I am more often lost in memories than existing in the present moment. Usually these occupants of my thoughts are of the things that have left me behind, in one way or another. Often, I find myself trying to conjure up the precise curves of my father’s face or the warm timbre of my grandmother’s voice.

Once particular nuances begin to emerge, the whole of the memory unexpectedly slips further and more completely away from my grasp. I am left only with a sadness that gently settles into the air around me, much like a slowly exhaled breath.

My work, both in process and end result, functions in the way of memory- hovering somewhere in-between existence and nonexistence. I work from observation, but do not strive to render objects. Instead, I chase after fleeting moments of a certain experience. Moments in which, as in memories, objects begin to appear with relative clarity but then slip away quickly thereafter.