The Rhythm of Making

On materials and making

Meaning cannot be imposed. It arrives softly, through process, gestures repeated and refined, a rhythm shared between time and material. I move with patience and attentiveness, inviting the unexpected. The hand moves, the medium replies, and together we listen

I work with what once lived, skin, gut, bone, hair, scales, copper, materials that carry memory, tension, and story. Using tradition techniques and experimentation, I clean and scrape, stretch, stitch and weave. These gestures are rhythmic and embodied, shaped by breath and by deep connection to place.

These materials do not speak of endings. They speak of continuance, of presence, of time that folds rather than falls away. Making is an act of connection. It binds my body to the work, and the work to those who encounter it. Each piece is an offering, holding care, attention, trace.

Meaning lives in the middle, between what I bring and what the work asks for. Between what is held and what is shown.

On stillness

In my work, I search for stillness. Not as an aesthetic, but as a discipline and an outcome. It is a refusal of speed, a resistance to chaos, and a deliberate act of attention. In a world that demands reaction, stillness becomes both sanctuary and statement.

Creating, for me, is remaining long enough for something true to surface. Stillness is what allows this emergence. It is not passive, it is rigorous. It asks for patience, presence, and a willingness to sit within discomfort until it resolves or perhaps does not.

This discipline shapes my practice. Materials are chosen not only for their visual qualities, but for how they too hold time and silence. Composition becomes a question of balance, not symmetry, but emotional equilibrium.

I do not seek silence for its own sake. I seek it because it creates space, space for recognition, for forgotten memories, for encounters that reach beneath language. In stillness, the work finds its own voice. And in stillness, I find mine.

Silence within the art

Not all knowledge comes through language. Some understanding lives deep beneath speech, held in rhythm, in breath, in the body’s memory. It surfaces not in definition but in texture, in the way sound lingers, how copper hums, how light drifts across gut and skin.

These are truths that arrive long before we name them. They live in the materials we choose, in the silence we allow, in the gestures we trust. My work gathers these threads, weaving meaning from what is already known but rarely remembered and rarely spoken.