I paint when the world gets too loud. Which is often. Most of my time is devoted to Cynosure Connect, the health tech company I’m helping build to surface mental health risks before they slip into silence. It’s meaningful work. It’s heavy work. So I balance it with art, because some things aren’t meant to be handled with strategy decks or stakeholder calls. Some things need quiet. Texture. A palette knife. Painting isn’t a side pursuit. It’s a private kind of clarity. My work centers on close-up botanicals and still-lifes. Intimate. Slightly off. Sometimes uncomfortably so. I’m not interested in decorative arrangements. I’m drawn to the moment just before decay, or just after. That fragile in-between where beauty and impermanence overlap. La beauté dans l’impermanence. My work has appeared in galleries, journals, and private collections. Pieces have sold. But more importantly, they’ve carried what I couldn’t articulate any other way. Beyond the studio, I advise startups and help founders find their footing. I spend a lot of time thinking about systems, both human and digital, and how to make them less brittle. My career spans continents, sectors, and more than a few impossible meetings. Through it all, art has been the through line. Not a detour. A mirror. Mark Twain once wrote, “I’ve had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened.” I keep that close. It’s a reminder to create anyway. To move forward anyway. Whether it’s canvas or a new startup, I’m drawn to what lives just beneath the surface. The invisible essential. And I try to keep my sense of humor intact while I’m there. This isn’t a reinvention. It’s how I give form to what refuses to stay still.