Summer to Fall: to wake before the sun rises, to walk a distance, no speaking, unravel, open, go around, accumulate, submerge, stir, bend at waist, lift, wetness, weight, to pour, to spill, to turn, to lower, to empty, to walk back, to reach, to

Summer to Fall: to wake before the sun rises, to walk a distance, no speaking, unravel, open, go around, accumulate, submerge, stir, bend at waist, lift, wetness, weight, to pour, to spill, to turn, to lower, to empty, to walk back, to reach, to lose balance, some light, a few birds, squat, touch, pinch, push, lean, the sky, the ground,

to go around again, to accumulate again, to submerge again, to lower again, to pour again, to walk again, to spill again, to empty again, to lose balance again, the sun burns, search for thinness with fingers, push against thickness with palms, to

to go around again, to accumulate again, to submerge again, to lower again, to pour again, to walk again, to spill again, to empty again, to lose balance again, the sun burns, search for thinness with fingers, push against thickness with palms, to empty one last time, to gather, to sweep, to turn away, and then to return.

The process begins outside, in darkness, as movement. It is physical. I cannot see, but I remember.

The sky is a circle: its center is everywhere. In a few of my memories, it is hollower, bluer, and more resonant. In other memories, it is darker and heavier, like a net of stones. During the warmer months of a year, I go outside to make paper benea

The sky is a circle: its center is everywhere. In a few of my memories, it is hollower, bluer, and more resonant. In other memories, it is darker and heavier, like a net of stones. During the warmer months of a year, I go outside to make paper beneath the sky. Each work begins at dawn and concludes at dusk, centering around the birth and the death of a single day.

December 2021, in my notebook: My dad took out several large bags from the back of his closet today. I opened one. It was filled with hundreds of bracelets, each made of knotted paracord and then carefully wrapped in layers of red embroidery thre

December 2021, in my notebook: My dad took out several large bags from the back of his closet today. I opened one. It was filled with hundreds of bracelets, each made of knotted paracord and then carefully wrapped in layers of red embroidery thread. No one knew he was doing this. Not my mom. Not his own mother. He told me that he made the bracelets over the last five years or so, in the early morning, usually before the sun rose. He couldn’t see as well as he once did, but his body knew the necessary movements: where to tighten and then loosen, when to turn and in which direction.

In the end, I am just like my father.

November 2023, in an email: The same sequence of movements are repeated. But the gestures are like memories in that they are not static. They transform each time I revisit them. Something new is born. I go back to the past in order to connect mor

November 2023, in an email: The same sequence of movements are repeated. But the gestures are like memories in that they are not static. They transform each time I revisit them. Something new is born. I go back to the past in order to connect more fully to the present and the future. 

I enter into time.

When I make paper, I use my body to bend, lift, turn, push, lower, release, and empty. These activities show me that there are some things that only my body can know. When I work this way, I remember that I am a body. I am a body, just as the earth

When I make paper, I use my body to bend, lift, turn, push, lower, release, and empty. These activities show me that there are some things that only my body can know. When I work this way, I remember that I am a body. I am a body, just as the earth is a body. Like the land around me, I am a collection of material. We begin in abstraction and as abstractions.

September 2023, in my notebook: i speak another i speak another tongue i speak; this is how distant i am from that time i speak; i am the world a stranger to myself i speak; the sun is full and absolutely round at the end of the day i speak; the

September 2023, in my notebook: i speak another i speak another tongue i speak; this is how distant i am from that time i speak; i am the world a stranger to myself i speak; the sun is full and absolutely round at the end of the day i speak; the mountain lasts forever i speak; in order to see i close my eyes I speak

Sometime in 2019: Any object that depends on the spinning of the earth to fully form, contains some version of truth.

Summer to Fall: to wake before the sun rises, to walk a distance, no speaking, unravel, open, go around, accumulate, submerge, stir, bend at waist, lift, wetness, weight, to pour, to spill, to turn, to lower, to empty, to walk back, to reach, to
to go around again, to accumulate again, to submerge again, to lower again, to pour again, to walk again, to spill again, to empty again, to lose balance again, the sun burns, search for thinness with fingers, push against thickness with palms, to
The sky is a circle: its center is everywhere. In a few of my memories, it is hollower, bluer, and more resonant. In other memories, it is darker and heavier, like a net of stones. During the warmer months of a year, I go outside to make paper benea
December 2021, in my notebook: My dad took out several large bags from the back of his closet today. I opened one. It was filled with hundreds of bracelets, each made of knotted paracord and then carefully wrapped in layers of red embroidery thre
November 2023, in an email: The same sequence of movements are repeated. But the gestures are like memories in that they are not static. They transform each time I revisit them. Something new is born. I go back to the past in order to connect mor
When I make paper, I use my body to bend, lift, turn, push, lower, release, and empty. These activities show me that there are some things that only my body can know. When I work this way, I remember that I am a body. I am a body, just as the earth
September 2023, in my notebook: i speak another i speak another tongue i speak; this is how distant i am from that time i speak; i am the world a stranger to myself i speak; the sun is full and absolutely round at the end of the day i speak; the

Summer to Fall: to wake before the sun rises, to walk a distance, no speaking, unravel, open, go around, accumulate, submerge, stir, bend at waist, lift, wetness, weight, to pour, to spill, to turn, to lower, to empty, to walk back, to reach, to lose balance, some light, a few birds, squat, touch, pinch, push, lean, the sky, the ground,

to go around again, to accumulate again, to submerge again, to lower again, to pour again, to walk again, to spill again, to empty again, to lose balance again, the sun burns, search for thinness with fingers, push against thickness with palms, to empty one last time, to gather, to sweep, to turn away, and then to return.

The process begins outside, in darkness, as movement. It is physical. I cannot see, but I remember.

The sky is a circle: its center is everywhere. In a few of my memories, it is hollower, bluer, and more resonant. In other memories, it is darker and heavier, like a net of stones. During the warmer months of a year, I go outside to make paper beneath the sky. Each work begins at dawn and concludes at dusk, centering around the birth and the death of a single day.

December 2021, in my notebook: My dad took out several large bags from the back of his closet today. I opened one. It was filled with hundreds of bracelets, each made of knotted paracord and then carefully wrapped in layers of red embroidery thread. No one knew he was doing this. Not my mom. Not his own mother. He told me that he made the bracelets over the last five years or so, in the early morning, usually before the sun rose. He couldn’t see as well as he once did, but his body knew the necessary movements: where to tighten and then loosen, when to turn and in which direction.

In the end, I am just like my father.

November 2023, in an email: The same sequence of movements are repeated. But the gestures are like memories in that they are not static. They transform each time I revisit them. Something new is born. I go back to the past in order to connect more fully to the present and the future. 

I enter into time.

When I make paper, I use my body to bend, lift, turn, push, lower, release, and empty. These activities show me that there are some things that only my body can know. When I work this way, I remember that I am a body. I am a body, just as the earth is a body. Like the land around me, I am a collection of material. We begin in abstraction and as abstractions.

September 2023, in my notebook: i speak another i speak another tongue i speak; this is how distant i am from that time i speak; i am the world a stranger to myself i speak; the sun is full and absolutely round at the end of the day i speak; the mountain lasts forever i speak; in order to see i close my eyes I speak

Sometime in 2019: Any object that depends on the spinning of the earth to fully form, contains some version of truth.

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