I paint when the world gets too loud. Which is often. Most of my time is spoken for by Cynosure Connect, the health tech company I co-founded to surface mental health risks before they slip into silence. t’s a job that comes with weight. So I balance it with creating art, because some things aren’t meant to be handled with strategy decks and stakeholder calls. Some things need texture. And quiet. And a palette knife. Painting isn’t a side gig. It’s a private kind of clarity. A way to sit with things longer than the world usually allows. My art tends toward close-up botanicals and still-life paintings. That feel just a little off and a little too intimate. I’m not interested in pretty arrangements. I’m after the moment just before decay, or just after. That fragile in-between. La beauté dans l’impermanence. Some of my pieces have shown up in galleries, journals, and private collections. They’ve sold. But more importantly, they’ve held something I couldn’t explain any other way. I don’t chase perfection on canvas any more than I do in code. I chase truth, tension, and the occasional beautiful contradiction. When I’m not painting or building Cynosure, I advise startups, help founders find their footing, and work on making systems, both human and digital and a little less dysfunctional. 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 said, “I’ve had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened.” I keep that close. It reminds me to create anyway. To move forward anyway. Be it canvas or code, I look for what’s just beneath the surface, ’invisible essential, and hope to keep my sense of humor from going up in flames. This isn’t a reinvention. It’s how I stay human, one deliberate stroke at a time.