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This mixed-media collage is a joyful experiment in layering — letters, shapes, and painted fragments tumbling together until the work practically leaps off the wall. I loved playing with language and image in the same breath, asking you to read and feel all at once.

I've always loved roses, but I wanted to reimagine them through movement and line rather than petal and stem — the spiraling forms bloom naturally from the angular energy on the left, and I think the tension between them is what makes the whole composition sing.

The boldness of young creatures venturing into an uncertain world fascinated me, and I tried to capture that energy through layers of raw, earthy texture — dark and rich, punctuated by bursts of warm orange like tiny sparks of life. The more you sit with it, the more reveals itself.

The red bird in this lithograph carries such a sense of maternal presence — solid and warm against the spidery winter branches and that glowing yellow sky. I was moved by the idea of nurturing and the nest, and I let the medium do its expressive work with loose, gestural marks.

New York is endlessly inspiring to me — I layered newsprint, paint, and watercolor to build this skyline the way the city builds itself, stratum by stratum, story upon story. The warmth of the sunset breaking behind the towers is my reminder that even in the most man-made of worlds, nature always finds a way through.

Blue has always been my color for introspection — I layered paper, paint, and texture to build a mood rather than a picture, where the swirling spirals and fragmented forms speak of melancholy in its quieter, more thoughtful register. This piece rewards a long, unhurried look.

I was drawn to the raw energy of fire and earth — the shapes here push and pull against one another in a rhythm I can almost feel in my hands. The warm palette of sienna, black, and white has the quality of embers: still and glowing at the same time.

I was fascinated by the way architecture, sculpture, and the human figure could coexist in the same layered moment — the tower, the bridge, the brooding bronze figure, and the tiny procession below all speak to the complex history we inherit. Collage felt like the perfect medium to honor that.

Every doorway represents a decision, and I wanted to paint that feeling of standing at the threshold — the luminous blues and golds suggest possibility rather than destination, and the layered architectural forms feel more like memory than place.

I was captivated by the theater of fashion — not the clothes themselves but the confidence, the bearing, the way a woman moves when she knows she is being seen. The figures emerge from that glowing blue-green atmosphere like apparitions of femininity at its most assured.

My love of quilts and the way they transform humble scraps into something whole and beautiful inspired this piece — I created the patchwork effect with layered paper and paint, letting the floral motifs peek through like a garden seen through a window.

The density and compression of tenement life — buildings pressing against buildings, lives stacked upon lives — drove me to use raw, slashing marks and newsprint to build this cityscape. It is made of the same materials as the lives it depicts: ordinary, but layered with history.

I wanted to capture the mythic scale of New York — not just a city but a civilization, its towers rising like a mountain range against the sky. The limited palette of grey and white gives it the timeless quality of a legend, a place that feels both real and entirely imagined.

I have always been fascinated by the ritual of greeting — the way two people meeting can carry a whole world of culture, expectation, and warmth in a single gesture. This collage weaves together fabric patterns, gold leaf, and imagery to celebrate that profoundly human moment.

I painted this in a single urgent session, letting the brush follow the swirling energy I imagined in both the storm and my own emotional state — the blues and yellows collide and spiral the way feelings do when everything is in motion at once.

This painting is my love letter to women — the central figure rising with her arms open is every woman I have ever admired, and the rich, layered world around her holds all the roles she plays, all the things she carries, and all the beauty she brings. She rises above it all.

This is the piece where I pushed surrealism as far as I could — I wanted every element to be slightly impossible, slightly out of scale, floating in that dreamlike space between logic and feeling. The lightning bolt is the energy that holds it all together, charging the whole scene with tension and wonder.

I wanted to put the viewer inside the experience of navigating a labyrinth — turning a corner only to find another passage, another choice, another layer. The warm reds and cool blues fight for dominance in a way that keeps you searching for the center.

I was thinking about how love travels — through letters, through postcards, through the ordinary magic of the postal system — and I layered all those paper memories together with paint to create something that feels both private and universal. The stamp is the starting point; the painting is what arrives.

My grandmother came from Russia, and the matryoshka doll always embodied her to me — that quality of containing multitudes, of warmth and strength wrapped together. I painted this figure with all the color and richness she deserved, because that is how I remember her.

This painting haunts me a little, because I made it before 9/11 and it felt like a premonition — the buildings dissolving and collapsing into each other, the dripping and dissolving forms. It remains one of the most emotionally charged pieces I have ever made.

My life has always been in motion, and I painted this in the same spirit — grabbing color and pushing it across the surface with everything I had. The complementary clash of orange and blue, the hot pinks against the black, is exactly what a busy, joyful life feels like from the inside.

Greece gave the world so much — its pottery, its philosophy, its geometry — and I tried to honor that in a single painting. The Greek key patterns, the amphora, the bold architectural columns: it is a visual inventory of a civilization I find endlessly inspiring.

