Before a painting begins, there is always a moment of listening.
ABOUT
My work has never really been about making pictures. It has always been about learning to see.
Whether studying physics, walking along the coast before sunrise, sitting quietly in my studio, or painting from life, I have always been fascinated by the invisible relationships that connect things—light, movement, atmosphere, memory, and the quiet moments that often pass unnoticed.
Painting has become my way of exploring those relationships.
THE STORY
HOW I ARRIVED HERE
Long before I painted professionally, I studied mechanical engineering.
I was captivated by equations because they described nature’s invisible forces, painting pictures with universal symbols and numbers. They reveal the hidden architecture of the world—patterns of movement, balance, energy, and light that quietly shape everything around us.
Painting, I later discovered, became another language for exploring those same invisible forces.
While the tools had changed, the questions had not. I was still searching for the patterns that connect things—the balance between structure and freedom, science and intuition, the visible and unseen. That understanding continues to shape the way I see and create today.
there is always more to learn . . .
THE ETERNAL STUDENT
Once I understood that painting could ask the same questions engineering had, I wanted to learn everything I could.
For more than fifteen years I sought out artists whose work carried a depth I admired—not simply beautiful paintings, but a lifetime of understanding behind every brushstroke.
Among the greatest influences on my journey was Richard Schmid.
Working alongside Richard, I helped in the expansion process of Alla Prima – Everything I Know About Painting and later authored Alla Prima II: Companion, exploring subjects that fascinated me just as much as painting itself—from the chemistry of traditional grounds to the alchemy of light.
Those years taught me something unexpected.
Mastery isn't a destination.
It is a way of remaining endlessly curious.
Looking back, I realize the greatest gift wasn't simply learning how to paint. It was being welcomed into the company of artists whose generosity, integrity, and devotion to the craft became a lifelong example.
Working alongside Richard shaped far more than my paintings. Those years influenced the way I think, the way I teach, the way I continue to learn, and ultimately, the kind of artist—and person—I hoped to become. They reminded me that knowledge is meant to be shared, that craftsmanship is an act of generosity, and that the pursuit of beauty is a lifelong conversation.
For Richard's friendship, mentorship, and example, I will always be profoundly grateful.
WITH GRATITUDE
FOREVER CURIOUS
before the brush
I don’t remember deciding to become curious. I simply don’t remember a time when I wasn't.
Before there were equations . . . before there were brushes . . . there was simply wonder.
Whether I was turning over stones at low tide, asking impossible questions, or pretending to be a Jedi along the shore, I wanted to understand how the world worked.
Looking back, I don’t think that curiosity ever disappeared. It simply kept finding new way to express itself.
Today I still feel, in many ways, like that same young explorer . . .
Still wondering . . . still listening . . . still that same young Padawan in training . . .
THE PRACTICE
wonder needs discipline
Wonder is beautiful.
But without discipline, it rarely becomes mastery.
As my curiosity grew, I found myself drawn to practices that demanded complete attention—not only painting, but movement, kung fu, gymnastics, breakdancing, and breath.
Each taught me something different about awareness, each became another way of learning to see.
I became fascinated by practices that trained the body as carefully as painting trained the eye. I learned that the body has its own way of understanding . . .
Patiently . . . One repetition at a time . . .One breath at a time.
A FAMILY OF MAKERS
DETAILS MATTER
Long before I understood painting as a profession, I understood what it meant to make something with care.
My father was a master craftsman. He built custom frames and stretcher bars by hand, and nothing left his workshop without his complete attention. Every joint, every finish, every tiny detail mattered—not because anyone else might notice, but because he would know. He taught me that craftsmanship is an expression of integrity, that the unseen details deserve the same care as the visible ones.
Watching him, I learned that excellence isn't something we perform for others. It is a quiet promise we make to ourselves.
Today, that lesson still guides my work. The backs of my paintings are finished with the same care as the fronts. The surfaces hidden inside a frame receive the same attention as those placed on display. The handwritten notes, the archival materials, the way a painting is wrapped and presented—none of these things are afterthoughts to me. They are all part of the work.
Paying attention to the smallest details is, in many ways, an act of reverence. It is a way of honoring the materials, of honoring the craft, and ultimately, honoring the person who will one day live with the painting.
My mother taught me something entirely different.
Every summer she packed hats, dresses, sketchbooks, buckets, and minnow catchers into the car and took my sister and me to the beach. While she painted, we wandered.
We searched tidal pools for tiny sea creatures, collected shells and driftwood, discovered sea glass glowing in the sun, and invented entire worlds from whatever the tide had left behind. At the time, it simply felt like childhood.
Looking back, I realize she was giving us something far greater.
She was teaching us that curiosity deserved time.
That wonder wasn't something to hurry through.
That an afternoon spent exploring was never wasted.
Without realizing it, she gave me permission to cultivate a rich inner world—one filled with imagination, observation, and questions that didn't need immediate answers.
I learned how to entertain myself by paying attention.
I learned to lose track of time in nature.
And somewhere among those tide pools and quiet afternoons, I fell in love with discovery itself.
Looking back, I realize I inherited far more than artistic interests.
From my father, I inherited craftsmanship.
From my mother, I inherited curiosity.
Together they taught me that making something beautiful begins long before the first brushstroke.
It begins with paying attention.
into the quiet
THE JOURNEY
After years devoted to mastering the craft of painting, I realized I needed to return to the sense of wonder that had first led me to pick up a brush.
I stepped away from outside influences and entered a twenty-nine-month period of concentrated studio work.
It became a time of quiet observation, reflection, and discovery.
Many of the ideas that continue to shape my work today first emerged during those years.
It was also the beginning of Alchemy Visions—an ongoing body of work exploring light, energy, reflective materials, and the meeting place between the natural and imagined worlds.
In many ways, it was a retreat inward—a return to curiosity, wonder, and life's quiet mysteries.
Learn more about the Alchemy Visions Collection and the journey →
“It is the space within the edges where the light meets the dark that the most intriguing and enchanting phenomena occur. It is here where I like to play the most . . . ♦ 1 brushstroke @ a time , ♦ 1 breath @ a time . . .”—Swatland
IN THE STUDIO TODAY
the work continues
Today my work moves between painting, writing, teaching, and a paperie—a long-held dream of creating books, journals, cards, and thoughtfully crafted objects that carry art into everyday life.
For years I wanted to create more than paintings. I wanted to make things that accompany everyday moments—objects that encourage us to slow down, notice, and stay connected to one another.
Whether I'm standing before a canvas, writing a book, designing a journal, or carefully wrapping a painting, my intention remains the same—to cultivate wonder. to invite attention . . .to create work that helps people reconnect—with nature, with beauty, and with their own sense of wonder.
In the end, everything I make is simply another invitation—to notice,
to wonder, and to keep the conversation going.
OBSERVE.
LISTEN.
CREATE.
“Every work of art is built one brushstroke at a time, and one breath at a time. To honor the creative spirit is to be mindful and gracious toward the journey of the process.” – Swatland
“the object isn’t to create art, it is to be in that wonderful state which makes art inevitable“ — The Art Spirit
ATTENTION TO EVERY DETAil
PRECISION CRAFTSMANSHIP
Swatland
[noun]
1 where Curiosity and Imagination dance along the water’s edge
2 a part of the shore of an ocean