Some of my earliest memories are of looking.

As a child, I spent hours in the forest near our home. It was a place of peace and quiet observation—sticks and branches on the ground, shapes against other shapes, patterns, fragments, and forms partly hidden from view. Those observations stayed with me. Over time, they became part of a way of seeing that has remained central to my work: a belief that, somehow, everything goes together.

I also spent time in my father’s workshop watching him cut glass and mirror into precise rectangular shapes, while my mother assembled small pieces of mosaic into patterns and color. I didn’t know then that these experiences were becoming part of my visual vocabulary. Their traces continue to appear in my work.

That vocabulary has grown to include sticks, birds, hearts, rectangles, grids, human figures, and geometric and organic forms. I return to them again and again, putting them into new relationships and allowing them to change in the process. These are familiar forms, but they are also forms with long histories. Across time and cultures, people have used simple shapes, marks, figures, and symbols to give form to experience. I am interested in that continuity—in receiving forms that already carry histories, bringing something of my own life to them, and sending them forward changed.

My work usually begins without a predetermined conclusion. I put forms together, respond to what happens, and allow intuition, accident, and surprise to alter the direction of the work. The process becomes a conversation between what I bring to the work and what the work gives back. What interests me is not simply the individual form, but what can happen between forms—how one changes another, how something familiar can become unfamiliar, and how unexpected relationships can open possibilities I could not have planned.

Throughout my work, I have returned to ideas of movement, transformation, and possibility. “UP” has been part of my vocabulary for many years—not simply as a direction, but as an impulse toward hope. I am drawn to joy, humor, play, and wonder, not because they deny the more difficult parts of being human, but because I believe they, too, are essential parts of our experience.

I continue to work because I am not finished asking what is possible. Familiar forms still hold the potential to surprise me—to change through unexpected relationships, to carry something of their histories while becoming something I have not seen before. There is curiosity in that, but also an ache: a continuing need to explore, to risk, to make, and to discover.

For me, hope lives there: in the belief that what exists is never the only possibility