In the studio, I feel safe. I am not ashamed to be small or afraid to be blunt. I am a blade of grass, fine as I am. My subjects, too, are unremarkable — people sitting dutifully in chairs, objects resting on a windowsill, one wave in an endless series crashing on the same jetty. The depictions are static and silently self-conscious. I imagine I have caught my subjects in careful self-presentation meant to elicit a sense of invisibility/invincibility, and their response is a straightforward stare. I want to tell them not to worry so much. “I love how the light hits your contours and how you look when you think no one is watching. I admire how a curve joins you with another not so far away, magically erasing distance. I like that you do not glisten or shout. I want to know you and for you to know me.” I am disciplined, frank, and sincere, and I want the work to be the same.

When beginning a piece, I take my time and make careful analytical drawings to create a logical structural underpinning. This allows me to stab, scrape, and scribble as a work evolves. I can relax and get to know small fragments in intimate ways. By incorporating controlled and spontaneous impulses in the same piece, layered upon one another, I reflect the complexity in seemingly simple setups. I often work in series, revisiting familiar objects and scenes, reflecting how they change through my evolving perspective and imperfect memory.

I seek an essential simplicity where mastery of technical skills allows for creative intentionality. I want to speak softly but with depth. My practice involves two modes: a) periods of intense looking and controlled recording that expand my ability to understand and describe my physical surroundings and b) moments of abandon where I test how ingrained in my body the precision exercises have become. I am in constant dialogue with the past as I develop my own language.