Art from the heart is the one place in my work where I feel there are no real rules—at least, not the kind other people can write for you. When I step up to the easel, what truly matters isn’t whether a piece fits a trend, follows a formula, or aligns with expectations. What matters is whether the painting feels honest. Whether it carries something real from my heart to the viewer’s.

In wildlife art, it’s easy to get caught up in technique, detail, and accuracy. I care deeply about those things; they’re a big part of my practice. But underneath all of that, the quiet question I return to is: Why am I painting this? If I’m creating a wolf, a songbird, or a small moment of light on water, I want there to be a very personal reason. Maybe it’s the memory of watching that animal at dawn, or the way its gaze stayed with me long after I left the field. Maybe it’s a feeling of tenderness, or worry, or gratitude. That emotional thread becomes the true foundation of the painting.

When you create from the heart, you give yourself permission to be vulnerable. You allow your experiences, your joys, and even your grief to show through in the work. Some paintings come from a place of quiet peace, others from a sense of loss for the habitats and species we’re in danger of losing. That emotional undercurrent may be invisible to most viewers at first glance, but they feel it. They may not know exactly why, yet they recognize sincerity when they see it.

There will always be many voices telling artists what they should paint: what sells, what’s popular, what fits neatly into a category. I’ve learned that if I follow those voices too closely, the work starts to lose its soul. Technique can be refined, styles can evolve, but if the heart goes missing, the painting becomes merely decorative. When I instead listen inward—when I ask, “What am I genuinely moved to say with this piece?”—the work feels alive, even if it quietly breaks a few expectations along the way.

Art from the heart doesn’t have to be loud or dramatic. Sometimes it’s a tiny feather rendered with care, a soft reflection in an animal’s eye, or a simple composition that holds a memory only I fully understand. The “rule,” if there is one, is to stay true to that inner voice. To honor the subjects you love, and the way you uniquely see them, more than you honor external rules. In the end, the only measure that matters to me is whether I can look at a finished painting and say: This is honest. This is mine. If I can feel that, then I know I’ve followed the only rule that truly matters.