I construct sculptures made from dense layers of carved wooden fragments where architectural structure intersects with organic mass. Through accumulation, repetition, and adjustment, I turn overlooked pieces of wood into majestic structures that hold memory, time, and presence. I walk neighborhoods, scroll Facebook Marketplace, and haunt ReStore (a warehouse that resells donated building materials to support Habitat for Humanity) in search of wood that most people would walk past. There's something in a warped board or an abandoned shingle that draws me, objects once used, then cast aside, waiting for another life. Through labor and close attention, I transform them into sculptures that suggest strength, vulnerability, and grace. 

In recent years, my work has centered on the idea of dwelling. Approached from multiple angles, I think of dwelling as home, as shelter, as refuge, and dwelling as the repetitive, circling motion of a troubled mind. After an unexpected divorce, grief and fear consumed me, and my work turned dark. Slowly, my new home came to embody my independence, and my studio became the place where my transformation felt limitless. I've come to understand that determination and perseverance aren't just habits, they're the essence of who I am. I've learned to harness my tendency to dwell and put it to use. My work became a way to rebuild my life. Every fragment, every layer represents my journey toward becoming whole.

My grandfather emigrated from Hungary and became a glazier. I remember his small shop on Knickerbocker Avenue in Ridgewood, Queens, a long, narrow space with a massive wooden worktable running front to back. That table, and the memory of his work, left a lasting impression that continues to shape me. From my first sculpture, made from a single piece of cedar, to the present, the touch, smell, and feel of wood keeps inspiring me.