The Beauty of Imperfection in My Work

I leave seams showing: brushstrokes that double back, edges that don’t align, patches of underpainting peeking through. Imperfection isn’t neglect—it’s evidence. I want the surface to feel lived-in, like a place you return to and notice something new each time. When I sand or scrape, I’m not correcting mistakes; I’m revealing history. Those ghosts of earlier decisions carry a tenderness that “flawless” surfaces rarely hold. Collectors often tell me they connect to the honesty of these moments—the places where a line falters or a drip chooses its own route. That vulnerability is important. Perfection can be cold; imperfection invites touch and proximity. My aim isn’t to polish everything smooth; it’s to make meaning that breathes.