I didn’t plan on becoming an artist. I trained to listen to nerves —
to track speech as it vanished, movement as it flickered,
language as it broke mid-sentence in surgery.
That was my world: electricity, precision, presence.
Then, on day one of my dream job, at the height of my career, I was rear-ended.
A nerve injury short-circuited my path. Movement gone. Rhythm broken.
Rewired by pain, tuned by acceptance, painting found frequency.
Now, I transmit in paint, scent, sound, and story.
My works are Responses: layered transmissions built from memory and motion —
painted in stillness, played on piano, laser-etched, infused with scent, and alive in augmented reality.
They carry what I’ve lived:
a queer pulse in a small-town grid.
Weight gained. Weight lost.
Addiction. Silence. Sobriety.
Awake surgeries. Grief. Grace.
Now: partnership of 15 years, meditation, and a dog named Zen,
my trained psychiatric service animal, who reminds me that stillness can be electric too.
This isn’t decoration. This isn’t distraction.
This is a system. A key. A circuit.
I don’t create works. I transmit signals — designed to be felt more than seen.
