of their good side. I imagine them whispering, “Relax. It’s just a garden,” while simultaneously demanding to be admired.
The palette does most of the talking. Golds and ochres carry warmth, reassurance, the promise that something is beginning again. The purples arrive like thoughtful pauses, reflective and slightly theatrical. Together they create a mood that feels ceremonial without being solemn. This is not a funeral for the past year. It’s a welcome party for whatever decides to bloom next.
As an artist, I recognize myself in this layered abundance. I never approach an image as a single statement. I arrive with fragments, instincts, traces of painting still clinging to my hands. I build by accumulation, by allowing one feeling to brush against another until something quietly electric happens. The result is less about depiction and more about confession. Every work becomes a self-portrait in disguise.
This garden carries that truth. It doesn’t explain itself. It invites you to linger. To find your own entry point. To laugh gently at the idea that nature or art should ever behave.
The new year lives here, not as a clean slate but as a scraped scroll. Last year’s marks are still visible beneath the surface, enriched rather than erased. Growth doesn’t arrive politely on January first. It meanders in, late, layered, glowing.
I think that’s why collectors and curators pause when they encounter this piece. It doesn’t ask to be understood. It asks to be felt. It offers warmth without sentimentality, complexity without heaviness, beauty with a wink.
If new beginnings have a visual language, this is mine. Not a trumpet blast. A garden leaning toward the light, already laughing at its own seriousness.
Artist Statement
My work explores photography as an extension of inner experience rather than a record of external reality. Drawing from my background in painting, I construct images through layers, fragments, and intuitive gestures. Each piece functions as a quiet self-portrait, inviting ambiguity, emotion, and personal interpretation. I am interested in moments of transition, where memory, humor, and longing coexist, allowing the viewer to complete the narrative.