Why I Paint Chicago the Way I Do

There was a night not too long ago when I found myself standing on State Street, waiting for the light to change.

It had been raining—not heavily, just enough to leave the streets wet and reflective. Cars were passing by, and every set of headlights stretched across the pavement like long, moving lines of light. The buildings didn’t feel as sharp as they do during the day. Everything had softened a little.

I remember not reaching for my phone right away.

Just standing there for a moment.

Watching.

Rainy Day On State - SOLD.

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Chicago isn’t always the city people expect it to be.

During the day, it can feel structured. Almost exact. But there are these quieter moments—usually in the evening, usually when the weather shifts—when the city feels different. Less defined. A little more open.

That’s usually when something catches my attention.

Not in a dramatic way. It’s rarely that.
It’s more like a pause. Something small that makes me look twice.

When I bring those moments into the studio, I don’t try to paint them exactly as they were.

The photograph is usually just a starting point.

What stays with me isn’t every detail—it’s the way the light moved, or how the street felt, or how everything seemed to slow down for a second. Some things get clearer in the painting. Other things disappear.

I don’t always plan that part.

It just happens as I work.

I think that’s why I keep returning to scenes like this.

Rain, reflections, evening light—those in-between moments where the city isn’t trying so hard to be anything.

They feel honest.

Sometimes people recognize the exact street or location in a painting.

And sometimes they don’t.

But what I hear more often is that it feels familiar.

Like a place they’ve been before—even if they can’t quite place it.

I think that’s what I’m really trying to hold onto.

Not just what Chicago looks like,
but what it feels like to stand in it for a moment
and simply watch.