We all wear masks — some we choose, some we inherit, some we barely recognize as our own. I painted all of them at once here, the central face dominant but the smaller ones pressing in, reminding us that who we are is always more layered than any single expression.

I have always been drawn to the art of Japanese and Chinese culture — the precision, the symbolism, the beauty of the written character — and this piece is my tribute to that aesthetic, built around the central drama of the fish itself, caught between the ancient and the utterly contemporary.

I mixed plaster of paris with sand and carved directly into the surface before painting over it — so the movement you see is also something you can almost feel with your fingertips. The shapes seem to be in motion even while frozen, which is exactly the paradox I was after.

I have always loved birds — their mystery, their movement, the way they seem to occupy a different register of reality than we do — and I let the cubist language fracture and reassemble them into something more like a dream of birds than a picture of them.

The Triboro has always moved me — the way it rises above you as you approach, its steel lattice against the sky like a great civic poem. I wanted to paint it the way it feels when you are underneath it: small, humbled, and grateful for what human hands can build.

A walk in the woods always restores me, and I wanted to hold onto that feeling the way you press a flower in a book — so I collaged and painted the trees the way memory keeps them, more vivid than real life, in colors that pulse with the joy of being outside.

I have always believed that the best tunnels lead somewhere worth going — and this one opens onto pure warm light and possibility. The layered planes of color are like the layers of expectation and hope you feel when you are moving toward something new.

I was on my way to Sedona when the twin peaks appeared and stopped me cold — that rare moment when landscape becomes something close to sacred. I kept the paint as loose and luminous as the light that day, because anything tighter would have lost the feeling entirely.

This is a painting about navigating life's stages with grace — the small figure at the center moves through the rich, complex world around her with lightness, as if waltzing. The jewel-like colors were my way of saying that even the difficult passages are beautiful when you choose to move through them with joy.

Music has been a constant companion throughout my life, and I wanted to honor the extraordinary range of instruments and performers that make it — so I gave each its own small stage, its own world of color, its own moment. Twelve variations on a theme I love without reservation.

The story of Joseph has always moved me — the sibling rivalry, the cruelty, and ultimately the redemption — and I built this painting around that coat, that emblem of a father's love and a brothers' jealousy, flying through the air above the pit as if it were still in motion.

Walking through the old art district in Haifa, I was struck by how the stones themselves seem to hold memory — centuries of footsteps, of commerce and prayer and daily life. I painted this in watercolor because I wanted the transparency of the medium to match the light there, like something half-remembered.

I have always believed in the presence of guardian angels, and this painting is my attempt to make that belief visible — the large, watchful face at the center is both the angel and the one being watched over, surrounded by a world of movement and color that feels just slightly beyond the ordinary.

I painted Adam and Eve as they must have been in that first, perfect moment — innocent and luminous, surrounded by every creature, the whole world still without shadow. The serpent is there, barely visible at their feet, because even paradise contains the seed of what comes next.

Apples and honey are the flavors of the Jewish New Year — sweetness wished forward into the coming year — and I painted this still life as a kind of blessing, warm and round and abundantly red. It belongs in a home where good things are hoped for and celebrated.

I have returned to the burning bush many times in my work because it captures something I deeply believe — that the sacred reveals itself in the natural world, that a bush can burn without being consumed. I try with each version to capture that quality of radiance that stops you in your tracks.

Jerusalem has always been a golden city to me — not just because of the light on its stones at sunset, but because of what it holds: thousands of years of faith, longing, and homecoming. I painted it in a cubist style because no single perspective can contain it; you have to see it from every angle at once.

Miriam's dance after the crossing of the sea is one of the most joyous moments in all of scripture, and I wanted this painting to feel like that: full of color, rhythm, and the specific happiness of people who have been freed and know it. I hope it makes you want to dance.

Moses is one of the great figures of human history — the reluctant leader, the receiver of the law, the man who saw God face to face. I painted him in the cubist language because his story breaks apart and reassembles every time you tell it, always revealing something new about courage and obedience.

The naming of a child is one of the most moving ceremonies I know — that moment when a new life is given the weight of a name, often the name of someone beloved and gone. I painted the quiet reverence of that moment, the way a parent stands at the threshold of a child's entire future.

I was captivated by the impossible abundance of that story — two of everything, the whole living world gathered in one place. I painted every animal I could find and layered them together the way Noah must have experienced them: overwhelming, precious, and entirely miraculous.

There is a kind of place — often found in the hills of the Mediterranean — where cozy homes tuck themselves into the landscape as if they grew there, and the light at certain hours makes everything look like a painting. This is my rendering of that feeling: a place where peace seems to be part of the architecture itself.

