In Earth, I turn toward material as memory—toward the kind of raw, imperfect matter that holds weight, stain, texture, and time. This project emerges from a desire to reconnect not only with nature, but with the body, the subconscious, and the inner terrain we so often abandon.

I work with what is already present: coffee, torn paper, dust, paper mâché, found textures—humble materials that carry a quiet resilience. Their imperfections mirror my own, and the process of working with them becomes a conversation between resistance and surrender. I do not impose meaning onto the material. I let it speak first.

The figures in Earth are often caught in confined spaces, distorted, dissolving, or collapsing inward. They represent psychological states—trauma, healing, silence, confrontation. And yet, there’s also growth. A return. A rooting. Each piece carries the metaphor of the inner garden: the neglected space within us where things still grow, even in the dark.

My practice is rooted in sustainability, but not just in terms of material use—it’s about emotional sustainability. Slowing down. Creating from what’s available. Letting go of perfection. Listening to the mess. Earth is my way of honoring decay, and the quiet power of regeneration that comes from it.

In a world that rewards speed, polish, and detachment, this work insists on slowness, rupture, and reconnection—with land, body, and psyche. It is not meant to be beautiful in the traditional sense. It is meant to feel real—earthy, scarred, and alive.