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.

When you peel back the layers—of skin, of the earth's crust—nothing is static. Things are shifting, flowing, eroding, firing, often too slowly or too quickly for us to see. I attempt to represent the imperceptible, the transitory states along the way. In order to do this, I must get as close or as far away as possible, and often the magnified view begins to resemble the bird's eye view, the micro replicating the macro. Cells arrange themselves in topographical landscapes; streams seen from above branch out like veins. With repetitive networks of marks achieved with woodcuts, monoprints, stencils, and textured collages of torn paper and woven thread, I conflate these perspectives and encourage fluid interpretations. I layer references to the mind, body, and natural landscape as a reminder that all mirror each other. As you look outward, you gaze inward.