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Because... when pictures fail, words are worth something.
 On a recent beach walk with her grandparents, my favorite—and unquestionably most discerning—eight year old client picked up the tiniest sliver of green sea glass that most of us would have strolled right past. She showed it to her Noni. Her Noni brought it to me. The request: Transform this weathered fragment into a pendant that might dangle from a chain or from one of the many new friendship bracelets my tiny client was currently producing.  This is what followed: sawing, filing, soldering, more filing, and just enough muttering to convince the neighbors I was either creating art or in need of medication. This was a teeny tiny shard of beach glass, after all.  After shaping the bezel and soldering it to 24 gage sterling sheet, which was was drilled and scored...  To accommodate the jeweler's saw... being careful not to slice fingertips!  Success! Next: solder the jump ring, add the clasp, and final polish.  Huzzah! In the end, that tiny sliver of beach glass found a second life, cradled in sterling and ready to 'hang'. It's a nice reminder that sometimes the most remarkable treasures are the ones a child notices when the rest of us are focused on something 'bigger'. My payment? A client-crafted one of a kind friendship bracelet! How's that for compensation? 
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 Every spring I perform the same ritual. While dreaming of BLTs made with warm Brandywines straight from the vine or a hearty San Romano marinara with savory sausage or tiny Sungolds in summer salad, I plant. I tend. I cultivate.. Then they arrive.  The deer.  Or, as they are known around here,  Rodents With Antlers. Curious fun fact, deer don't seem to like tomatoes all that much. They prefer the Tasting Menu. They'll wander into the garden (always after dusk or before dawn) to locate the single most perfectly ripe tomato, take exactly one delicate bite—as though sampling the chef's amuse-bouche—and leave the rest dangling on the vine. Why? To taunt me, obviously.  Scientists claim deer have an extraordinary sense of smell—hundreds of times more sensitive than ours—and can detect the sweetest, ripest fruit from remarkable distances. They also have a four-chambered stomach capable of digesting an astonishing variety of plants. Useful adaptations, I suppose. Sadly, doesn't explain why they insist on taking only one bite out of every ripe tomato. Do they possess exquisitely refined palates? Or cherry tomato-sized brains with absolutely no long-term memory?  Four seasons ago I planted an Asian pear tree, Every spring she bravely sends out tender new shoots, only to have them nibbled back to tiny green nubs by Velvet-Faced Vandals. Her nearby companion, the peach tree, has fared somewhat better. This year I actually harvested fruit. Mostly. Many of the peaches bore the unmistakable ravaging of Garden Gremlins: one or two delicate bites and then... abandonment. Birds? Perhaps. Yet certain evidence was unmistakable. Hoofprints. Number 4. Cloven.  I've considered lying in wait with a paintball gun. Unfortunately, deer can sprint close to 30 miles per hour, leap eight feet into the air, and vanish into the shrubbery before I can mutter, "Rat Bastard!" Perhaps the answer is a motion-activated spotlight. Catch them in the proverbial headlights. Level the playing field. Until then, I'll simply imagine revenge in culinary form. Tonight's special: a rustic ragout of tomato, stone fruit, and Asian pear. Served over venison. Bambi, you've been warned!   If you grow things, has this ever happened to you? You step into the garden with your harvest basket under arm, humming contentedly, only to discover your tomatoes are... unusually enthusiastic to see you. Maybe this is perfectly normal in the Solanaceae family. Perhaps after weeks of careful watering, mulching, fertilizing, and whispering encouraging words, this is simply how tomatoes express affection. Still. It can make harvesting just a little awkward.  This year's garden has produced a surprising number of exhibitionists. Apparently my tomato patch didn't get the memo about decorum. The San Marzanos have all the swagger of an Italian movie star. The Early Girls have developed reputations. Even the cherry tomatoes seem determined to photobomb the whole affair like giggling teenagers. As gardeners, we're taught to expect blossom-end rot, hornworms, cracked fruit, and deer with boundary issues. No one prepares you for... this  I don't know whether I should be flattered or concerned that so many of my tomatoes have chosen to express themselves so... enthusiastically.  Apparently my vegetable garden has mistaken itself for the produce aisle in a romance novel.    If you think my tomatoes are scandalous, don't get me started on the zucchini!
