Proposition
What becomes possible when I no longer cling to thought, allowing perception to dissolve into a self-organizing and more complex experience?
Each morning, when I stand in the backyard of my studio and breathe, I find myself entering a space of attunement, not just to the sounds of the forest, but to something beyond sound. I listen for what cannot be heard: the breath of the trees, the trembling of the ground, the weightless current of unseen forces moving through bark, root, and stone. These moments are not abstract. They are deeply physical, rooted in the complex act of an observation beyond the senses alone.
This is the space from which I work; not a place of certainty, but of question. I do not make art to declare what I know. I make it because of what I do not know. Because looking, feeling, and constructing are how I stay in contact with the vast and unresolved phenomena of being alive.
My work begins in perception but doesn’t end there. It explores the edges of what perception can hold, what it fails to name, what it distorts, what it reveals in fragments. I am drawn to water, glass, light, and turbulence not for their metaphorical properties, but for their physical behaviors. These elements become collaborators, teaching me something about instability and ambiguity, about systems in flux, about the layered simultaneity of the seen and the invisible.
When I photograph turbulence, either manufactured in a studio pumping system, or standing in waders, inches from the crest of a river rapid, I am not only working to capture it’s beauty or explain fluid dynamics; I am looking. Deeply. Intently. Repeatedly. The camera becomes a tool for slowing time. A means to witness what would otherwise vanish. From these moments of observation come structures — visual, material, and conceptual — each holding echoes of neuronal maps, urban systems, quantum fields, and the unknowable networks that link all things.
I find myself drawn into the language of entangled systems, where the boundaries between self and world, as well as matter and energy, dissolve into relationship. These are not metaphors, but actual conditions of the world I see — what I sense, what I observe, what I attempt to give form to.
But I do not claim these connections as conclusions. They are associations. Discoveries. Evidence perhaps that the world is built from nested forms of relationship, each refracting the other across scale and medium. I am not only seeking clarity. I am seeking contact.
In works composed of repeated glass volumes, containers filled with water and arranged in precise geometries, I am building a stage for conditions. These pieces do not reflect the world back at the viewer in a clean mirror. They disturb it. They multiply it. The fields, buildings, clouds, and trees surrounding an installation appear fractured and rearranged within each prism, layered with one another, reflected and refracted into unexpected visual events. This is not distortion for its own sake. It is an invitation to stay long enough for an altered kind of observation to emerge. A lens that, when used to observe a canopy of leaves, for instance, expands one’s perception and interpretation of it.
Often, what emerges for me is not resolution, but a deepening. The more I look, the more I find. The more I find, the less I believe in certainty. My breath slows. Time shifts. I begin to see relationships that exist not just between objects, but between moments, between the inner movement of attention and the outer movement of wind in the leaves.
I have no desire to frame this process in pretense or posture. I live by questions, through the materials I work with, the phenomena I observe, and the structures I create. My studio is a laboratory of direct inquiry, where perception itself becomes the springboard to expanding the field of exploration and comprehension.
The foundation of my practice is forming questions. Sometimes sharp ones. Sometimes beautiful ones. Often ones I can’t articulate in language.
If there is a purpose to what I do, it is to remain open. To listen beyond the limits of hearing. To see beyond the limits of sight. And to allow material — glass, water, light, form — to become a medium through which the unknown begins to shudder into presence.
This is not a fixed story, but a living one. And the works I make are not endpoints. They are invitations, portals perhaps, into a moment where perception begins to dissolve into a self-organizing and more complex experience.