If perfection is unattainable, I will make imperfection. I fight this through labor and repetition. When I reach the point of total control, I choose to alter—destroy, scour, stain, fracture, tarnish, blacken, defile, pollute, mend, and manipulate. Then I repeat myself. This becomes my rhythm of making and unmaking, searching for something real in between pieces left behind.

In physical forms, there exists a hollowness—something between the tangible and intangible. I crave to hold this feeling of presence I sense within their absence. I observe the world around me, the ordinary and mundane, and look for what we fail to notice. By replicating these objects, I give them attention, transforming what is overlooked into something real, something held.