The ideals of this country have always moved me deeply — the promise of equal justice, the welcome extended to the stranger, the great experiment of democracy. I assembled this painting the way I think of America: built from many sources, many hands, held together by an aspiration as fragile and durable as the parchment it is written on.

Jacob's struggle with the angel is the biblical story that speaks most directly to me — the idea that we must wrestle with what is greater than us, all night if necessary, before we can receive the blessing. I painted the figures in that translucent, dreamlike palette because the story lives on the border between the physical and the divine.

I wanted to capture the irreverence and fun of a cocktail party — the way conversation swirls and overlaps, the way a rooster seems perfectly at home next to a cocktail glass. The bold yellows and swirling forms keep everything in delicious, slightly tipsy motion.

I made this as an homage to Braque and Picasso and their revolutionary insight that a single object could be seen from every angle simultaneously. The violin fragments, the musical papers, the layered textures — it is a love letter to the artists who changed everything about how we look at the world.

Esther's courage has always moved me — the way she risked everything for her people, approaching the king unsummoned, her beauty and her bravery inseparable from each other. I painted that charged moment of approach, when everything hangs in the balance and yet she chooses to step forward.

Two people can share a table, a room, even a life, and still be speaking entirely different languages — that is what I was after here. The closeness of the figures and the distance in their gazes felt like the truest thing I could say about the most human of failures.

This is my celebration of friendship — the particular luck of finding people who see you truly and stay anyway. The cubist interlocking of the figures is intentional: real friends become part of each other over time, their edges no longer entirely separate, their colors bleeding warmly together.

The true measure of friendship is whether you can be completely at ease — this painting is about that particular gift, when you are with people who require nothing from you except your presence. The loose, unhurried brushwork is my attempt to put that quality of ease directly into the paint.

I painted this while listening to music, and I did not want to interrupt the rhythm by reaching for color — so I worked entirely in black and white, letting the marks pile up and interlock the way instruments do. The absence of color makes the movement itself the subject.

I was charmed by the idea of a first kiss — that charged moment of anticipation, the hats slightly askew, the world narrowed down to two people deciding to close the distance between them. I kept the palette warm and close, the way that moment always feels.

In the second of this series, the kiss is less about anticipation and more about immersion — the colors are more vivid, the forms more entwined, the whole composition pulling toward that moment the way two people pull toward each other when they have stopped thinking and started feeling.

I have always been captivated by the power and grace of horses, and I wanted to paint not the animal itself but the sensation of it — the sweep of flank and mane dissolved into pure color and curve. The result lives somewhere between a portrait and a memory of movement.

There is no greater act of creation than carrying a life within you, and I painted this woman in the full tenderness of that knowledge — her companion beside her, the two of them sharing a secret that will change everything. The cubist transparency of the figures feels right: they are already becoming three.

Watching women weave baskets in Arizona was a lesson in patience, skill, and the way beauty can live inside the functional. I painted it in the cubist style because the weaving itself — strands crossing and recrossing — is already a kind of cubism: a structure built from interlocking elements.

I created this for a workshop on Picasso and Braque, exploring the way the cubist language can take two perspectives and press them together into a single truth. The faces are intimate but layered, which is exactly how I think of persona — always more than one, always in conversation with itself.

There is something I find endlessly compelling about a woman who is comfortable being seen — the way she holds the chair, the yellow of her dress, the steadiness of her gaze. This painting is about that particular confidence: so deceptively simple, so genuinely hard won.

I was thinking about the king and queen as they live inside a deck of cards — constant companions, mirror images, locked in an eternal conversation across the table. The flowing lines give them a kind of perpetual motion, as if the royal game never truly ends.

Rebecca's act of drawing water for a stranger and his camels has always moved me as one of the most gracious gestures in scripture — and I painted it with all the color and life it deserves, because genuine hospitality is one of the most beautiful things one human being can offer another.

I have always believed that the most important conversations happen inside — this quiet woman sitting with her thoughts, turning some question over and over, is a self-portrait of the interior life. The monochromatic palette was a deliberate choice: truth rarely arrives in color.

In this third chapter of the series, the woman has moved from inward searching toward something like resolution — the colors are brighter, the form more substantial, as if the act of reflection has made her more herself. I enlarged the original because some things deserve to be seen on a grander scale.

I heard this string trio play in a small concert hall and was struck by the conversation between the three instruments — the way each voice gave the others something to play against, something to lean toward. The cubist language was perfect for that: three perspectives finding a single, beautiful truth.

Tea time has always seemed to me a civilizing ritual — the pause, the warmth, the invitation to sit and be present. I painted the cups and pot in the cubist language because I wanted to honor the object from every angle at once, the way you turn a beautiful teapot in your hands before you set it on the table.

