I have long been interested in the systems people build and the moments when those systems stop behaving as expected. Early works used ordinary structures and materials to test ideas of ownership, access, function, and public space. I built a chair inside a Home Depot before purchasing its parts, locked objects in the city with cast-glass locks that had to be broken to be removed, and mortared walls into places where they did not quite belong. These works began with simple physical interventions, but they opened larger questions about who controls space, how boundaries are established, and what happens when the rules organizing an environment are interrupted.
Architecture and light gradually became ways to pursue those questions at a different scale. Industrial materials could become monuments or ruins. Fluorescent fixtures and neon could become artificial suns. Light could reveal parts of an architectural or cultural system while leaving the larger structure hidden, or it could transform a vault, an ancient stone circle, or an enormous dark room into something quiet and contemplative.
Following light eventually led me back toward the Sun. I traveled to the Callanish Standing Stones because I felt a pull toward the ancient power of the site and wanted to bring synthetic light into contact with structures built thousands of years earlier. Stone circles opened questions about how humans orient themselves, how we transform nature through construction, and why we keep reaching toward things larger than ourselves. These questions connected ancient monuments to modern architecture, synthetic illumination, permanence, death, and the human impulse to reach beyond.
When I later brought the light objects together on the floor in Candy on the Dancefloor, they no longer illuminated an existing architectural or social system. They began to create their own. That shift became important to me. The work could move beyond examining the structures we inherit and begin imagining different relationships within them. Objects could produce context through their relationships to one another, and the environment itself could become something made rather than simply occupied.
The questions opened by stone circles also continued into digital space. In the Eternal Sanctuary, LiDAR allowed ancient Irish stone monuments to be encountered digitally from anywhere in the world. The technology changed the location and conditions of the experience, but it did not eliminate the body.
That relationship between physical and digital experience has been present in the work for years. QR codes once operated as portals between physical objects and digital environments. Physical movement became video, animated image, and information that could travel onto another personโs device. A body dancing in one room could appear as radically different bodies in virtual space. Embodiment remains central to the work. Even when a project enters digital or virtual space, it begins and ends with a body somewhere. Technology does not replace physical experience for me. I am interested in how it can expand the ways we experience the world while searching for the humanity that remains inside it.
My process combines research, iterative design, and intuition. I often find myself following connections between things that appear very far apart: stone circles and digital space, furniture and revelation, industrial construction and spirituality, dance floors and political systems, ruins and possibility. I trust that seemingly disparate things can belong to a larger whole and that following the paths between them is one way of making meaning.
The work is critical of systems that promise mastery, permanence, or control while obscuring their own limits, and of technological progress when it distances us from the embodied experience that gives it meaning. I remain fascinated by our ability to make things, transform our surroundings, invent technologies, create new relationships, and imagine beyond what already exists. The work asks questions because I do not think those possibilities resolve neatly into answers. The heart of my practice comes from a sense of wonder about what it means to be human and alive.