I make collages that move cyclically between drawing, printmaking, and textile construction. My works reference functional textiles—quilts, rugs, tapestries— but refuse their utility. They are ideas of the domestic objects rather than the objects themselves.
Each work begins with hand-drawn quilt squares, patterns, and stitches, which I scan, separate into colors, scale, and tile. I use a risograph duplicator to print on fabric and fibers-based papers, one color at a time, feeding material through an outdated office machine that was never meant for this purpose. The process is absurdly inefficient, and that inefficiency is part of the point. I’m interested in the humor and stubbornness of labor-intensive work, in using the wrong tool for the job and insisting on it anyway.
From there I cut, collage and sew the printed sheets into new forms. A drawing becomes a print becomes a textile becomes a print again. Each translation accumulates its own evidence: the ghost of a fold, a shift in registration, a stitch that anchors the image back to the physical world.
These objects assert their material presence — tactile, undeniably real — even as they refuse to be the things they appear to be. In an era of AI-generated images, that presence matters. But I'm less interested in authenticity as a fixed quality than in what survives each remove. A pattern of a pattern is not a lesser thing. It is its own record of having been made, and made again.
