Memories imprint onto materials, bodies, and places but are frequently illegible. What narratives are etched onto my body that myself and others cannot (or will not) read?
As a queer interdisciplinary artist, I create inconclusive assemblages, performances, and installations. Narratives can be hidden, coded, or erased. I approach the overlooked, the castoff, and the weathered for their ability to remind us of these stories. An elsewhere. An elsewhen. Dirt from home; cast iron, an element found in our blood, poured, solidified, and oxidized; pine needles from the shed roof; burlap drenched and dripped with indigo; the smell of a place not here (not there); a discarded deer jaw.
Materials—narratives—drift like ghosts. Uncanny empathies surface.