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What happens when we slow down enough to notice what's holding us together—or unraveling?
My practice lives in the close range: what's within arm's reach, what touches skin, what gets missed when you're moving too fast. I'm interested in the space between people, land, and the overlooked infrastructures that keep daily life humming along. Through gatherings, workshops, and small acts of collective noticing, I explore how meaning surfaces through shared attention rather than finished products.
I think of this as tending.
Though honestly it's more like asking: what if we all just... looked closer? What stories live in garden hoses, in grass, in the gap between intention and impact?
This probably comes from living rurally for a while where time was set by fire season and the animals’ needs. Or it's just my lifelong need to be barefoot, feeling all the squishes between my toes. Either way, it's my way of opting out of hustle culture, one muddy footprint at a time.
I'm pursuing an MFA in Art + Social Practice at Portland State University, learning how art can cultivate connection, care, and new ways of fumbling toward being together.
Who has the right to exist in public spaces? Taking cues from pigeons, we practiced deliberate lingering in commercial spaces without consuming.
Cast from cow dung and set in a rotating garden, these ceramic vessel holds what I can no longer carry. Can the shards of pain decompose and shape-shift? Does shit really become fertilizer?
What happens when we create a space from earth itself? Do natural materials invite us to linger differently?
Can I unravel Protestant and capitalist programming?
I try to refuse the logics of productivity and relearn how to pay attention.
What opens when we attend to what's usually ignored? What happens when we treat the mundane as if it has an inner life?
What if I built frames for a forest that's been curating its own exhibition all along?
How do you listen in a foreign land? How do you make yourself receptive to what you don't yet understand?
Can community exist—or hold—when built on systems designed to fracture and exclude?
I couldn't escape the truth that I didn't belong there.
Can materials connect me to place?