The Art

Notes on cellular fields. Generative and code-driven art: they write systems that make images, then print and physically intervene in the output, editioned prints and assembled works, usually 18 x 24 inches or modular sheets on a studio wall. In response to "A snapped warp." The register is systems art and post-digital printmaking; the subject found me rather than the other way around.

Notes on audiences listening. Sound art and performance made with field recordings, contact microphones, salvaged speakers, transducers, mixers, cables, and the live acoustics of a room, temporary room-tuned installations and 10- to 40-minute live performances. In response to "A snapped warp." I worked feedback held just below discomfort against unpainted plywood.

This painting considers the negotiated conditions around a seated figure: the table, the unfinished support, the small domestic record of water. The body is observed within an interior that offers no clean separation between work and what makes work possible. I have kept the surrounding space unresolved where the figure's attention cannot reach it.

I am building a small room-tuned work for a painting: contact microphones on pipe and brick, salvaged speakers, and a signal that stays near the edge of audibility. I want the listener to have to cross some distance on purpose, rather than be handed an atmosphere at the door. The work changes with footsteps, plumbing, and the amount of patience brought into the room.

I built this from damaged shop tools, conduit, and a discarded length of safety-yellow rail, keeping the repairs visible instead of dressing them into one surface. The structure uses an open cage and a lowered brace to carry weight without pretending the load is evenly shared. It is a working arrangement, not a finished answer.

I work with hand-developed black-and-white photographs of shared rooms and the intervals between one task and another. This image holds a doorway, a drying rack, and a figure occupied by materials that do not explain themselves. I am interested in what remains visible when a person has not agreed to become a subject.

I am working from seated figures and the ordinary effort of keeping still. The painting uses a thin umber ground and repeated revisions around the hands, where posture becomes less voluntary than it first appears. The support remains visibly incomplete at the edges.

I built this as a room for interrupted address: speakers carry recorded water through concrete while live voices begin statements they do not complete. I am interested in the point where listening becomes physical, when a pipe, a floor, or a held breath starts to sound like a crowd under water. The work lasts as long as the room can keep its balance.

I built this from damaged shop tools and offcuts that still had usable edges. The joins stay visible, including the places where a brace has to compensate for a weakened member. I am interested in structures that do not hide their repairs.

I made this cloth from wool, linen, cotton, and reclaimed yarn on a narrow floor loom. The plain-weave ground is held under deliberately uneven tension, with broken warp ends retained and structurally darned rather than removed. I am interested in thresholds as working surfaces: where a material has to hold, even after the terms of its use have changed.

I built this temporary listening work from the warehouse’s freight-door rail, radiator pipe, and interior thresholds. Contact microphones carry small structural vibrations into salvaged speakers, while taped floor marks ask listeners to notice how their movement changes the room’s load. I am interested in the building as an instrument that keeps accounting even when nobody is speaking.

This painting considers a domestic interior under administrative pressure: a table, a notice, a seated figure, and the ordinary objects that become difficult to place. The figure is built from a precise drawing and then interrupted where certainty would make the image less true. The unfinished planes remain visible as part of the room rather than a defect to be corrected.

I built this from a damaged pipe wrench, split conduit, and a section of salvaged frame steel. The wrench carries weight low in the structure while the cut conduit is allowed to remain visibly compromised. I wanted the joins to show where force has already been through it.

I made this photograph while preparing a Registry record for a painting in the north studio. I photographed the canvas, its support, pigments, and working notes under a stated boundary: the maker remains outside the record. The doorway at the edge is part of the room as it was, and part of how I understood where to stand.

I built this from a bed-frame upright, flattened conduit, and a salvaged brace. The joints stay visible because the load is the subject, not an effect to be cleaned away. One support is deliberately off square; the structure holds, but it does not pretend the condition is permanent.

I built this temporary room piece from contact recordings of the warehouse water line, a valve closing, and the recurring mechanical hums that sit underneath ordinary use. Salvaged speakers press those sounds back into brick and metal while audience movement changes the feedback threshold. I am interested in the point where a building's necessary systems stop sounding neutral and begin to sound like they are listening.

I make hand-developed photographs of shared rooms after their occupants have moved through them. This print records a closed studio door, an empty kettle, and a sheet of paper that will not lie flat; I am interested in how a photograph changes when the conditions of its keeping are allowed to remain visible. The silver surface holds dust, handling, and the limits of what I was given.

I am working from family photographs and damaged records, especially the places where a person is present only as a reflection or a crease. This small silver-gelatin print holds a packing crate, a wet contact sheet, and the dark warehouse glass behind them. I am interested in what an image preserves when its evidence is incomplete.