 It began with excellent intention. A pot-bound tree needed its forever home. But this wasn't just any tree. This was Mike's tree.  When Mike passed several years ago his wife encouraged those who loved him to find a living thing to remember him by. I chose a miniature Japanese maple. Mike's tree has spent the last few years in a pot, waiting for me to decide where it/he truly belonged.  Inspiration came, as it often does, with swift kick to the head, (a.k.a. why didn't I think of the sooner?) After removing a long-dead shrub that had become thoroughly entangled with jasmine vines, I uncovered what can only be described as a veritable PVC boneyard: abandoned pipes, mysterious reroutes, and flex tubing layered atop previous plumbing decisions.  A little more excavation revealed further opportunity. Could the original water feature be reconnected to the newer flex tubing—which, for reasons known only to the gods of irrigation, had been bypassed...  Success! Or so I thought. It took approximately one day of water loss to discover the 10–20 mm gap in the slate behind the outflow pipe. Even though most of the water was going into the pond, a significant amount was leaking backward into the planter bed. Oops. The fix involved applying waterproof sealant along the bottom edge of the perforated pipe and around the outflow area. Problem solved...  Mostly.  Then there was the pond itself. Erosion had left its mark. The question became: how to repair without actually 'swimming with the fishes'? And then inspiration struck.  Scaffolding. So Michelangelo!  Gaps were filed with pea gravel and slivers of slate,  followed by a layer of concrete patch. Once cured, everything received a fresh coat of pond sealant.   Cairn assembled. Mermaid approved.  At last, Mike's tree is in its forever home, complete with twinkly lights.  And then, as often happens when a project is at completion, a neighborhood supervisor arrived to inspect the workmanship. He lingered for a long while, stationary, while shimmying his wings.
I took that as a good sign.  We all wear masks. Some are polished and carefully maintained...  Others are improvised on the spot, pulled into place when life becomes messy, painful, or uncertain. We learn early which parts of ourselves are welcome in public and which are better left hidden. This series, The Masks We Wear, explores that uneasy relationship between appearance and reality. Created with acrylic paint and metallic foil on canvas, each portrait hovers somewhere between presence and absence. The faces emerge from layered fields of color and texture, their features partially concealed, partially revealed. Metallic surfaces catch the light and shift as the viewer moves, much like the personas we present to the world. What seems solid from one angle becomes elusive from another.  TThe eyes are often obscured, hollow, or glowing. Expressions are difficult to read. Are these masks protecting the person beneath them, or imprisoning them? The answer changes from painting to painting—and perhaps from viewer to viewer.  What interests me most is the tension between what is visible and what remains hidden. We spend so much energy studying the mask: the smile, the composure, the carefully curated story. Yet the most compelling questions live in the shadows surrounding it. What fears lurk behind the façade? What grief remains unspoken? What hopes, desires, and contradictions are concealed beneath the surface? The masks themselves are unsettling, but perhaps not as unsettling as the possibility that there is something far more complex behind them. Something vulnerable. Something wounded. Something beautifully human.  Or perhaps the opposite is true.
Perhaps the mask is the invention, while the shadows hold the truth. As I worked on these paintings, I found myself wondering which is more unsettling: the face we choose to show the world, or the parts of ourselves we work so hard to hide. I'm still not sure I know the answer. And maybe that's the point.  Why create crystal wands at all? (Well, there was that Star Wars Loving Light Saber Client, but I digress...) Most likely because somewhere along the way, this artist altered her factory settings from ordinary to unicorn. After that, making practical objects became considerably less appealing than crafting what might belong in the satchel of a sorcereress*. Handcrafted from selenite, warm copper, and luminous freshwater pearls, these little talismans seem especially fitting as the Summer Solstice approaches. The solstice marks the longest day of the year—the moment when the sun reaches its greatest height in the sky before beginning its gradual return toward darkness. Across cultures and centuries, it has been celebrated as a time of abundance, transformation, illumination, and gratitude for the light. Selenite, named for Selene, the Greek goddess of the moon, offers an interesting counterpoint to the sun-drenched energy of the solstice. Crystal enthusiasts associate it with clarity, peace, and spiritual insight—a reminder that even at the brightest moment of the year, there is wisdom to be found in stillness and reflection.  Whether displayed on a shelf, tucked into a meditation space, or simply admired for their quiet beauty, they offer a small reminder that a little magic still has a place in the modern world.   News Flash! The same discerning, very particular second grader who commissioned the now-famous jellyfish piñata recently celebrated her birthday! The perfect occasion for a Big Girl Bedroom Makeover with a Grown-Up Desk and Pink Faux Fur Chair! To compliment the new look , my client requested a wastebasket "with lots of bling". The process? Layers of shimmering mesh, individually applied faux pearls, and mirrored tiles turned an everyday receptacle into something magical. The result? An ordinary plastic dust bin became a glittering showpiece for random doodles, not quite perfect homework, and the occasional candy wrapper.
