POLAROIDS

Collage has always been my truest language. It began as a space where I could create portraits without the demands of human interaction, a private arena in which I could engage with what society is constantly saying, selling, and insisting upon, without being forced into the pace of conversation. In collage, I can slow things down, dissect messages layer by layer, like breaking down a dialogue into its literal definitions and rebuilding it as an image.

My work is rooted in a distrust of the narratives that surround us: capitalism’s endless promises, culture’s contradictions, the hypocrisy of what we’re told versus what we see. Collage allows me to hold these falsehoods in my hands, to cut into them, to expose their seams. My collages may not be truth, but they are honest.

Collage is a practice born of rupture, of tearing apart what is given and daring to reassemble it into something else. When I work with collage, I am both surgeon and saboteur. I slice into glossy surfaces meant to seduce, I scar images designed to sell, I rearrange faces until they resist easy consumption. Each cut frees the image from its original intention, giving it new life, new context, new vulnerability.

Where painting or photography can suggest wholeness, collage insists on fragmentation. It mirrors the way my mind works, fractured, nonlinear, caught between contradictions. It reveals how we are all the same: stitched together from memory, influence, and accident. Collage feels deeply honest because it acknowledges that identity itself is assembled. None of us are singular; we are fragments of family, faith, desire, fear, trauma, joy. To deny that is to pretend wholeness exists. My collages embrace the opposite. They revel in the incomplete, the jagged, the dissonant.

There is also something deeply theatrical about collage. It is performance on the page, images playing roles they were never meant to play, bodies rearranged into impossible gestures, faces re-scripted into unfamiliar expressions. The absurdity is part of the truth: we are always performing versions of ourselves. Collage simply makes that performance visible.

Contact for availability of original Polaroids and limited edition prints available upon request.

Celebrity has always fascinated me, not because I wanted to be one, but because of what the idea represents. To me, celebrity is a mask, a carefully engineered identity projected outward, polished until it gleams, hiding the fractures underneath. It’s less about the person themselves and more about the machinery that builds them, consumes them, and eventually discards them.

When I was younger, I thought fame was a kind of salvation. It looked like certainty, like belonging, like finally being recognized. But the older I got, the more I understood it as spectacle. Celebrity culture feeds on the same hungers that isolate so many of us: the longing to be seen, to be validated, to be loved. But instead of intimacy, it offers distortion. Instead of recognition, it offers performance.

There’s a cruelty to celebrity culture. It devours, it mocks, it destroys all while pretending to worship. The same public that builds idols tears them down for sport. I’ve always felt a strange kinship with that fragility, the sense of being watched, judged, misunderstood, even when no spotlight is there. For me, dissecting celebrity images is a way to expose that fragility, to remind us that behind the glamour is a human being, just as misplaced and fractured as the rest of us.

Think of my celebrity-anchored works not as portraits of stars, but as autopsies of the culture that makes them. These faces may feel familiar, but I’ve stripped away the veneer. What remains is something raw, unsettling, honest. It is less about who they are, and more about what we need them to be. And in that gap, perhaps you’ll see how celebrity is not just about them, it’s about us, our projections, our hunger, our fear of obscurity.

At the same time, my relationship to celebrity imagery carries a kind of paradoxical intimacy. I work with figures I feel some sense of connection to, not to them as individuals, but to the emotional weight of their work. I take the commercial images of these figures, the same ones used to sell products or sustain mythologies, and remix them the way a musician samples an original track. Through this process, I channel the resonance their art has stirred in me, reshaping it into something new. The celebrity becomes less an idol and more an instrument, their mediated image a material through which my own hands translate memory, desire, and critique into visual form.

Depression is not dramatic. It is not the cinematic descent so many imagine. There is danger in romanticizing it, in pretending it fuels genius. Depression is brutal, but society loves the voyeurism of a mind’s suffering and slow unraveling.

For me, it has always been a quiet place, a comforting gravity pulling me inward, away from the world, away from myself. It is a room with no need for windows, where the air feels thick yet warm, and my dreams become the most comfortable escape. My depression became my closest companion, the only presence that ever truly made sense. In its silence, I found understanding. In its weight, I found a kind of belonging that reality never offered.

I have always felt like I live slightly out of frame, off the page from where everyone else’s story is written. Existing only in the footnotes, offered no context for connection, only fragments and afterthoughts. The joy that others seem to hold so easily feels foreign to me, like echoes from another room I can’t seem to understand exists.

In a world without a lot of logic or reason, depression gave me both. Even death held a strange kind of clarity, not as an end, but as a choice for real freedom. The idea of simply being able to walk away from the role I never auditioned for, felt perfect, natural, even gentle. To not exist felt like the only honest way to return home, to feel at home even, perhaps.

  Religion has always been a shadow at the edge of my vision, never embraced, never fully ignored. Growing up, I felt its weight press against me in both silence and commands, like an unwashed hand at the back of my neck pushing me forward into rituals I didn’t understand. The language of faith was never mine, prayers sounded like scripts for self-esteem and not actual promises. I remember watching others fall into rhythm, eyes closed, voices lifted, while I stood apart, uncertain if the silence inside me was a kind of sin, a cause for my misplacement within this world, or if what I saw was more truth than what those who preached thought they actually said.

My work around religion isn’t about belief so much as it is about the architecture of belief, the ways faith structures power, shame, and desire. When I utilize an image of a crucifix or distort the face of a saint, I’m less interested in blasphemy than in honesty. I want to pull the sacred down from its pedestal and ask, what are you really worshipping/selling? Religion promises wholeness, purity, salvation, etc. Yet it often holds no space for anything but its own growth and colonialism. Societies over time have created countless religions and manipulated their books and teachings for personal gains time and time again. As a result, my imagery is in no way connected to any sort of religious origin, only to the renditions of artists who came before me. 

The following is my attempt to wrestle with the ghosts of faith, to find beauty in the doubt, to carve out a space where questioning itself feels sacred. Whether you are a believer or a skeptic, I invite you to stand with me in the tension, in the unknowing, in the fractured light that filters through the cracks of dogma. None of us know any of life’s answers, all we can truly do is focus on posing better questions and yield from assuming we know any of the actual answers.