The Geometry of Memory

From what I can tell, I appear to be in my geometric phase of work. I paint in fragments—shapes, angles, and colors—because memory doesn’t arrive whole. It comes back in pieces, its shape and meaning altered by time and reinterpretation.

Some sharp.
Some softened.
All held together by whatever emotion was present when it was formed.

In more recent work, that same attention has widened. Alongside memory and relationship, I’ve begun looking more directly at the present—at structure, symmetry, and the quieter forces that shape us long before we’re aware of it. These pieces are less about recollection and more about observation, but they’re rooted in the same impulse: to slow down and notice what is forming us, and how.

What follows is a collection of those fragments—the work itself—each piece an attempt to hold onto something once ordinary and later revealed as anything but.

If any of these scenes feel familiar, that’s the point. Most of us don’t recognize that what we’re living in is extraordinary until it’s gone.