At the risk gilding the lily-- why stop now?-- doesn't a glamorous wastebasket deserve a matching pencil holder? The finished projects serve as reminders--- that even the most practical of objects can benefit from a little imagination, a sprinkle of glitter, and a discerning client who refuses to settle for the mundane.  Loki, the black cat who supervised the project seemed to approve. Quality-control manager or mentor for a young non-muggle-in-training? Time will tell.
 Every year, something remarkable happens in Rancho Cordova. Hundreds of tiny works of art—each just 6 by 6 inches—come together to create something much larger than themselves. The annual Micro Masterpieces fundraiser, hosted by Rancho Cordova Arts, is proof that creativity can make a real difference. Artists from across the region donate original artwork, which is then auctioned. What begins as a wall full of miniature masterpieces becomes art supplies, paintbrushes, paper, and creative opportunities for local students. Since its beginnings in 2018, the event has grown from a modest fundraiser into a major community effort. In recent years, hundreds of donated artworks have helped raise tens of thousands of dollars for classroom art programs, benefiting thousands of students and hundreds of teachers throughout Rancho Cordova. What makes Micro Masterpieces so special isn’t just the art—it’s the generosity behind it. Artists donate their talent. Volunteers donate their time. Community members bid on artwork knowing that every purchase helps bring creativity into local classrooms. In a world that often measures impact by size, Micro Masterpieces offers a different lesson: sometimes the smallest things can inspire the biggest changes. This year I was thrilled to contribute a few pieces that combine mixed media art with a bit of jewelry magic: famous quotes paired with removable , wearable art.     Mermaids have always struck me as tragic creatures.
In some tales, they lure sailors to a watery grave, in others they mourn for those lost to storms. Hans Christian Andersen's little mermaid surrendered her voice for love, discovering that devotion and sacrifice are not always rewarded. Hollywood offered a happier ending in Splash, but even there, the attraction between human and mermaid presented complications. Perhaps mermaids weep because they live between worlds. Or perhaps they weep because love is rarely simple. A human heart and a mermaid heart may yearn for one another, but, even under a universal all encompassing sky, water mixed with earth has a way of 'muddying' logistics. Whatever the reason, I imagine mermaids' tears drifting downward through clear blue water, gathering moonlight and magic until they become pearls. Perhaps the jewelry equivalent of finding something extraordinary while casually beach-combing—unexpected, slightly mysterious, and impossible not to gather up. Whether born from heartbreak, longing, or simply the absurd challenges of interspecies romance, mermaid tears remind me that connection, of any kind, is precious.. If you think you might fancy a mermaid's tear of your own...  Artists occasionally encounter a project that prompts the question: "What exactly happened here?" These mushroom yard sculptures had clearly seen some things. Years of sun, rain, wind, and general outdoor mischief had transformed them from cheerful garden ornaments into a colony of suspicious-looking fungi. Their surfaces were faded, stained, and weathered enough that nearby gnomes had filed complaints. Most Muggles would have thanked them for their service and sent them off to the Great Compost Heap in Hogwort's Forbidden Forest. Instead, they came to my studio.  The first step was cleaning away decades of accumulated grime. Beneath the dirt, the mushrooms still had good bones—or perhaps good spores. Once scrubbed, they received a fresh coat of primer, instantly changing their appearance from "abandoned forest relic" to "promising science experiment." Then came the fun part.  The undersides of the caps were enhanced with texture and shadow to emphasize the delicate gill structures. Layers of paint followed, bringing depth, contrast, and personality back to each piece. Gradually, the mushrooms shed their neglected appearance and began looking less like something you'd find in a post-apocalyptic land fill and more like residents of an enchanted woodland. The final finish featured warm copper-toned caps and soft silvery stems that catch the light beautifully. They now possess the sort of confidence usually reserved for mushrooms that know they're about to be featured in a fairy tale. What I love about refurbishing old garden art is that it combines equal parts restoration, imagination, and stubborn refusal to throw perfectly good things away. Sometimes all an object needs is a little attention, a little paint, and someone willing to believe it deserves a second act.  They're back home now. And, it seems to me, their Fairy Tale Cottage is smiling.
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