My practice moves across mediums because I do. Painting and sculpture. Gesture and construction. Two different hands, one interior world.

In painting, the gesture leads. Something moves through the body before the mind catches up. In sculpture, I slow down — the work is built, handled, made physical. But both start from the same place: energy in motion, the figure holding tension, light doing more than illuminating.

I'm still learning who I am in the studio. That's not a problem I'm trying to solve. It might be the whole point.

The figure carries a lot of weight in my work. It absorbs light, holds contradiction, tells stories it doesn't know it's telling. Spirituality runs through it — halos, luminous forms, sacred symbols — but so does its shadow. Good and evil. Truth and deception. I don't resolve these. I hold them open and see what lives in the gap.

Negative space matters as much as what's there. The unspoken. The omission. Absence and presence coexisting in the same breath.

Completion isn't a decision I make — the work tells me. With painting that conversation can stretch; with sculpture it arrives more plainly, more finally. In the meantime I keep looking at what came before — not to be moved by it, but to understand it academically, structurally. To ask what it could have been. That rigor lives underneath everything, even when the surface is pure instinct.

The work is dynamic, contradictory, emotionally charged. I've stopped asking where it's going and started trusting what accumulates.