In my work, I am always looking for ways to create something new from something old. My practice is deeply rooted in cyclical reconstruction; I spend hours hand-shredding my daughter’s countless drawings to blend into pulp, creating entirely new sheets of paper to lay my paint upon. Similarly, I cover over past canvases I’ve painted on, allowing the hidden textures of the underpainting to contextually inform the new work that sits atop. This commitment to reuse extends to the presentation, as I source secondhand frames and adapt my paintings to sit within the original matte boards.

This deliberate process of reuse is an indulgence in a quiet, tactile nostalgia. Layering the present over the past allows me to remember exactly who and where I was when a canvas first began, or to imagine the lived history of a stranger's discarded frame. Above all, it is a collaboration with time and memory. I hoard every drawing my toddler hands me, feeling my heart swell at the idea that her work will turn into mine; what I make, we will have made together.