I grew up in Northern California on a cattle ranch between Lake Tahoe and the Bay Area. My childhood was rugged and beautiful, riding horses across open land, gold mining with my dad in the American River, and being surrounded by southern rock and wide-open skies. My dad is a computer engineer, my mom is a rancher, and somehow I was raised with both structure and wildness, logic and land, and that contrast shaped me deeply.
From the time I was five years old, I was always drawing and painting, mostly horses. Horses were my entire world. But around fourteen, I stopped. I think I became self-conscious. Painting horses did not feel cool anymore, and when you are a teenager, fitting in can feel more important than following your instinct.
When I was 22, I picked up a paintbrush again and something inside me woke up. The first piece I finished after that long break made me feel fully alive, like I had found something I did not even realize I had lost. From that moment on, painting was not just a hobby; it became a calling. I became consumed with capturing humanity, the lines in someone’s face, the quiet strength in their eyes, the pain, the grit, and the resilience. I did not just want to paint people; I wanted to honor them.
One of the first Western figures I painted was a Mexican cowboy I found in an old photograph. His face was worn and powerful. I did not know his story, but I could feel it. That painting became El Paso Cowboy, inspired by the spirit of El Paso and the immigrant cowboys who helped shape the American West. That piece marked a turning point for me because I realized I was drawn to stories that were not always centered but were deeply foundational.
I have also painted Native American leaders like Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. When I painted Sitting Bull, I remember crying. Painting feels spiritual to me, quiet and reverent, almost like listening. These are figures whose strength, sacrifice, and legacy deserve presence, and through art I try to offer dignity and space.
The Western way of life has always represented freedom to me, land, animals, independence, and an untamed spirit. Even living in Nashville now, there is a part of me that dreams of disappearing into the desert somewhere in New Mexico with a horse and a fresh start. The cowboy, to me, is not just an aesthetic; it is a mindset rooted in resilience, depth, and quiet strength.
Music is still a part of my life as well, and like painting, it comes from the same place of storytelling and connection. Everything I create is rooted in where I came from, the ranch, the horses, the river, and the Western spirit, but it is also about honoring the depth in people, the weathered faces, the overlooked stories, and the quiet strength that does not always ask for attention but deserves it anyway. That is what I am chasing every time I pick up a brush.