My work emerges from a deeply physical practice where the studio becomes my playground—part dance floor, part wrestling mat, part science lab. Drawing from years of dance training (and plenty of bruised knees), I approach each piece like I'm choreographing a conversation with gravity itself, using my entire body to generate forms that seem to wiggle their way into existence. Working this way means I'm always a little surprised by what shows up.
I work directly on the floor to cut my shapes because, honestly, that's where the magic happens. Crouched over 4' x 8' sheets of lightweight plastic, arms stretched wide, I let my body remember what it knows about movement and flow. These aren't precious studio moments—I'm often covered in paint, hair in my face, discovering muscles I forgot I had. The sweeping curves and rhythmic patterns are literal records of me reaching, stretching, sometimes stumbling. The shapes come first. They give me ideas for painting the sculptures, combining flat areas of pure color and spray-painted stencil shapes from repurposed older work.
Each piece is scaled to my own arm span and the limits of what I can actually reach without falling over. The organic forms that emerge look like they could be jellyfish having a meeting, or cells deciding what they want to be when they grow up. I envision my work grouped together as an installation where the sculptures are in conversation with one another. Often, I employ ceiling-attached motors that rotate the sculptures slowly, giving natural movement to the work.
Where you see the shapes bend and curve, that's where they're suspended from monofilament attached to the ceiling. Each time I install these pieces, they adapt to their designated space. Sometimes the forms stretch horizontally across a room, other times they cascade more vertically. However, with strategically placed suspension points, I can orchestrate the curves and spirals that most captivate me. The painted surfaces often camouflage the sculptural forms beneath bold colors and eye-dazzling patterns—a trick borrowed from the octopus, master of visual deception.
