What if the mundane periphery of our lives can be a site for transformation, a threshold of poetic possibility? I am fascinated by how cracks in paths or parking lots record time and reveal tension. I crouch down close to these cracks, filling them—sometimes with fallen petals, often with paper pulp. Working on my hands and knees in these transitional spaces is a prayer, a gesture of care and mending. I make the gaps tangible, translating absence into presence.
Born with the brittle bone condition Osteogenesis Imperfecta, I bring a deeply personal understanding of fracture and repair to my process. I use handformed abaca pulp deliberately: abaca paper can be delicate yet surprisingly strong, like the human body. Embedding a copper wire as a skeleton allows the paper to lift from the site, keeping the shape of that fracture: a 1:1 map with dirt clinging to the fiber. It folds to become a vessel of only cracks, unfolds and casts shadows. I also make drawings and cyanotypes to record the castings’ shadows and render them in light. In their various iterations, these forms become metaphors for healing, icons of resilience and tenderness.
