When I think back to Utah, what I remember most aren’t the wide, postcard views—they’re the small, quiet surfaces right at my feet. The photos in this post are a handful of my favorite moments with the micro landscapes out there…the way one patch of stone would shift from pale pink to deep rust in just a few inches, or how a crack in the rock would hold a pocket of shadow like ink.
I kept finding myself crouched down, tracing tiny lines of sediment, salt, and sand, watching how color bled and pooled across the rock. Soft greens against burnt orange, chalky whites against almost-purple shadows—little compositions that felt already half like paintings. It reminded me of working on canvas: edges meeting, layers overlapping, one small mark changing the whole surface.
Spending time that close to the ground slowed everything down. Instead of chasing the big view, I let myself follow these textures—the way light slid across a ridge, the way one stone held the memory of water, the way erosion drew delicate patterns over thousands of years. It felt like being inside a sketchbook made of rock.
These images are my way of bringing those tiny moments home: small frames of color and texture that are already seeping into my studio—into the way I layer paint, the way I think about edges, and the way I look for beauty in the in-between spaces.
