My work often begins with a question rather than an image. I’m interested in how different systems—historical, scientific, technological—leave their traces in the forms we make and the structures we trust. Drawing gives me a way to process those questions materially, tracing a path of inquiry that moves between digital and analog states. I start with a sketch or with an AI-generated variation of that sketch, and then slowly dismantle it—testing its limits, reconfiguring its parts, allowing it to drift before I pull it back into focus. That back-and-forth between the rapid logic of the computer and the steadier pace of drawing is where the work begins to find its shape. 
 

Classical Greek vases have become a consistent anchor within this shifting process. Their silhouettes provide a kind of formal continuity, while their interior geometries open onto more speculative terrain. When I work with these forms—especially their repetitive bands and internal structures—I’m less concerned with citation than with how shape can hold memory, mathematics, and belief at once. The interplay between exterior form and interior logic becomes a way to think about unseen systems, echoing how scientific and mathematical diagrams try to describe forces that exceed direct observation. 
 

As I work, I pay attention to how the clarity of the vase form is complicated by the shifting, iterative structures that come out of the digital sketches. The two systems never line up neatly, and that mismatch is often what gives a drawing its charge.
 

Once a digital composition stabilizes, I re-render it slowly in colored pencil and ink. Hard edges frame softer interior fields; accumulations of nearly indiscernible marks build a quiet, static charge across the surface. Through this process, complex frameworks are distilled into pared-down forms where ancient geometries and contemporary technological languages press against one another—revealing moments of coherence, contradiction, and continuity across time.