My practice is rooted in the body- its resilience, fragility, and capacity to carry memory. Mine has been through a lot, with repeated injuries to my back, surgeries, and slow healing, I move with intention. I’m often balancing between focused attention and the moments where I lose myself in the act of making. Clay mirrors that rhythm. It holds tension, responds to pressure, and remembers every touch- always cycling, always shifting.

I grew up in the Midwest, where labor was a form of care and making by hand carried purpose. I trained in sports that demanded discipline and precision, which shaped how I first understood function. Now, I work within contradiction- between structure and collapse, utility and excess, care and control.

Cycles are central to my practice: the slow repair of the body, the life cycle of clay, and the broader rhythms of nature. I’m one ceramicist in a 20,000-year lineage of people working with this material- thinking through touch, healing through repetition, making meaning through form. What keeps me tethered to clay is its persistence. In a time where nearly everything can be digitized, ceramics stays grounded in physical ritual. Cooking, cleaning, bathing, lighting a space- these small, daily gestures are where we meet the material world. They are common ground, and they remain quietly human.

My sculptures live between function and abstraction, stability and imbalance. They ask for pause in a world built for speed- reminding us that engagement, like movement, is never static, and that nothing holds one shape forever.