Reminisce

My work begins in the quiet space where memory folds back on itself—where a moment, once lived, resurfaces like a reflection in a fogged mirror. I return often to these reflective surfaces, not for clarity, but for the distortions they offer. In their shifting glass I see the truth of how remembering works: imprecise, tender, and always changing. Every experience I’ve carried—every joy, wound, curiosity, and misstep—has shaped me in ways I only recognize when I look back.

In the studio, I trace these echoes through a blend of fibers, paint, and photography. Each material functions as a different kind of mirror. Fibers hold the tactile weight of childhood—blankets dragged across linoleum floors, clothes stitched and repaired, the textures that lingered long before I had words for them. Paint allows me to blur and rewrite, to layer over memories until they feel like dreams half-recovered. Photography offers a sharper edge, the illusion of truth, even as I bend and fragment the image to show how fragile it really is.

I return to early memories—sunlight on classroom tiles, the sweetness of a backyard summer, the sting of moments I didn’t yet understand. These fragments live inside my work like small, flickering lights. They remind me that growth is not a straight line; it is a mosaic of experiences that carve and reshape us. Some memories soften me, some sharpen me, and some stay unresolved, shimmering just out of reach.

Through my practice, I try to honor the way life accumulates: how we become a collection of reflections, stitched together by time. My work asks what it means to remember, to re-see ourselves, and to recognize that even the smallest experiences leave marks that continue to form us. Each piece becomes both a looking glass and a window—an invitation to witness the past as it shifts, and to feel how each moment, for better or for worse, builds the person we are still becoming.