I love the idea that accidental art exists all around us, in staggering abundance—in the random patches of paint that cover graffitied walls, the concentric rings of a tree trunk, and braided ripples of sand at the beach. In my opinion, paint splatters on the sidewalk can be as beautiful as a Jackson Pollock, crop fields from the window of an airplane as lovely as a Mondrian.

My own creative process almost always begins with paying attention. I observe the world around me, taking photographs, filing away color palettes, patterns, and textures to draw upon later in the studio. On the best days, abstractions flow intuitively, rooted in the playful creativity of nature itself.

Peering down at the surface of our planet via Google Earth, its remaining wildernesses and the nearly ubiquitous mark of humankind, I can’t help but see a sprawling, infinitely detailed canvas. The boundaries between abstraction and realism are blurred. The imagination of the artist bleeds into the imagination of the universe from which she originates. I like to think of my own work as a tiny, wonder-filled corner of this grand collaboration.