I have a stipulation: do not bring back broken shells. I then set off on my bike and make my way to the beach where I crawl over limestone rocks onto the ragged shore of sand and silt. But my rule is a deception I tell myself. I begin picking up broken shells one by one, watching their calcified forms spiral in and crack, my gaze held in their grooves and my fingers running over the algae and organic growth creeping over their surfaces. I bike back to my apartment, my coat pockets bulging.
My practice is rooted in the joy of looking, and then of looking again. It is an engagement with my visual, perceptual encounters often focusing on organic matter. I gather these fragments, employing drawing and photography as a way to study and reflect on how these fragments are interlocked in a continuous cycle. I am interested in how these mediums allow me to gather and record fragments, whether those are moments snapped through the lens of my grandfather’s old camera or my own marks building up across a surface to fabricate an image of what I see around me. Materials and moments emerge, solitary, but interact with each other; distinct, yet ebbing and flowing into the next.
It is for this reason that I became excited by a defect in the lens of my grandfather’s camera that led to every shot having a black line through the bottom of the image. While the moment may have faded, it flowed into the next, myself and the camera linking each one. The black line a reminder of this connection. This entropic quality of being instills fragility on not only my surroundings, but in myself as well. As Martin Heidegger argues in his work Being and Time, a person comes to know and understand themselves through their presence in the world. Nothing lasts, yet everything continues on in some new form, which reveals the vulnerability of life, but also a depth and complexity that unfolds not only around and within oneself.