I could begin with influences—how the sculptor Una Hanbury, my grandmother, mentor, and hero—seeded lessons in my childhood that continue to blossom. Or I could write of the old icon painter who invited me to create in his studio and gave me his love for tradition, mythology, and the Greek isles. But I’d rather you see it in the strengths of my landscapes and the hues of my forms.
I could write of the intensity of my days—how I cherish nearly every moment, sketching the mood and scene on tattered scraps of paper, café napkins, or in the back of my mind to be later manifested in oil or bronze.
I could describe my craving to wander and my desire to play. But hopefully you feel this in the twists of my Tuscan dirt roads, or in the shadows of the bordering cypress trees.
I would love to create a map for you—directions to show the routes of my mind—how thoughts move from female form to Mediterranean landscape to a beautifully pocked and scarred quince. But I am no cartographer and would much rather paint than play with a compass.
I could tell you of my travels—trips that have little to do with pretention and everything to do with the search. I could write of how I have missed planes and rescheduled itineraries so that I might stay in a land just a bit longer, knowing that the scene I seek is too near for me to depart. And then words would tumble over themselves in my excitement to tell you what I dreamed and found and painted.
But in truth I wish you to experience my work unencumbered by my words. What I have created I place before you.