If you lined up everything I’ve made, you could read it as a love letter or an autopsy. Most days I’m not sure which one I’m writing. I don’t sit down with a plan. I just follow whatever won’t leave me alone – a chipped rim, a wristbone curve, a sentence someone dropped and then tried to snatch back. By the time it turns into an object, it looks harmless enough. A cup. A stone. A bowl that pretends it’s just a bowl. But I know exactly what’s buried in the glaze. Who I was almost brave with. What I nearly said. The small negotiations I lost on purpose and called it compromise. People talk about “intention” like it’s a mood board. Mine is more forensic. I keep circling the same scenes, the same gestures, the same weather systems in different disguises. From the outside it reads as a neat body of work. From my side it’s evidence bags. A record in case some future nosey person needs proof we were here at all. I know it’ll never be perfect. That’s not the point. I’m not waiting to be polished before I let the work out, but I’m also not interested in slop. I like to think it’s closer to cut stone – not polished to death, not left in the mud either, just enough work that it remembers where it came from and still looks like it was worth keeping.