I presented this as a triptych because grief is never a single act — it moves from shock, to the terrible intimacy of mourning, to the arms of those who come to hold us. These three panels are for anyone who has ever stood in any of those places.

This is the face of a child who has witnessed something they should never have had to witness, held by a mother who has nothing left but her arms. I painted it close and large because I did not want it to be easy to look away — some truths should not be reduced to the distance of art.

These three women hold each other the way people hold each other when words have run out — silently, with their whole bodies, leaning into the only comfort available. I painted them with tenderness rather than despair, because their dignity in the face of horror is the thing that moved me most.

I wanted to paint grief at scale — not one person's loss but the loss of a community, so many that the canvas can barely hold them. Every hand reaching toward another is both a study in the inadequacy of comfort and in its absolute necessity.

The embrace of someone who is grieving is one of the most human gestures I know — the way you fold yourself around another person's sorrow and try to absorb some of it. I painted it in the cubist language because grief and consolation are always simultaneously simple and impossibly complex.

Three women in mourning beneath bare, twisted branches — this image came to me not only from personal loss but from the ancient sorrow of the Jewish people after the destruction of the Temple. Grief like this is both utterly private and utterly communal, which is why three figures always seemed right to me.

This is my reaction to the world — the news that comes each day with its weight of suffering. I keep painting grief not because I want to dwell in it but because I believe that naming it, making it visible, is the first step toward any kind of reckoning. These faces are all of us.

After a trip to New Orleans, I came home carrying something — a sense of the spirit world pressing close, of history not entirely past. This face emerged from that feeling: someone seen rather than imagined, inhabiting a world where the line between the living and the dead runs differently than we expect.

I had a responsibility to make this painting — to bear witness through art because silence is also a choice. The hands reaching, the figures behind wire, the consuming fire: I wanted nothing softened. We must never stop looking at what was done, and we must never stop saying never again.

The crisis in Kosovo was happening on my television and in my heart at the same time, and I painted this as a way of bearing witness — the figures rendered with the luminous, stained-glass quality of someone who deserves to be seen clearly and mourned properly.

In this second painting, I moved from the scale of tragedy to its human particulars — the small group, the bowed heads, the body that cannot be left behind. These moments are not on the news; they happen after the cameras leave, in the small hours of an ordinary, devastated day.

I painted everything that war contains in a single canvas — the mother with her child, the soldier in the smoke, the oil that drives the whole terrible machinery. I want people to feel the weight of all those connections when they look at it, because the cost of war is never paid by those who start it.

This painting is about the specific grief of losing someone young — the disbelief that keeps returning, the way the people who loved them hold onto each other because they do not yet know how to hold onto the loss itself. The warmth of the palette is intentional: memory should be held tenderly.

These women are bound by the most devastating kind of kinship — shared loss, the sisterhood of those who have buried husbands, children, and the ordinary future they had imagined. I painted them standing, because that is what they do: they stand.

The human response to terrorism is something I have returned to again and again — the way it shatters the ordinary and leaves people who look just like us, and just like our children, standing in the ruins of the life they had an hour before. I painted this as a prayer for all of them.

I painted these women in the language of stained glass because they deserve to be seen as sacred — their dignity should not have to coexist with the cage it is placed in. This painting is for every woman who has been told that her face, her voice, and her freedom are not hers to keep.

I made this painting after hearing of the murder of a young pregnant woman I knew — the grief was so specific and so enormous that the only place it could go was onto the canvas. These three women are mourning for her, for all the mothers, for everyone who has ever sat with that kind of loss.

When a bomb goes off in a market or a street, the grief that follows belongs to everyone — the carriers, the witnesses, the ones who cannot stop weeping. I painted the aftermath wide and full because I wanted the scale of suffering to be felt, not just seen.

This piece came from a very personal place — I felt the grief of a mother and aunt who had lost a nineteen-year-old son in war, and I worked the dark surface until the faces emerged the way grief itself emerges: slowly, relentlessly, out of the dark.

Butterflies have always seemed to me like nature's most improbable miracle — and I tried to capture that fragile quality by building them up in layers of texture against a soft, luminous field of blue and lavender. They are moving upward, always upward, which is exactly how they make me feel.

My daughter loves to photograph butterflies, and I painted this for her — the exuberance of these three creatures tumbling over the meadow is everything I feel about the gift of freedom and the beauty she finds in the smallest living things.

The stargazer lily is one of nature's great gifts — that intoxicating scent, that ruby-red depth, those perfect spotted petals. I painted this as close and as large as I could, because I want whoever owns it to feel the same rush of pleasure I feel every time I see one in a garden.

The thrill of a sailboat race in strong wind is something I never tire of — the way the hull rises and the sails fill and the whole vessel becomes an argument against gravity. I let the paint swirl the way the water does, and I hope you feel the spray when you stand in front of it.