My artistic process is just like planting seeds. Teeny tiny seeds that blow in the wind or get stuck into the ground. Or from packets you opened but didn't use all the way— stuffed into the corners of places with things that always seem to disappear when you need them. When I plant seeds I briefly read the back instructions only enough to remember the little sun picture to know how much shade they like. Other than that the seeds are planted to my best ability of making a little hole and placing them into the ground. A few years ago I upcycled a tray with perfectly arranged rows of pockets to place seeds into to start them off. Coming back home from college I returned to this tray to plant some seeds I had lost, then found, then lost again. And some seeds my mum acquired from various neighbors and friends. But most importantly peas, for my mum's birthday. Nevertheless, my ideas are like tiny seeds. They are tiny collections of experiences that somehow connect to the larger whole. Flying everywhere, popping up in random places, coming in all types of different shapes and sizes, surprising you, annoying you, calling you. Some of them end up growing into a lovely plant offering delicious consumable snacks, able to be shared together. And some of them only sprout — or never sprout, because the conditions aren't right or they didn't get enough water. Not always am I planting seeds from packets though. A long time ago my sister and I collected milkweed seeds to plant in the garden. Now they have taken over the cracks of the sidewalk and are obstacle courses for anybody that is a human to get to the front door. But a safe haven for all sorts of pollinators, baby bunnies, snakes, ginormous bumble bees— and of course a home to so many more creatures that I don't see.

My art practice is similar to the resilient milkweed, or process of planting seeds for the garden because for me gardening is reciprocal, it's being empathetic, hopeful, and activated. It's seeing the small things that make up the bigger picture. And recently for me it's a lot of guessing, questioning, and noticing. Gardening reminds me of my process of making photos. When I make a photo I am asking a question, or posing an idea—planting a seed. There's a lot that I don’t know. But the journey of asking questions, noticing, and researching allows me to connect further with my environments, and also with my audiences. Deepening connections to ecological systems through my art practice, fostering spaces of wonder, and inspiring positive action rooted in awe and hopefulness is the root system of my making. For me this has flowered into forms of artist books, cyanotypes, digital photography, small and large scale paintings,recycled materials, found objects and a bit of quilt making techniques. I typically combine all or most of these materials and processes in installations, allowing each material to inform one another and activate a space.