I work with cardboard because it behaves like a familiar spirit: ordinary, loyal, and willing to become almost anything if asked the right way. I bend it, coax it, and build with it until it holds a shape. If it resists, that’s fine—cardboard forgets nothing, forgives everything, and can always be transformed into something new.

Each piece begins long before the glue. I sketch the form, talk to it a little, and consider what it wants to be—furniture with gentle humor, a sculpture with softened edges, a form that refuses to be ordinary. Once the structure is ready, I cover it with a skin of brown paper, sand it smooth, and then apply Lokta paper, adding rich color, subtle translucency, and delicate texture to the surface, making it quietly alive.

I drink a truly unreasonable amount of tea. I save the bags, wash them, flatten them, and paint each one with watercolor. These fragile fragments become part of the surface—maps of steeped moments, soft freckles of color, small time-stamped spells stitched into the work. They are reminders that transformation can arise from the most ordinary sources: a cup of tea, a scrap of cardboard, a repeated gesture.

My pieces do not shout; they stand their ground. Their strength is real—engineered through careful shaping and joinery—yet their surfaces remain gentle, inviting viewers closer. They occupy a space where the humble becomes honorable, where patience turns into texture, and where familiar materials are elevated into something quietly remarkable.