I must have been six or seven when I first learned about plate tectonics, and I remember it took some time to picture it in my mind, to truly absorb it. The world map hanging on the classroom wall, and my location within it, no longer seemed like something that could be counted on, and I began to feel like we were all on a giant raft, unanchored and adrift. I felt similarly, if not more profoundly disoriented some time later, when I found out that the geography of my body was just as malleable, and that a spine—pictured in science books as that solid, upright, immutable pillar—can spontaneously change course, bending and curving its way to dangerous extremes that require corrective surgery. Stability is an illusion; I have learned this lesson again and again.

In recent years I have been particularly inspired by Rebecca Solnit’s writing, which weaves together personal memories with historical anecdotes and geographical descriptions. I've always found maps and diagrams to be full of metaphorical potential; illustrations of the planet's internal processes often mirror the ways in which we try to understand our own. Memories, too, accumulate and erode. Cultures clash, languages die, people grow together and they drift apart. My prints, paintings and works on paper represent the transitory states along the way, fragments and moments captured from a universe in flux. Things look a certain way now but are migrating, always, towards something else.