A kitchen table
It began at a kitchen table, helping my son with a science fair bridge. I learned the grain beneath my hands — where it would hold, where it would give.
That project ended. The practice didn't.
During a difficult season of life, I discovered that the quiet rhythm of building — two pieces, then three, then a hundred — was a form of therapy. My hands had a job while my mind did harder work. Looking back, I can see the work was teaching me something: that fragile things, held together with care, become capable of bearing far more than anyone expected.
No studio. Just patience.
I work on a couch, in a basement corner, sometimes outside when a piece grows too large for the room. The tools are modest. The process is not. Every stick is different — thickness varies, grain changes, some bend easily and others resist. I boil them to bend them, clamp them while they dry, and build structures that have no right to be as strong as they are.
There are no shortcuts. Every piece takes months. See how the work is made →
The profound and the ridiculous
Family is the heartbeat of everything. I'm a husband, father, and grandfather — my grandchildren live next door and are my most honest critics. When I'm not building, my curiosity wanders: homemade vinegar, kombucha, sourdough, and a small collection of fossilized dinosaur dung. There's a certain poetry in it. Much like the work, it's about finding wonder in things most people walk right past.
I also write lyrics — slow songs about the same things the sculptures are about. You'll find them below if you want to go deeper.