The breakdown of myself and others is always something I have considered. In a world filled with simple realities of non-permanence, I came to understand that everything will always change. I grew up in a family of giants—people who understood the sovereignty of dirt; that the Earth would provide or take on a whim. Two families, one taming wilderness and one tilling fields merged into me. I grew up to an old generation, slowly fading. My summers were spent in the deep woods where rain and moss and ages of debris formed new life and on lands so dry and weathered that I could watch the best of the world crack and peel. It is an inescapable part of me that everything must return to ash and dust, a truth that I see not as a prison in a culture that relishes in youthful perfection, but rather a release. Since those young summers, I learned what it was like to see death. I watched a true prairie woman, still washing the dust of those dirty-thirties from her skin, fade behind glassy blue eyes. She was followed by many others but such is the life of a young child in an old family— death becomes an early part of the equation. These early understandings of a temporary humanity have come to deeply enrich and define my practice.


In my practice, I examine the state of Western Cultures’ resistance to decay and how it impacts contemplations of the body and constructed spaces. North America views visible decay or imperfection as uncomfortable reminders of mortality, which are removed or altered. I explore visual methods of embracing these issues, striving for moments where the viewer and incomplete human elements may interact in non-confrontational ways.