Sometimes I forget I have a body—I drift into thought or image until something physical returns me: a sound, a small injury, one of my children calling my name. Making work does this too, pulling me back through labor, weight, and repetition; its raw materials and visible marks reflect that physicality. My sculptures, paintings, and kinetic works often begin with an image or impulse and evolve into scenes where representational forms mix with exposed construction and subtle mechanical gestures. These movements—ticking, swaying, spinning—mimic natural rhythms in clumsy, artificial ways, pointing to the gap between my human desires and the natural world’s indifference. I know I’m not making the real thing; like Geppetto, I try to animate what is inert, even as the illusion fails. But it’s in that failure, that visible fakeness, that something real can still emerge—a sense of wonder, recognition, or emotional pull. My work lives in the tension between what is made and what is alive, where perception, projection, and presence overlap.