Reflections from the studio, works in progress, natural dye experiments, and observations from a practice rooted in fiber, material, and nature.
When people imagine an artist's studio, they often picture shelves lined with paint—rows of colors waiting to become a landscape, a portrait, or an abstract work. My studio has shelves too. But instead of tubes of paint, they're filled with fleece. Romney. Icelandic....
Why did wool become my lifelong medium? The answer isn’t simply about texture or technique—it’s about listening to a material that already knows what it wants to become.
There is a part of almost every project I'm tempted to rush through. Not because I don't love it. Because I'm so eager for what comes next. Yesterday I was preparing my loom to weave a baby blanket. The pattern was ready. The colors were chosen. The yarn was measured...
It's a question I ask myself often — usually in the quiet stretch between projects, when the wool is put away and the studio is still and I find myself feeling, strangely, lost. When I'm not in the middle of making something, something in me goes dim. I know this...
A quiet realization while reading about eco-printing led me to see fiber, plants, and natural materials differently. Nature is not simply a source of materials. It participates.
For weeks I had been reading about eco-printing while quietly collecting onion skins in the kitchen. What began as an experiment with leaves became something else entirely—a discovery that I was more interested in the color itself than the print.
A Navajo Churro fleece arrived in the studio carrying the marks of the landscape it came from. Before the wool becomes yarn or felt, there is a moment of discovery where the material reveals its own character.
When people imagine an artist's studio, they often picture shelves lined with paint—rows of colors waiting to become a landscape, a portrait, or an abstract work. My studio has shelves too. But instead of tubes of paint, they're filled with fleece. Romney. Icelandic....
Why did wool become my lifelong medium? The answer isn’t simply about texture or technique—it’s about listening to a material that already knows what it wants to become.
There is a part of almost every project I'm tempted to rush through. Not because I don't love it. Because I'm so eager for what comes next. Yesterday I was preparing my loom to weave a baby blanket. The pattern was ready. The colors were chosen. The yarn was measured...
It's a question I ask myself often — usually in the quiet stretch between projects, when the wool is put away and the studio is still and I find myself feeling, strangely, lost. When I'm not in the middle of making something, something in me goes dim. I know this...
A quiet realization while reading about eco-printing led me to see fiber, plants, and natural materials differently. Nature is not simply a source of materials. It participates.
For weeks I had been reading about eco-printing while quietly collecting onion skins in the kitchen. What began as an experiment with leaves became something else entirely—a discovery that I was more interested in the color itself than the print.
A Navajo Churro fleece arrived in the studio carrying the marks of the landscape it came from. Before the wool becomes yarn or felt, there is a moment of discovery where the material reveals its own character.