Why I Paint People Who’ve Endured

Painting what resilience really looks like

There are a lot of reasons a person picks up a brush. Some chase light, some love form, some are just drawn to color the way a moth finds flame. I get it. There’s something deeply satisfying about mixing paint until you hit the exact shade of storm-washed blue or laying down a shadow that makes the whole face come alive.

But for me? I paint people who’ve endured.

Not in the glossy, posed-for-the-catalog way. I mean the ones with wind in their hair and dirt under their nails. People with eyes that tell you they’ve seen some things and kept going anyway. There’s a weight to them—a quiet gravity. And I’m drawn to it every time.

Maybe it’s because I grew up around those kinds of people. Folks who don’t flinch at hard work. Women who carry loss in one hand and dinner in the other. Men who wear their stories in the lines on their face more than in their words. That kind of resilience isn’t loud. It doesn’t need a speech. It just shows up, does what needs doing, and keeps going.

That’s what I try to capture on canvas.

There’s something almost sacred about painting someone who doesn’t have to prove anything. They’re not demanding attention. They’re not trying to be seen. But you see them anyway. Because they’re still standing. That alone says plenty.

I don’t paint perfection. I’m not interested in it. I’m interested in that stubborn spark behind someone’s eyes. The one that says, "Yeah, life hit me hard. And I’m still here." I want you to look at a face I’ve painted and feel that flicker—that sharp, familiar pull of recognition. Like, I know that look. I’ve worn it, too.

When I paint, I don’t start with a story in mind. But it always finds me. Sometimes it shows up in the tilt of a head. Sometimes in the color that insists on being there. And sometimes, it’s the way the subject stares straight back at me through the brushwork, like they’re reminding me what I came here to do.

I think the world underestimates quiet strength. We rush past it. We celebrate the loud wins and the shiny highlights, but not the everyday grit. Not the woman who got up after her world shattered and went back to work. Not the man who shoulders more than he says. Not the kid who keeps showing up when no one claps.

But I see them. And I want you to see them too.

Painting them is my way of honoring that kind of courage. The kind that isn’t flashy or dramatic but shows up in the details: the way someone’s shoulders settle after a long fight, the weathered edge of a jawline, the trace of wear in their eyes that has nothing to do with age. There’s beauty there. Real beauty. And I think the world could use more of it on the walls.

Art doesn’t always need to shout to make a point. Sometimes, the softest thing in the room holds the most power. I want my work to feel like that—quiet, steady, and impossible to ignore once you really look.

The people I paint may not be real in the literal sense—some are imagined, some are pulled from bits of reference and memory. But their spirit is true. They carry the heart of someone I’ve known or someone I’ve been. Maybe even someone you’ve been.

Because at the end of the day, haven’t we all endured something?

A loss that changed us. A season that tested us. A moment we thought might break us but didn’t. Those are the stories I try to tell without using words. Stories painted in layers and light and quiet defiance.

So, yes. I paint people who’ve endured.

Because their faces matter. Their stories matter. And I think there’s something powerful about making space for them—on canvas, in conversation, and maybe even in the way we see each other.

And maybe, when someone hangs that painting in their home, they feel just a little more seen too.