I want to bring the microscopic, the macroscopic and the otherwise unobservable to a stage on which they can be experienced and studied at a personal level. I am also interested in liminality, that which is in between and lacks a concrete definition; and in the inherent emptiness of objects, the space between their atoms, the emptiness of atoms themselves. My work is about exerting control over things that cannot be controlled.
        Growing up in an age when scientific discovery is happening at an ever-increasing pace has significantly influenced the way I think, especially theories in quantum physics. I see my process as having evolved as an artistic equivalent to the scientific method: proceeding via visual and tactile information from hypothesis to experimentation, evaluation, observation et cetera. This process gives me critical distance from the subject of a piece, much like a scientist studying a bacterium under a microscope through the intermediary of a machine. This is amplified by the fact that I do not have the luxury of a dependable body, nor do I have a disease that can be x-rayed or biopsied. So to fulfill my need to study the unknown, my neurological disorder, I build exterior models, the crochet pieces, as stand-ins for what I cannot study directly.
        I am focused on the minute. What is the smallest component of a structure, and what is its relationship to the whole? I never have a finished product in mind when I begin. I only focus on the smallest building block, repeat it over and over, and let it build up into the dense body of a piece: a bit like mold growing from a spore, or a tree from a seed. I use meticulous, time-consuming, detail-orientated, and labor-intensive methods of making. My methods are compilations of many tiny movements or pieces that alone are unimportant: crochet links, repetitive photographs or video frames, pixels, stuffing fibers, pieces of plastic, bits of movement or fabric. The pieces are made from materials that the viewer has a previous relationship with.  I don't use bronze, for example, a material that requires techniques that cannot be performed in the home. I use familiar household materials, things with cultural memory. This familiarity leads to a dichotomous relationship between the viewer and the piece, something that draws you in making you want to reach out to feel it, something you may have touched before, but the context can make it feel strange and slightly disconcerting. There is a tension between the hand that wants to touch and the mind trying to hold it back.