It’s a curious thing to write about one’s art because it feels strange to me to put words to something that I feel I can only express visually. I make art because for as long as I can remember I’ve made art. I was taught to be creative by women who may not describe themselves as such, but nevertheless, embody the ethos of an artist. They taught me to see beyond the obvious as they took old fabric scraps and empty soda bottles and transformed trash into treasures. They taught me to use my imagination and gave me tools, perhaps unintentionally, that I’ve used throughout my life to make things beautiful while making beautiful things. 

I move between collage, painting, drawing, fiber, audio, storytelling, etc. because practically and intellectually, I find working with one medium confining. Why should I restrict my creativity to one thing? It makes no sense to me. My tools are simple, often bought at a discount or found and repurposed to suit my needs. I collect bits and pieces of paper for my collages as if I’m curating a collection of high-end vintage glassware.

I paint mountains, write about prisons, embroider, and experiment with different media because I can move fluidly between these things, and I see them as connected. I make art because art allows us to collectively imagine new possibilities, and that seems like an incredibly worthwhile way to spend one’s life.