Sometimes I forget I have a body—I drift in thought until something physical returns me: a sudden sound, a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye, one of my children calling my name. Making work does this too, pulling me back through labor and repetition. The materials and processes I use often explore the seam between physicality and my wandering mind. My pieces usually begin with an image or impulse—something imagined or half-formed—then evolve as I build. The act of making changes the idea, the way a dream image shifts mid-dream. Construction becomes a site of discovery. Simple mechanical gestures mimic natural rhythms in clumsy, artificial ways. I know I’m not making the real thing; like Geppetto, I try to animate what’s inert—even as the movement or fabrication exposes the illusion. But in the illusion’s collapse, something real can still emerge.