Sometimes I look at my paintings and feel as though I am remembering a life I am still living.

I think about how precious our lives become when we look back on them. How an ordinary time—the way we lived, the people we loved, the things we barely noticed—can become something we ache to return to. We’re always in that time before everything changed. I am drawn to the possibility of feeling its preciousness now, while it is still ours.

I work across painting, photography, digital collage, and instruction-based art. Moving between these forms, I return to the body, memory, and the ways we try to hold something that cannot remain as it is. My work comes from a tender place: a sensitivity to change, an attachment to being alive, and a desire to give form to what I feel but cannot fully explain.

Painting is an intuitive, physical encounter. I press, fold, roll, layer, and remove, allowing what I discover to guide my next action. I use considerable force, yet the resulting surfaces can be delicate and almost imperceptible. Pale color, impressions, and fragments emerge through this exchange. Looking closely, I find associations with fascia, liquid, bone, and connective tissue. To me, they suggest something inward: the felt presence of life within matter.

I have come to imagine these paintings as studies made by someone or something in a future time, looking back at humanity with curiosity and tenderness. What might another intelligence see in the fragile, organic material of our existence? What could it understand about being alive from what remains? As a child, I searched the earth and creek beds for fossils and traces of earlier worlds. In these paintings, I imagine our own world becoming the subject of that discovery.

I think of this as future memory.

It carries a little pain—the feeling of missing something while it is still here—and a heightened awareness of how much there is to love.

In my collages, fragments of earlier paintings acquire another life through being photographed and reassembled. In my instructional works, a few words can invite someone to picture a beloved face or imagine their breath moving into the atmosphere. These actions can take place entirely within the mind. A person brings their own memories, affections, and absences to the work simply by reading.

Although the work begins in my inner life, I leave space for the inner life of another person. I hope that somewhere within a surface, a fragment, or an imagined gesture, they encounter something they recognize but may not yet have words for: the tenderness of being here, knowing that this time, too, will become a memory.