Through sculpture, painting, printmaking, and photography, I begin with observation and explore memory, place, and perception, guided by reflection and imagination.
Poems into Image
Works inspired by poetry, literature, and fragments of text. Rather than illustrating poems directly, the images respond to their rhythms, emotions, and silences through color, form, gesture, and atmosphere.
The Eye (2023)
High-fired Ceramic
Antonio Machado
El ojo que ves no es
Ojo porque tu lo ves
Es ojo porque te ve.
The eye you see is not
An eye because you see it.
It is an eye because it sees you
The Play is Over (2025)
Acrylic on Canvas
Bertolt Brecht
The play is over, the performance
committed. Slowly
the theater a sagging intestine, empties.
In the dressing rooms,
the salesmen of hotchpotch mimicry and
rancid rhetoric
wash of makeup and sweat. At last
the lights go down which showed the miserable
botched job; the twilight falls on the
lovely nothingness of the misused stage.
In the empty,
still mildly smell auditorium sits the honest
playwright, unappeased and does his best
To remember
The world, a theatrical fair (2024)
Acrylic on Canvas
Kabir
Alone, flies the swan, away
The world, a theatrical fair
Leaf falling from the tree
Is really hard to find
Who knows where it will land
Lifted by a gust of wind
When your years are complete
No more orders to give or take
Relentless are the envoys of death
Their reach, no one can escape
Kabir sings the Divine’s praise
Hopefully, to find eternal grace
Guru reaps the rewards of his actions
And the disciple, only his.
What Work Is (2025)
Acrylic on Canvas
Philip Levine
We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is—if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it’s someone else’s brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, “No,
we’re not hiring today,” for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who’s not beside you or behind or
ahead because he’s home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you’re too young or too dumb,
not because you’re jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don’t know what work is