I am a papermaker, sculptor, and a hired hand. My work gives form to the whimsical stream of consciousness that gets me through the workday through the ritual of labor.

By day, I dream at the cash register or bus stop about strange creatures that live in outer space. I look at the sky and imagine what their world looks like. I scribble my ponderings on receipt paper for later. In the evenings, I bend over vats of water, stirring pulp and brushing felts with wire brushes. I draw on my bedroom walls by candlelight.

There is a sense of urgency as I squeeze in any moments I can into the fleeting night. When my hands fly across screen printed pages and delicately pinch fresh paper, I reclaim “work” as something that fulfills me. In the hours between clocking out and clocking in, I have turned my strange daydreams into a body of work.

My prints, drawings, and paper sculptures are artifacts of a more interesting reality, one that I conjure in the sleepless nights where my split knuckles and sore feet find their purpose.