I trace the underlying structures through which patterns form, destabilize, collapse, and reconstitute across scales. My work is drawn to systems that are fixed yet open, scaffolds that hold form while remaining flexible enough to allow change. They emerge through analog and digital drawing as well as material processes. Lines, fragments, and gestures act as anchors, connecting configurations and linking my perception to form. Rather than seeking resolution, the work follows resonance. These structures function less as conclusions than as coordinates, orienting perception within wider fields of relation.

I first encountered this way of seeing through charts. At twelve years old, I opened an online brokerage account with my mother’s signature. It was not about money, but about the glow of the screen late at night, my face lit by green and red candlesticks, pulsing like a living language I did not yet know how to name. I watched the lines rise, hesitate, and break, fascinated by how collective emotion could leave visible traces inside data.

I began drawing directly onto these charts, mapping relationships across multiple time scales. The drawings were not about prediction or control, but about revealing harmonic structures forming beneath the data.

Over time, I came to understand these drawings as open scaffolds: fixed but flexible, capable of combining, nesting, and scaling. Though they resembled fractal systems, they were not autonomous. They were composed through attention. What appeared as external systems, including markets, algorithms, and volatility, revealed itself as inseparable from the observer tracing it. I layered lines by hand and cursor, returning to the same gestures until separate rhythms began to lock into one another. Structure was never discovered whole; it was gradually assembled through perception. This understanding began to take on new weight as I formally studied finance and lived through the financial crisis of 2007 to 2009.

Psychological mechanisms embedded in markets, including fear, greed, pride, and denial, were no longer abstract. They unfolded alongside my own uncertainty about stability, employment, and future direction. My scaffolding system persisted, but its meaning shifted. It no longer described data alone; it began to mirror my lived experience. Compression gave way to release, followed by reorganization. The cycles I had once charted externally began to register internally.

I eventually reached a limit. The intangibility of these systems demanded a counterbalance. Clay introduced that necessity. On the wheel, I encountered a negotiation between centrifugal force and restraint. I captured air inside closed vessels, then pressed, pinched, and destabilized their walls as they spun. Slip gathered under my fingers as the walls thinned and trembled, and I learned to feel collapse in the instant before it arrived. Each movement required careful attunement to fragility in my hands, stabilizing as much as shaping form. The vessel recorded not only the wheel’s frequency, but the quieter, more vulnerable rhythms of my body. Abstract harmonics became tactile.

Leaving the wheel marked another shift. I began working with fragments: small masses spread across the studio table, torn surfaces, clay residue pressed into my fingers, and small organic remnants pinned to the wall through repetition, ritual, and a need to keep the parts in relation. The work shifted from contained relation toward relation in space, as if the fragments themselves required space to remain connected. Forms no longer resolved into singular entities, but into configurations suggesting larger fields. Spaces where parts remain distinct while contributing to a shared coherence. Breaking containment became essential. What had once been held within the vessel needed to unfold outward, into lived experience, into the structures of daily life.

This same cyclical logic returned with force during the Covid years. With my graduate degree in art completed at the onset of Covid, I returned to my parents’ basement, where sleeping space and studio space collapsed into one another, making rest inseparable from the work. I stood only rooms away from the rhythms of caregiving as my father’s cancer progressed from stage one to stage four. During those same months, familiar patterns re-emerged. Speculative markets surged and collapsed; wealth accumulated and dissolved, while fear and hope oscillated at scale. Volatility was no longer metaphorical. By then, it was intimate. What had begun in childhood with charts now converged with caretaking, loss, and responsibility.

My journey has never been linear. It has moved through repetition, rupture, and return. What persists is not a conclusion, but a question: how structure can carry meaning without declaring it, and how form can transmit knowledge without instruction. The work remains within this threshold. It is not about illustrating systems, but about entering them, allowing material, gesture, and repetition to articulate a logic felt before it is understood.

What continues to unfold at the intersection of form and intuition remains deeply personal, even as it becomes quietly shared. Structure becomes resonant. Meaning remains in motion. My journey continues, not toward mastery, but toward a deeper bodily attunement to the harmonics shaping the terrain I trace.