Clay brings me joy and a deep sense of freedom. In the studio, I loosen my grip on perfection and follow what feels alive—form, rhythm, breath.

My work lives in the space between fragility and resilience, order and chance. I’m drawn to the contrast between handbuilding and wheel throwing, often combining the two; watching how a piece shifts and changes, sometimes becoming something entirely different from what I set out to make, and yet exactly what it was meant to be. I follow my curiosity: how glaze colors shift when layered, how carving becomes a quiet conversation with the surface.

For me, making is not about mastery—it’s about presence. Years spent shaping other people’s visions taught me to hold structure; clay taught me to let it go. Illness, uncertainty, and healing have sharpened my sense of time and purpose in the studio. What remains essential is the act of making itself—a way to stay connected, honest, and open to possibility.