My work plays in the in-between space where hand-made and machine-made meet—sometimes smoothly, sometimes with sparks. I’m interested in what happens when physical stuff crosses into virtual territory, when data gets noisy, meanings drift, and yesterday’s “facts” start to look like digital leftovers.
I want the work to pull people in—more curious than cautious. Ideally, you’re a little charmed, a little thrown off, and you start making your own connections as the piece shifts between “Wait, what?” and “Ah, I see.”
Most projects start small: a simple idea, almost like a game. A tiny glitch can be enough—a phrase misheard, a line misread, a weird language mismatch, or something you catch out of the corner of your eye. From that raw signal, I build a set of rules and let it grow. Wordplay, puns, and bent meanings show up a lot.
The finished pieces are always physical, built through a mix of analog and digital processes. I work with whatever fits: wood, paper, canvas, paint, inks, plastics, resins, wire, electronics, hand tools, code, and software.
There’s also something intentionally “Easter-eggy” about how I build ideas into the work—little conceptual treats for different kinds of people. Some of them land with cryptographers, engineers, and microbiologists; others click for poets, philosophers, clergy, and Latin scholars. And then there are the ones for animated-film lovers, art collectors, politicians, and even Freemasons. Wherever you’re coming from, if you bring your own way of reading the world, chances are the piece will meet you halfway.
I tend to make layered “systems” that feel like artifacts from a parallel world—strange, but somehow familiar. I’m hoping you’ll step in and do a little decoding, feeling the interplay between the story a piece suggests and the elements that interrupt it. In the best cases, the work is real-but-maybe-not-so-real—and it gently teases you into looking again (and maybe even into that slightly frustrating feeling of wanting to touch it… but knowing you shouldn’t).