My work unfolds like a diary.

Each morning I return to the loom, not with a fixed image in mind but with a willingness to pay attention. The changing light in the studio, a walk through the forest after rain, a conversation with a friend, the weight of grief, the surprise of joy—these moments find their way into the cloth. Some days carry more shadow. Others are bright with color. Together they become a record of a life lived through making.

I think of weaving as both structure and freedom. The loom offers a framework, but within it there is endless room to play, improvise, and discover. Traditional textile knowledge provides a foundation, yet I am less interested in preserving history than in allowing it to evolve. Scandinavian coverlets, Appalachian weaving traditions, painting, drawing, and the natural world all become companions in an ongoing conversation rather than destinations to arrive at.

My own work has gradually become my greatest source material. When a weaving comes off the loom, it is rarely finished. I pin it to the wall beside years of earlier pieces, where colors, forms, and fragments begin speaking to one another. New work often grows directly from old work, carrying traces of previous days while opening unexpected paths forward. The studio has become a living archive where nothing is ever truly complete.

I believe cloth has an extraordinary capacity to hold time. Every thread records a decision, a gesture, or a moment of attention. Through weaving I am not trying to illustrate an idea as much as create a place where memory, material, and observation can quietly gather. The loom offers me infinity. Each finished piece simply reveals the next question waiting to be asked.