Often I work on my bedroom floor, pouring soap into molds, drying plant matter, spreading out papers filled with notes. Some evenings, I fall asleep with these notes, books, fibers, and artifacts strewn across my bed. I wonder at times what it might be like to practice art in a space separate from where I sleep.

Outside my bedroom, there is a funky shed that has long been used for storage, mostly filled with objects that no longer belong to any current residents. There is an exhaustion in the walls, and I feel myself desiring to sculpt again. I can feel the desire to work with certain materials in my hands.

I have begun studying this space, and dreaming of bringing energy and renewal to this place.

A close-up of black mold on the boarded up door of the studio. Toxic, but also beautiful up close.

Black mold, peeling paint, cracks on the door's surface invite me in to act as a witness of evolution. I can see the gradual call of these materials to nothingness.

A wall with ridges, mounds, and air pockets-- drywall tape stands out, barely hidden beneath a shallow layer of paint. I wonder what would happen if I pulled.

A disconnected power source swims amidst salty air.

This electric cable-snake has no hum.

The wires gesture, seeking like a vine.

Coils within the void.

Scratches, pounds, voids, decay-- I watch what has long been a quiet unraveling.

And I learn these walls intimately.