Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the materials I keep around my workspace and why I keep returning to them.
Naturally, wood remains my primary material. A lot of it comes from scrap pieces I’ve found or that have been given to me. When I had my studio at Marshall Arts, a friend dropped off leftover wood from the Kinfolk restaurant in Harbor Town, and I’m actually still working through those pieces right now.
I’m also pulling from the environment around me: dried bamboo reeds that fall from along my backyard fence, cardboard tubes from paper towels, and even the empty rolls from masking tape. I also have these concrete pieces I made back during the pandemic. For a long time, they just sat there. Sometimes you have to let things rest for a few years until you finally have that lightbulb moment, and then it’s time to find a way to merge them with the wood.
My process usually starts with a backing piece or substrate. I love anything modular, so that substrate acts as my grid. I just imagine how to align everything vertically and horizontally, placing objects along those invisible, imaginary lines until the arrangement looks right. Because I’m not using much color right now, the focus is entirely on form, material, and how things sit in proximity to one another. (I do have some copper wire and steel pipes sitting prominently in my work area, just floating around in the back of my mind until an idea for them solidifies).
One thing I am pushing myself to think more about is how to give more meaning to these wall reliefs. I'm exploring how I can use relics, artifacts, or elements of my family history to imbue more personal significance into each piece.